Chapter 8 - Just a Small Bite
Sunday, April 24, 1994
Only a few years had passed since the mature discipline of statistics had started up a passionate affair with the very young and sexy computer science. It was going to prove to be a dangerous union—a black swan with world-reaching consequences.
The conference was one of the first KDD (Knowledge Discovery in Database) workshops to garner a large group of participants. The current ideas were based around consumer database marketing in an attempt to bring data mining into the eyes of investors. Few outside the industry knew that companies had started gathering large amounts of personal information with plans to launch targeted marketing campaigns (that's what they told the public, anyway). The campaigns were already being highly focused based on an individual's personality, buying habits, skin color, gender, and political preferences, as well as utilizing the names and ages of children, birthdays, addresses, financials, and anything at all that could be discovered or recovered from an individual's online activity. Eventually, as everyone in the industry knew but did not openly discuss, the data gathering would link email addresses with streets and cities, and cell phone numbers with social security numbers. From there it would progress to associating online photos and voice recognition. Personal privacy was already dead, and 99% of the world's population was oblivious.
Sara got involved in the late 80s just after completing her master's in analytics. It happened on an elevator ride with a handsome mid-thirties man in a dark suit, red tie, and polished Ferragamos. A twelve-floor conversation ended in a scheduled meeting set for the following day, after which she was hired on the spot as a technical research analyst for an edgy, under-the-radar research company. She got several jobs that way—a random meeting turned into opportunity. She knew her intellect and abilities didn't go unnoticed, but she also knew that she often got the job because of her looks. The executive thought he might get lucky at some point. Sometimes he did—but always on her terms.
It was the second half of a two-week business trip to New Orleans. The conferences were deliberately held during Jazz Fest to loosen the wallets of the scientific and medical button-down crowd anxious to escape the tremors of children's feet running through the house and a pretty wife in comfortable shoes chattering about the deficiencies of the current housekeeper and how they must have a landscape architect do a redesign.
Sara took the short cab ride to Lafitte's to meet up with Tammo, a doctor from Amsterdam she had met at the conference in Dallas the previous month.
∞
She didn't care for Dallas, but she did love the Mansion. It was March and still cold. She dropped her jacket off her shoulders and decided on one more drink at the Mansion Bar before she would retire for the night. Tammo didn't hesitate to sit next to her and place his hand on the bar in front of her.
"Let me buy you another drink."
His voice sounded like Jeff Goldblum—flirty, dirty, possibly dangerous. She turned to see a beautiful, late-thirties, tall man with fair hair, a strong chin, and large eyes that shifted in the light from green to brown. He sat with his white shirt tucked and open at the neck, tailored arm leaning gently on the bar; he spoke perfect English with a delicious accent. She focused deep into his eyes while she spoke.
"Scotch rocks, water back."
He motioned to the bartender. She reached out her hand. "I'm Sara." The hand that was on the bar lifted slowly and took hers, turned it over and kissed it as his eyes moved across her face and mouth. He was good, she thought, and right out of the mastery of power workshop—manipulating unconscious processes. She knew it well, and lucky Sara was right here in the middle of her year of exploration. She was in the mood. He got lucky. They both did, and they swore to meet in New Orleans the next month.
∞
Tammo looked better than she remembered.
"Beeldschoon!" He took her shoulders and kissed her three times, cheek to cheek. "I have a surprise; Eric invited us to his party. Stuffy Eric is getting married, but this isn't the ordained bachelor party. He rented out the entire State Palace and DJ—it's some sort of underground dance club. Please don't say no. I promise you an evening of sensual delights."
Sara would not say no. The theater was in the uptown lake area and looked like it had been around awhile, but everything in New Orleans looked dated. Inside it was ornate—opera-like art deco with massive balconies.
"Eric rented this place?"
Tammo took her hand. "You don't know Eric, but he often throws money around just because he can. He tells me this is the epicenter of the southern rave scene."
"I don't know what that means—what's a rave scene?"
He laughed gently and leaned in toward her mouth and whispered, "The only thing I know is that it will get crazy, so don't take your drinks from anyone but me."
I wasn't prepared for the deluge of strange beasts—creatures, nearly naked, some in costumes but others looked so real. I looked deep at them as if to find a human form behind a mask.
They all roamed the huge theater through a field of neon light. Some had yellow eyes that lit up in the black light. Two clean-cut and fit twenty-something men had fluffy white angel wings over their bare shoulders and thin white tights held tight against every naked bulge underneath. Their hard cocks cast shadows in the neon like luminescent snakes.
Music screamed from the stage. People were weaving and jumping on the floor in rhythm—a frenzy of bodies smashed into each other and arms with animal claws shoved at the air. Many of the women had light circles on their heads; some wire-spiraled upward eight or more inches and glowed like an alien lighthouse.
"The neon crowns mean the girls are consenting to sex with anyone—any gender," offered Tammo.
"Well, that cuts out the guesswork. These are all Eric's friends? There must be a thousand people here."
"He has a lot of friends in the city—his fiancé is from here too—wealthy family on the other side of town, but he's been passing out fliers all week to people on the street or in bars—anyone he liked the looks of, particularly if they look like they might be gay. He swings that way most of the time, but I have found him versatile."
"You've been with him?"
"Yes," Tammo whispered. "He was delicious, and so was Landon, his friend. You should try it sometime."
"Try what?"
"Two men, of course."
Tammo pulled her into a dance, and they hovered there suspended by the chaotic energy in the room. After an hour or more of continuous movement and flashing lights, Sara must have looked a bit overwhelmed.
Tammo turned toward her and took her face in his hands and whispered, "Ignore all these crazies; this was just a place I thought would loosen us nerds up. I'm only interested in you."
Tammo put his arm around her and steered her to a dimly lit triangular alcove at the side of the theater. The eight-foot walls, like those in an art exhibit, formed a semi-private space about the size of a small three-sided closet. Inside it was dark, and a small bench seat was attached to the back wall about three feet up from the floor. He whispered something to Sara, but she could only hear fragments over the pounding music. He pushed his mouth to her ear. Words were pouring like a stream. Something—the alcohol, she guessed—heightened the sound and sensations. The words echoed and sounded like hard rain falling on her face—wet, tight, lips, death. Did he say death? She wasn't sure, but her back arched and she reached for his face as if compelled to touch him—to move her hands all over him.
"Do we have an agreement?"
What did he say? Words swam in her head and mixed with the alcohol and sexual high, and she thought for a moment she should leave, but he took her waist and pressed himself against her while pushing her dress up toward her waist. Wet breath was on her neck and shock waves ran down her spine. She thought she felt a small bite on her neck, but there was no pain—only pleasure. Every inch of him was firm as she reached around his backside and pulled him into her.
