story written in 2002

My Mother’s Goth Turn
Growing up, Halloween officially started when my sister and I gathered old clothes from the bottoms of our closets. We attached found shirts to pants with safety pins, filled the cavities with crumpled newspaper and posted these body doubles around the house. Sometimes we dangled them from nooses; Sometimes we made it look like they had been crushed beneath furniture. And on the holiday night, my mother, who masterminded this annual Williams House of Horrors, would cackle with delight as she walked the neighborhood children by what appeared to be us, dead.
My mother always had this dark side. As an actress, she performed best as a diva or murderer. That’s why it was no surprise when I left for college to discover that she had entered the Charlotte Goth scene. She started wearing a Pure Evil hat, listening to Sisters of Mercy and visiting clubs in black leather boustiers. In many ways, I could tell she missed us. She loved being around young people, especially the depressed teens who treated her like a mother. At the same time, she was happy to have us gone. With her last child out of the house, she began refamiliarizing herself with her sexuality. Nights in the clubs showed her just how much sexual prowess she could wield.
It was about a year into this phase that she and her friends complained that the Charlotte scene was for amateurs. They wanted to find a real Goth scene and their opportunity came when the International Gothic Convention, or the Convergence Festival, would be held in New York City. My mother invited me to go and I couldn’t resist.

That weekend, the official hotel of the Gothic world was The Warwick in Midtown. We went directly there to inquire about tickets. The revolving doors gave way to a waiting area with green couches and leather chairs. That afternoon a group of people were seated there—a plump man reading Atlas Shrugged, a man in a black suit, and a woman in a floppy purple hat and T-shirt which showed a black widow spider over the phrase, “We could mate but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Excuse me,” my Mom asked, “Are y’all here for Convergence?”
“Yes,” the guy in the dark suit said.
“Do you know if we can buy tickets?”
“You’ll have to talk to that man.”
We looked left as a chubby, balding guy walked toward the group. He wore a black shirt with “Corp Goth” written on it. He stopped beside us. My Mom put her hand softly on his back. “I hear you’re the person to talk to about tickets,” she said.
“No,” the large man replied, “that would be Clifford.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Dragon.”
“Well, Dragon,” she said, “Can I get tickets to tonight’s event? It’s at the Limelight, right?”
“Those plans fell through,” Dragon said, “The owners at the club decided they could make more money hosting a Rave party.”
The group appeared to be brooding.
“Has there been a change in plans?” my mother asked.
“We don’t have any yet,” Dragon said.
“A couple of us are going to another bar,” the suited man said.
“What bar?” I asked.
He opened a printed e-mail. “La Nouvelle Justina,” he said.
“Where’s that?” I asked. I got out my notebook. He showed me the page. I scanned the message for an address—1011 East Second Street. It said “Prodoms free.”
“What are Prodoms?” I asked.
He didn’t hear me.
“What are Prodoms?” my mother asked.
“Professional dominatrix,” the woman in the purple hat replied.
An awkward silence ensued: We didn’t know the lingo.
“I’m Elyse,” my mother said. She reached out to shake the hand of the suited man.
“Dwanye,” he said. He accompanied the greeting with a bow.
I reached across the table and introduced myself to the woman.
“Randy,” I said.
“Crystal Blue,” she said back. She bent her wrist as if I were going to kiss her hand.
My Mom reached out to the guy with Atlas Shrugged.
“Cassius,” he said.
“Well I guess we’ll see you guys tonight,” my Mom said. The group looked unexcited. We walked out to the busy Midtown street where my Mom reviewed her first impression. “I’m such a dork!” she yelled.

After we went to the Warwick, we made our way to our hotel. I laid on my bed and started reading Joseph Mitchell’s Up in the Old Hotel, while my mother primped herself in the bathroom. She turned the corner in a black vinyl mini-skirt, tube top and bicycle chain necklace. She approached the end of my bed.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked.
I tilted my book down. I nodded at the clothes I had on—black shirt, tan pants and black leather shoes. “Just this,” I said.
“We’re going to have to paint your finger nails.”
She walked away and returned. She handed me a bottle of red nail polish.
I looked at the label and read it out loud: “It’s Revlon, and called Crème.”
“It’s the color of blood,” she said. I put the bottle down on the nearby night stand and went back to reading.
“We also need to spike your hair like little devil boy,” she said.
“Okay,” I said and put my book down. I got up, walked to my bag and started to remove items. My mother walked away and came back with a tiny, black T-shirt which donned the words, ‘Vampire Lesbians of Sodom.’
“Wear this,” she said.
I stripped off my shirt and put it on. The sleeves felt three inches long; I could feel the creases in my armpits. I followed her to the bathroom to put on make-up. I rummaged through her make-up pouch and found a dark, thick pencil. “Is this eye-liner?” I asked.
“Yea.”
“Would you put it on me?”
“Sure,” she said. I sat on the thin plastic toilet seat and looked up at the ceiling. My Mom drew the lines. When she was through, I looked in the mirror. One outline was tilted down, and one up, making me look sad and happy at the same time. My mother saw the asymmetry and, with a licked finger, evened them out. She pulled back, gave me a critical glance, and nodded. “There,” she said, and turned back around to apply her make-up. She leaned toward the mirror and flashed a devilish look.
“Ooh Scary,” she said.
We turned off the lights, took the elevator to the foyer and headed to the subway.

At La Nouvella Justina we met my mother’s Goth friends-- Ken and Jamison. Ken, the king of the Goth scene back home, carries himself in a chubby strut. He has a reputation for being kinky and liking large women. Jamison, his sidekick, has a young freckled face. The two of them excitedly described their hotel room, which they had decorated with Christmas lights-- just in case the party moved from the club back to their room.
Inside La Nouvella, tables lined the interior walls and a glass bar to the right featured S&M equipment like chains and whips. TVs showing S&M videos were fixed to the club’s upper walls. The bar was crowded with men in loose fitting ruffly clothes and women in cinched tops.
My Mother and I got drinks and made our way to a table where Crystal Blue and Dwayne were sitting. “Crystal,” I asked, “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she said, and tilted her head like a preying mantis.
“What do you think of this place?” I asked.
“I like it just fine,” she said, and paused. “But I told my friends I would not go out unless I could see some cock tonight.”
“Have you been successful?” I asked.
She smiled. “A few men have promised to strip for me,” she said and looked at Dwayne.
He clenched and giggled.
“I bet they wouldn’t if they saw the shirt you were wearing earlier,” I said and took a sip of my Bass beer. She thought for a moment, leaned and whispered, “All you have to say is, ‘I want to kill you in a sensual way and do it very slowly,’ and they’ll do anything.”
“Yea?” I asked.
“A guy in a leather shirt has already agreed to strip for me.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“I have my ways, don’t I,” she said looking toward Dwayne.
He clenched and giggled.
I looked toward my Mom, who was sitting beside me, talking to a group of people with motorcycle helmets on their table. “They’re from Ohio,” she said. “Came down for the conference.”
“Oh,” I replied.
“Have another one,” she said and pointed to my drink.
Right then, a large man, maybe 35, with long stringy hair, wearing an army green T-shirt, made his way through a cluster of people and onto the stage. He pulled his shirt off over his head. A woman, wearing a black vinyl boustier, followed him up the stairs. She went to a corner and took a tiny whip out of a bag. She put the man’s wrists in cuffs hanging from two 2x4s nailed to the wall. She began whipping his back and buttocks. With his head down, all the audience could see was his hairy torso. My mother was staring, intrigued.

On the next morning, we woke late and decided to get brunch at a nearby café. The street in front of our hotel, Seventh Avenue, was bustling with a fair. We sat outside under a wall of ivy and beside a fountain. A group of young professionals sat nearby. We ordered food and discussed the previous evening.
“What did you think of last night?” I asked.
“I liked it,” she said, and continued in a rural drawl, “We don’t see much stuff like that in North Carolina.”
“What do you think is the attraction?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “The pain. Some people like that.”
“Would you do it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Certainly not with Daddy. He wouldn’t understand.”
I nodded and cut into my omelet.
“But I don’t know if I would like it until I tried it, right?”
“I guess,” I said.
“What I really liked about it though was the performance—all those people looking at me,” she glowingly said.
“So you would do it in front of people?” I asked.
“It would be just like acting.”
“Almost,” I said.
“Well, the pain thing,” she replied.

That evening my Mother and I met Dwayne, Crystal Blue and Cassius at the Warwick hotel. We got taxies to the night’s party, which was at a club called the Limelight. The club occupies the space of an old stone church. When we entered we went up some creaky stairs where a man with permed blond hair was standing in a doorway. He was wearing a gold mesh shirt, with tattoos visible underneath, and was yelling at some people. My mom and I walked past him into a room. It was small, smoky and decorated with tiny boxed aliens. Geigeresque images of industrial sex scenes were illuminated from the rear, as if stainglass windows.
The crowd was decidedly ungoth. A man with gray hair walked by in a trench coat and high heels. A pack of young women stood around with tubes in their mouths. A man in black plastic outfit, wearing a spiked collar, picked up a microphone and yelled, “Welcome to Fetish night at the Geiger Room, sponsored by Gomorrah. Have fun you freaks!”

My mom and I made our way over to a table and sat down. She saw a doorway. “I’m going to go see what’s back there,” she said, and left.
I kept seated and watched a few people set up a workbench for an S&M show. A man walked in the door and toward me. He was apparently in his mid-thirties, had a clean shaven face around a thick goat-tee, was wearing a blue Old Navy shirt and carrying a gray duffel bag. He sat down beside me. We sat in silence and looked around. He said, “So are these people into S&D or what?”
“Excuse me,” I asked.
“I’ve been in the scene for a long time and I’ve never seen these people. Are they into S&D?”
“What’s S&D?”
“Submission and Domination.”
“Oh,” I said, apologetically. “Some guy announced that this is Fetish Night.”
“I almost couldn’t get in,” he said. “I guess its because I look normal. But I showed the guy my TESS membership card and said, ‘Look. I’ve been in this scene for ten years. I got my equipment in my bag. And I’m probably the kinkiest guy in the city.’ Then he let me in.”
“What’s TESS?” I asked, avoiding the topic of equipment.
“It’s the New York Sadomasochistic group.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m from North Carolina.”
“Ok, it’s like Talon down there.”
We both sat a moment and looked around. A girl got up behind two turntables and was spinning abrasive dance tunes. Periodically, the sound system would fail and the speakers would emit a painful screech.
“Russ,” he said and reached out his hand.
“Randy,” I replied, and shook it. “How long have you been into S&D?”
He thought for a moment. “Let’s just say I spanked my first girl when I was 19. I’m 31 now.”
I nodded, hoping to suggest, ‘That’s cool, like me.’
“Do you…” I asked, pausing to find the verb, “beat people or like to be beaten?”
“I’m a switch, so I’m both a submissive and a dominant.”
“Are you still into spanking?” I asked.
“Man, I’m into everything. I’ve been at it for so long, and moved through so many fetishes, I’m the kinkiest guy in the world.”
I nodded again.
“Like a few weekends ago,” he continued, “I did a cutting.”
“A what?”
“A cutting. It was in Washington, in this club that’s like a basement. This guy who was training was watching me while I took an inch chunk out of this girl’s ass. She fucking got off, man.”
He was silent for a second, but continued. “The club is like a 14,000 square foot dungeon with Rec. equipment everywhere.”
We sat together and looked around.
“Why are you into this kind of stuff?” I asked.
He seemed stumped. “I don’t know. I’ve always been into it.”
He thought some more, puffed up his chest and stretched his hands out like he was squaring up to something. “When I’m spanking a woman, and she’s getting off,” he said excitedly. He looked at me for camaraderie. “Uh!” he yelled.
We sat silent for a moment.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What?”
“What are you into?”
I shifted in my seat. I choose something safe. “Spanking,” I said.
He looked satisfied, but kept staring.
“And paddling,” I said.
“Paddling,” he replied, impressed. “That’s cool.”
“Are you a dominant or submissive?”
“A switch,” I replied.
“That’s cool.”
We both looked toward the crowd.
“People here are young,” he said.
“Yea,” I agreed.
“Not into fat girls,” he said.
I nodded over the music. He then asked, “Why did you get into it?”
“Well…you know,” I said, trying to make up something to say. “Sex is boring. And S&M is like a spice. You spice your dishes and they taste better.”
He was struck by the profundity.
My mother walked in and found the stranger and I sitting in the booth.
“This is Russ. He’s been in the scene for years.”
“Oh, nice to meet you,” my mother said.
“Is this your girlfriend?” Russ asked.
“No, just a friend from North Carolina.”
“That’s cool.”
“Are you ready to go back downstairs?” I asked my Mom in a hinting tone.
“Yes,” she said.
“Russ, it was nice to meet you,” I said, getting up from the booth.
“Nice to meet you too,” he said. As I walked toward the door, I looked back and saw that Russ had stalled my mother. He was whispering something in her ear. I saw her smile as she approached me.
“What did that guy say?” I asked.
“He’s going to a club called Paddles later,” she said. “He wanted to know if we wanted to go along.”

Walking downstairs we made our way to a dance room off the nave. The DJ was spinning The Cure and we maneuvered into the colored lights. My mother danced by weaving her hands into circular fluid motion in front of her. She moved from left and right, casting herself between beats.
I danced too, following her lead, wilting backwards and forwards, like a man cast under her spell. I am always struck, as if something beautiful is transpiring, when dancing with my mother. In a way, seeing her dance affirms that adulthood consists of delight, not just drabness. Dancing with her is also a way I celebrate her sexuality. Her adamant lesson about sexuality’s naturalness, delivered to me as a child, is reciprocated in the form of my support. It’s a lonely project to believe you are a sexy, maturing woman in America. And I want to help my Mom see herself in whatever way she wishes.
As she continued to swirl her hands in a mystic motion, framed by the cold concrete of the church walls, I appreciated too that she represented her darkness to me early. There is something freeing, as a kid, to believe that your mother could be your murderer. She played all of Grime’s characters equally well and, as a result, I was taught to be alert to and laugh at the dark underside of even the most innocent relationship.
We continued to dance this way until 3 A.M. at which time we hailed a taxi and made our way back to Midtown.

The next day was a crisp, cool Sunday. My mother and I woke late and went to the Guggenheim Museum. A jazz ensemble was setting up in the foyer. We perused the Frank Gehry exhibit, bought plates of tapas and sat at a small table in front of the stage.
“Are you ready to see the pictures?” I asked and pulled out a stack of photos I had taken during the weekend. My mother scanned the room and focused on two adolescent girls who were seated nearby. She discreetly took the picture folder and opened it up. She looked at the first one. “Wow, Randy,” she said.
She flipped through some more. Her face became shocked and delighted at every successive shuffle.
“Which one is your favorite?” I asked.
She went through the entire stack and pulled out one.
“This one,” she said. It depicted a young woman with short hair, propped on all fours. Her head is tilted up, mouth open in a pleasureful howl, while a man is scooted up behind, spanking her.
“You don’t know if she’s in pleasure or pain,” she said.
She put the pictures back in the envelope and handed them to me. She smiled as if she were getting away with something. The jazz band started to play, A Few of My Favorite Things.
“You’ve got to get me copies,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Oh, I found a painting I liked,” she said.
“Which one?” I asked.
“I’m going to see if I can get a print of it in the gift shop.”
“Which one is it?”
“Munch’s Vampire,” she said. In it, a woman is holding a man’s head to her chest. Her red hair is flowing down over him and, beyond his neck, the red strands have turned to blood.
“Yes?” I replied, and looked toward her for some kind of explanation.
“It’s like he’s acquiescing,” she explained. “She’s finally got him in her bosom and it’s a nurturing pose— soft, gentle and deadly.”