Opus Veda

Kasia headed to Sultan's Swing - a pricey nightclub but close by. A crowd of a million others dwindled into whichever venue offered the fix desired.

She reached its byzantine facade and tucked into the back alley. Like all hetero clubs the female entrance had once been in front - in this case a double marble staircase - to utilise the queueing women and girls as an advert for passing men. Reason prevailed: digital billboards displayed prettier ladies than real life could, and discreet back alleys encouraged classier customers. Even billboards vanished as clubs monopolised; sex needed no advert if the majority only had one way to get it. The grip of cutting costs and raising profits ever squeezed.

Kasia entered the alley alone, grateful to be free of rivals sparking her insecurities. She tapped her phone on the entrance's ID console, a hatch opened for a blood test. It chatted away as the needle pricked her skin, advertising products on her wishlist as she hovered awkwardly for a negative result.

A celebration emoji confirmed a disease-free scan. The hatch smoothed a plaster over her thumb, wished her happy matching, and spat out a condom and morning-after pill - the mark of a posher venue.

The door swung open. She sloped into a chamber of sculpted archways and palm trees, and headed for the changing room.

Rows of women silently prepared themselves. Kasia tiptoed past them and floundered with a cosmetics machine only offering the unfamiliar brand Huda Beauty. She ticked a combination of disposable products and gambled on the most Slavic looking foundation. The machine sorted everything into a slim acetate packet and dispensed it.

This was Kasia's favourite part of clubbing; the warm tingle of hearing women manage their image, mingled with the floaty anticipation she'd soon be having sex. She found a cubicle and took her time with each stage - soaked cleanser pad, tiny tube of moisturiser, foundation loofah. The concealer sachet contained too little for every blemish; she deftly triaged the important ones. Since she would clear her face on the way out she skipped the powder, chucking it in the bin with the used packets.

She did all this for herself. Her match for the night would likely not see her, but clubs were when she could wear makeup. Doing so elsewhere was judged as needlessly expensive, pretentiously high class, and pandering to unfair beauty standards. It was fake. In club changing rooms, Kasia could see someone feminine in the mirror - someone she found beautiful - without feeling like a poser. And there was no one correcting her.

The cubicle chimed. Time was up. She carried on.

In an age of ambivalence towards queer hookups, purely hetero clubs were uncommon. Kasia tended to overlook them, liking to keep both options open, but Sultan's Swing kept straight to respect the Caliphate money behind it. It thus one bar for each gender, and an expectation to match with someone from the bar you weren't in.

This bar was warmly lit by a pixelated fireplace. Ambient house music, interrupted by scratchy samples of oud, drifted through the archways. A conveyor belt served drinks to customers, who browsed next door's romantic offerings from tablets dotted around high tables. To discourage anyone from lingering, there were no seats. If two people swiped right on each other, they messaged to set the parameters, and slipped away to hookup.

Here Kasia differed from the norm. She found England's binge culture rotten and shunned it, refusing to down several pre-hookup drinks as her peers did. She made do with her one free drink, choosing vodka lemonade and ordering it served Polish. The conveyor belt wheeled out a Żubrówka shot and a cup of Schweppes.

She moved to a tablet, looking to snag any match worth grabbing before another woman could. The list of men shifted constantly; desirables added to the queue got swiped in seconds; the less attractive sank down the pile. Each man had a number on his photo - the number of women checking his profile. Kasia was surrounded by competition. She recognised nervousness in the young girls, who once they found the courage to upload themselves, matched fastest.

Dissatisfied with her first pass, she took a break and tried to look busy on her phone. Leah had re-accepted her friend request, thankfully without bringing it up, but there were too few notifications to keep her occupied for.

Someone took a place on Kasia's table, despite having free tables either side. Kasia spluttered on her drink and shifted to find an agreeable pose. They bowed their heads to acknowledge one another.

Then her table mate turned, looking in her rough direction as if initiating conversation. Kasia tensed.

"'Ow's the competition tonight?"

"Uh… quite a lot of girls," Kasia cocked her head to the stray teenagers, "not enough for any panic-swiping I reckon."

"What about you? What ye uptee the neet?"

"Dunno I…" Kasia's tension held, but she found something intriguing to latch onto, "are you from oop north!?"

"Newcastle! Ethnically Senegalese though. Ah coom down 'ere for werk. What about you?"

"Just London. Clinging on to my Polish side though. 'One day I'll move' and all that."

"Ah thought you had a twang an' all! Well yak se macz!"

"Dobzre! You must be pretty happy about the news if you're as Northern as you sound."

"Oh god stop! That's 'alf the reason I moved down south all me bloody family's Red."

Before Kasia knew it she was chatting aimlessly with a stranger, her chilly southern defences taken by northern charm. She told her acquaintance she was a paralegal. Her acquaintance called herself a beauty therapist. Kasia found herself wanting to skip the hookup and stay with this exotic woman, so easily spoken to.

Their tablets flashed with incentives to tell them otherwise. They stopped talking, went back to flicking men away with their fingers. But where Kasia had felt tension she noticed something else. The potential matches on her screen appealed less than the one next to her. But they were in the wrong club for it; she would have to risk rejection without technology softening the blow. She delayed until frustration pushed her far enough.

"So… what you into then!?"

"You know, I wouldn't admit this normally but…" the woman checked they were alone and held her palm over her mouth, "I've had a bit of a violation thing at the minute!"

"No way! You little slag!" Kasia giggled, "I've never been to one of them. Aren't the guys in there gross?"

"You'd be surprised! Anyway when they got a balaclava on 'oo cares?" the woman swatted her hand dismissively, "I'd never try anythin' foony in a place lahk this though."

Kasia read her response as a snub and chose to wait for another cue. Before one could appear, the woman matched, leaving Kasia with a simple 'good luck'.

She found a man of her own and exchanged a few messages to discuss their wants. Both agreed to incognito.

The hookup was on.

Nightclubs existed for all tastes. The familiar default was a room with a wipe-down bed, but everything from kitchens, dentist studios, cupboards, and classrooms could be found. Fetishes relied on word-of-mouth, depending on their severity. Lighter tastes like BDSM and voyeurism lived in plain sight. Some - roleplay and poly - were accessible only to the wealthy. Violation clubs lived underground, where it was, as the strapline went, every victim for themselves. Intimacy spaces also had to hide; their customers matching with coded signs that changed as often as they leaked. These daters, having failed elsewhere, were considered the least attractive and lowest status. Being caught amongst them was social suicide.

Sultan's Swing opened the palace for all purses. Steamed Jacuzzis were a favourite if money allowed it, as were the columned corners of the royal chamber, where matchers indulged to the sound of other hookups hidden around them. Kasia's match didn't want extravagance, so they went for a wipe-down in the servant's quarters. Per custom neither spoke - with everything stated by message beforehand they didn't need to. In hetero matches women particularly messaged clearly. Mid-hookup, consent was hard to withdraw.

The lanterns dimmed enough to reveal their forms, but not their faces. They gripped and kissed. Kasia found the man too forward, his lips too firm and repetitive. His tongue slid in once, as if doubtful. Kasia sealed her mouth to stop him doing it again. She focussed on what she did like, sighing through her nose as she tasted cider and wondering which fruit it was. It was what mindfulness podcasters always said: hookups may be imperfect, but it's on you to focus on the positives.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The match pressed her shoulders down till she knelt. She did what they had agreed upon. When it seemed like he wasn't enjoying it she stood up turned around. He reached under her t-shirt - a signal for her to unclip her bra - and clenched her chest as he went from behind. He staggered briefly. A warmth pulsed inside her and ran down her thigh. She handed him the condom so he could use it alone later, as they had agreed upon. He whispered his thanks, breached convention by stealing a quick hug, and hurried through the male entrance. Kasia left through hers, leaving the room to be cleaned by one of the last nightclub roles yet to be automated.

She ended her date as women in hetero matches often did: without orgasm, finding one on her own terms in the bathroom. A heated but tired debate raged about this online. One camp bemoaned the orgasm gap and wanted to bring women down to man's level. The other camp argued sex shouldn't be about orgasms at all.

Kasia didn't know which side of Gasm-Bowl to endorse, but right now she needed the release. In a nod to the fingers involved and where they went, everyone called this toilet finish Match 2.0. Kasia hurried through it, blocked by intrusive thoughts on her first climax, eventually crossing the line thinking about the woman at the pre-bar.

She shuffled to the sink, scrubbed her hands clean, and removed her makeup. This was her least favourite part, the return to reality after a 15 minute escape she could not see, was not raised to recognise, as a half-measure of anything better.

This club at least had a final mark of high standards. Venues wanted customers leaving immediately after their hookup. This one had an afterglow bar - though only for the women - and offered a second free drink. Kasia found a table and commented on her phone about her anticlimactic match, to the sympathy of female friends and protests of male friends insisting they could do better. She downed her virgin lemonade and prepared to leave.

"Oi you!" The woman from before. Kasia fluttered.

"'Ow was your match then!?"

"Pretty dull," said Kasia, "2.0 in the toilet."

"God me too my lad was bloody 'opeless, we moost 'ave been in the bog at the same time fancy tha'!"

Kasia tittered, "they should cut the middle bit out. Two free drinks and a clean toilet is romantic enough for me."

The woman laughed and whipped her phone from her bag, signalling a friends request. Kasia accepted the request and complimented her profile - an avatar of a young entrepreneur; an idealised digital copy of the woman in front of her. The profile had Mandarin and German translations under the English; either a display of success or a suggestion of the intent.

They promised to keep in touch, and separated.

* * *

Kasia reached the station and found an unexpected message. Sermon was inviting her to one of his haunts. A real-life meetup. She took the tube to a surviving community base - a decrepit building, hiring out space in lieu of England's faded pub culture. She was unsure of what to expect, hesitant to enter the event of a group to which she didn't belong.

She lingered outside in doubt. Sermon hadn't spoken to her since their argument, where he had condemned her loveless life and shot down her revolution prospects. Now she realised she should have used the journey to rehearse what to say. What if there was more drama?

Someone yelled above her head. She jumped away. Sermon was leaning out of a window, inches over her, laughing at her fright. She bombarded him with Polish slurs and stormed indoors.

The hall was packed and intimidating. Corner speakers blasted cheery Mbaqanga, a genre out of place on a muggy English night. The punters had decorated the room, pinning up maps, flags, and heroes of Africa's metamorphosis. Descendants huddled over cramped tables, debating subjects beyond Kasia's interests, though she empathised with them. Some were in black militant gear, appropriated from a bygone era of American history. Others wore garish long gowns, and any in casual clothes had stitched badges on them as Sermon did.

Tonight he had swapped his panther beret for his zebra print kufi - a hat he wore for serious occasions. He stood proud by the bar, snickering at Kasia.

"Ain't you an easy girl to scare sista - mate look at this girl!"

A tall barman in a charcoal silk suit prowled over with a welcoming grin.

"White as a sheet! 'Ow's she gonna fit in?"

"Wait wait, lemme try summat," Sermon balanced his kufi on Kasia's head. The sight of her gawping made the two men howl with laughter.

"Głupi dupek…" she tore it off, "you need it to hide that stupid haircut, looking like the Fresh Prince of Bel Air."

"Fam I'm Fresh Prince of Val d'Isère! 'Cause I'm well sophistica'ed, izzit," he patted his hat and put it back on, "I'm gonna have a tinkle. Get yourself a drink and a magnum for me."

Kasia scowled as he floated away chuckling to himself. She turned to the shelf of foreign drinks and strained her eyes.

"Alright, one of those magnum things and a… vodka lemonade?"

"White rum and lemonade for the girl?" the barman presented a bottle of clear liquid to her, "will this be on Sermon's tab?"

"Uh, yea, sure… and make it a double."

She took a bar stool and surveyed the room. She had never been to a real pub, but groups with causes strong enough to spread offline hired convention halls. It seemed this event was about proving ancestral origins and finding ways to emigrate. Kasia had tried Polish nights but failed to belong amongst the pretentious Anglo-Polaks and their constant boozing. At least they could actually handle booze, unlike the English; it still reminded her too much of childhood.

The barman served her. She nodded in thanks and sipped with a wince. Trouble was rising on the nearest table. Punters pulled themselves up with anger and shouted. It shook Kasia, she worried she stuck out. Sermon returned and saw her angst, and propped himself against the bar between them and her, snatching the brown magnum bottle and chugging it.

"They're bickerin' about the Black American issue. A lotta them in the US wanna get out, but they insult Africa. We're all 'black' to them and they think it gives them the right to move anywhere, conveniently to one of the better nations..." he chopped his hand down, "I'm like: who do you think you are to say you're entitled to Nigeria, when your ancestors were Eritrean!? How dare you assume we are one and the same!"

"You still don't fancy settling in Tanzania eventually?"

"Nah… beautiful country. Second home to me! But I can't get with the language, and they won't let me stay without that and a career to match. Funny how a random American with the right CV gets in…"

"Yeah I know that one. One day right? I can send you a postcard from Warsaw and you can send me one from Dodoma."

"Bah!" Sermon pointed at the floor, "I'm stayin' right 'ere. England can be home too! We'll make it one."

"Is that why you brought me here? I thought I wasn't 'revolution material'…"

"Yeah..." he tapped his bottle against the bar and sighed, "I shoulda remembered you 'ave to worry about Eva yea? Easy for me to go on about fightin' back... I just get so caught up with it! I can't keep my head down any longer! That's why I invited you 'ere… forget about what I said! You don't 'ave to join but if you did, you'd 'ave bare soldier vibes."

"Really!?" Kasia beamed, "can you imagine me in that uniform!?"

"Yes sis!" he raised his bottle, then noticed her thumb, "I see a little plaster! Where ya been, Eros?"

"Swing."

He reared his head back and widened his eyes.

"Yalla yalla habibi! What did the Sultan leave ya?"

"Not enough to work with," she made a pistol with her fingers in a way Sermon understood. He nodded sympathetically.

"What about you?" she said, "Off for a final pole vault before joining the war?"

"Shit. Haven't decided yet but someone's gonna get the full sewin' machine experience."

Kasia attempted another sip of her drink. Something in her faded.

"You were right about what you said. You asked me if someone ever said they love me. I never had anyone say that. I've been waiting for it ever since I was a kid," she forced another sip down, "and I haven't got a clue how to find it or what I'd even do if I did. What if... what if I die before it happens!?"

Sermon frowned.

"I never had anyone say it either. Whenever I see couples online they get the shit ripped outta them anyway. You know how the new ones parade about, the bastards… Everyone wants the same though right? Deep down… But no one taught us how to do it! Another thing we can fight for when we invent this new future! I reckon one day you and I have husbands and we both get the shit ripped outta us online too. It'll be glorious."

"Oh yea? The Reds gonna make Britain love again too?"

"Ha! I reckon that's out of their hands. We need to work for that ourselves."

He grinned and turned to listen to the argument behind them. Kasia gave her drink another go and gave up.

Her head ached. Too much had happened with too little time to process it. In two weeks she's been interrogated by detectives and shaken hands with a revolutionary. She'd not only gone viral, but more significantly been too busy to indulge in it.

Now Sermon had added longing to the list - longing for something that earned compliments pregnant with bitter envy. And then the clock ticked, as the couple's audience waited for validation that, before long, all couples clubbed alone again.

She wanted to go home. And with that realisation, reality pricked her night of distraction. She had no more excuses to ignore it. Hours ago a mother and child had been killed, so close to her. Her mind constructed what must have happened in Misha's home - the screaming, the terror, the pitiful woman shielding her child as if it would help. Who would be next? She saw Eva in Joey's place, men's libido forced upon her, knives claiming her if she dared to say no.

Kasia's head sank. The bar around her became faint and distant. She closed her eyes. Two paths lay before her. One guaranteed hardship for her and Eva, and for Eva's hardship she alone would face blame. That little human, who she had made and tried so hard to steer from harm, who left all other notions of love irrelevant jokes. But how long could they carry like this? Things just weren't working out - they never had been - and chaos was closing in whether they chose it or not.

The other path risked everything too, moreso. But if it worked Kasia would mean something, and belong somewhere. Two needs denied to her for so long, needs she glimpsed when she carried Joey out of that tunnel. And even if she fell, she might make the world better for another Kasia, somewhere and someplace else, though they would never meet. They didn't need to. It still mattered to Kasia. No one like her deserved the life she had been given.

She accepted the choice she was making, and lifted her head back up.

"Well?"

Sermon turned and flicked his head at her, "well what?"

"We're gonna go and join that revolution then?"

He breathed in, raising a casual eyebrow around the room as if mildly intrigued.

"Aw… go on then."