For the uninitiated, the Phantasmagoria represents the hottest, hippest danceclub in all of London. The best dancers, male and female (cages notwithstanding), the best DJ mix (including Punjabi-inspired Indian mixes), and the best eye candy. It has four levels of clubs. The first floor and second floor are the most commonly (and well) used. And from Wednesday to Saturday is packed.
For those in the relative 'know', Phantasmagoria is more than just a nightclub/disco. It's a way of life. Several subcultures call it home, so in its way it has become a metaphoric Jerusalem, holy seat of three 'religions'.
The irony is not lost upon the Proprietor, Julian Kane.
But tonight the Proprietor, one of London's Most Eligibles (and Most Elusives) is nowhere to be found but everywhere to be seen. Glimpses of him here and there. Like that poem by Coleridge. Julian, Julian everywhere and not a grope to sink.
Pharzuph, for his part, is feeling neglected. That is, when the gorgeous, curled blond isn't being brought drinks (free of charge -- always) by the waitstaff, has a lap full of dancer or is generally surrounded by those who work here and those who live here. Just like he does.
Only he does it literally...
Pharzuph, known affectionately as Icarus, is a golden wonder. His ringlet curls are gold and in a wild halo around his face, a model's face to be sure, further dusted with golden powder. He is wearing golden leather, bronzed here and there for a nice metallic effect. His shirt is a sheer metallic threaded wonder, and where his skin is visible -- and there is much of the 'David' physique that is visible -- the same golden dusting of powder sparkles beneath the clublights. And, as is his custom, he is barefoot. Apparently unconcerned about stepping on broken glasses or syringes.
Maybe the club is just that clean...
The good doctor looks positively mundane in the throngs of London the clubbing scene. Though, that's rather to be expected. However, oddly enough to some perhaps, she doesn't look as though she cares. Absent of body glitter, leather other than that on her feet and handbag, or any obvious more permanent rings or tattoos, she comes across as almost sheik. Polished. Royal. And, when she opens her mouth, distinctly cultured American. She watches all the people. Taking in a breath of the smoky, curry and herby and clove smells that come from the colognes and recreational distractions in use, she smiles. This is something her sire never could understand about her. Her positive delight in watching all of them. And what they do and don't do. What they say and don't say. What they wish they could.
She passes through the pandemonium after a moment to head to the bar, leaning up against the polished surface to order herself a drink. Whatever the contents the bartender looks at her as though she's daft, but she seems to expect it, shrugging and answering with a smile that seems to pacify. Getting her orange filled tumbler back in good speed while she takes the moment to See again. Visibly relaxing with the din around her.
It isn't the first time she's been here before. But it may as well be. The last time she was in this place, her hair was fuchsia, and she was in the company of Davydd, both here for different purposes but arriving together - she as a punk magazine reporter and looking the part, he as ... himself, and as much a part and fixture of the environment as anything else.
Right now, Fiona isn't Drancy any more, and she can't bring herself to dress the part; so instead, she's gone as herself, though a different self than the office will see. Her hair's got seven long thin braids woven into it, hung with silver bells, wrapping through the rest of her hair and holding it back, off her face - a woven net, of sorts. She's gone for a simple look - black jeans that've been painted on, almost, tucked into a pair of riding boots (taken from the back of the closet for the next time she's dragged off with the mater to ride to the hounds, no doubt), and a red silk blouse is worn over a black lace tank top. It's the closest her present wardrobe can provide without digging out boxes. Lipstick - yes, coral-coloured; eye makeup, almost none - just a hint of kohl. Jewelry - none, whatsoever. What price jewelry, when one's hunting for musicians and demon princes?
She enters, she looks around; Fiona's ill at ease immediately, the press of bodies and sexuality equally alien to her, now, even if she's less hostile and more politely removed. God knows where to start. She certainly doesn't.
Pandemonium. An apt phrase...
If you've come for spectacle and spectatorial enjoyment, you could find no better place for it than here. In the midst of grinding body parts there are old vampires present, faeries, wolves, humans, magicians. Name an energy, it's here and heading for a crescendo (or two). Women and men, men and men, women and women. Animal, vegetable and mineral.
The waitstaff are clad in PVC, some in bondage gear, some in cabaret short-shorts -- a throwback to the club's origins. It's definitely upscale. Up... upscale. There are some recognizable faces in the crowd.
To be sure, the 'exclusive rooms' on the third and fourth level are a playground unto themselves, to the brim with all those recognizable and all things desirable.
There are actual tables, horse-shoe shaped booths that start just past the bar and ring around the dancefloor. Cages filled with dancers -- not just scantily clad and beautiful but also professionally trained and proficient -- hang above the tables where the ceiling isn't as vaulted.
It is at one such table that the golden boy sits, receiving yet another round of jello shots. Cherry red and sparkling gold jello shots. He pokes at them with a straw and looks around. He laughs, having already forgotten the grievous injuries given to him by Julian's absence.
Where is he anyway? He's forgotten all about me!
Being vapid and short of memory can be a double-edged issue. Pharzuph sighs and looks inconsolable in his little corner booth and in the center of lovely flashing lights.
The chestnut-haired norm leans her elbows against the bar and holds her glass in both hands for a moment, quiet among the din. When some poor sod in a suit comes up to strike a conversation she gives him the polite brush, all smiles and tilts of her head, inoffensive certainly though the poor boy does look a bit disappointed. He was, it seems, too boring even for her. Why come watch trout in the pond full of exotic salt water creatures such as this place. All the colors and dances of fins.
The cherub, on the other hand, is much more distinctive. She pays attention to the crowd that meanders around him particularly for a moment, a curiosity obvious on her features. Not rudely staring, that would be much too base. Instead, intrigued. Straightening to step away from the bar she comes around the guard rail carefully to avoid dumping her drink on anyone. Unfortunately, others are less than lithe, and a burly gentleman hits her arm, causing her to step aside at the last moment to avoid a spill. Bringing her directly in the way of the red silk and lace of Fiona.
"I'm terribly sorry." Victoria says easily, turning to the woman immediately, "It's quite a lot to take in."
Too many people. How is anyone supposed to tune out everyone else in order to find just one person? It's all a bit more than she wanted, really - after a long day at the studio, all Fiona wanted was to go home and curl up with some vindaloo and possibly put on the telly for a bit of utterly banal and yet soothing background chatter. Instead, she's in the middle of the Debauched of Debaucheries, Depravity Compounded and All Sins Available Here. And, apparently, right in the way of visiting Americans.
"Think nothing of it," Fiona answers, just as politely - at least this is the reasonable world she recognizes, nothing too outre or unusual to the words. Her accent : Oxonian born and bred and educated. "It's quite a bit of a scrum in here, isn't it? I suppose I should've expected it." But, well, maybe this could be a lead? She hesitates, the barest moment, then shrugs. Why not? And so, she puts the question to Victoria, even while casting her muted gaze around.
"I don't suppose you know a fellow called Dei, do you? I was told he might be here - otherwise, I admit, I wouldn't be, myself." Pharzuph is worth a look, but Fiona's eyes skid off of him, like water off oilskin. No. Not comfortable at all...
No, not comfortable. But alluring. Alluring all the same. Even as he is poking his jello with a straw to make it wobble. It wobbles like flesh. Pharzuph picks up the glass and opens his mouth and his throat -- he is very proficient at that -- and takes the jello whole in one swallow. A burning glass is brought to his table right after, as if anticipating his next request. The drink's name is Icarus -- named after its most famous drinker.
The music is swirling and Lust is palpable. And if one were to notice, to really place close attention, one would notice that more grinding is happening in proximity to Pharzuph's booth than away from it, though he seems relatively... make that completely...oblivious...
He looks up, bored, suddenly very bored, to see two very out of place women talking... talking of all things!... here! Pharzuph slides against the seat of his booth, edging his way closer to them. Are you lost? "Hello!" he says brightly, heart-shaped mouth set upon a heart-shaped face coupling that brightness with a smile.
Wrinkling her nose a bit in apology, Victoria shakes her head, "Sorry, no. I'm not local." She grins a bit, "Obviously."
She glances around, stepping up a tred on the stairs to look around in what she hopes is a helpful manner, offering "Ah, what's he look like? Maybe I can spot him?"
She does, however, notice the approaching golden boy. Raising her eyebrows a bit as the two of them are addressed, she tilts her head to the side a bit inquisitively, "Hello." She senses a shift in the air around the out of the way spot she and Fiona stand in. Taking another drink from her glass as she regards the arriving Bacchus, her tongue slips out to catch a drop off her lip absently, "We were just looking for someone named Dei. You wouldn't happen to have seen him?" Americans. Bold as brass.
"No trouble," Fiona tells Victoria in a tone of mild resignation. "Obviously, in all this," she makes a faint hand gesture at the crowd, "I'll be lucky if he's found before Guy Faw- eh?" As oblivious as ever Drancy was to certain types of social expectation, she turns to regard the surprised and curious cherub, blinking again. "Err... hello."
Then attention's given to the question - what does Dei look like? It's surprisingly hard for her to answer. She remembers better what he felt like - not just in kisses, but in presence, in his music - in his Music, with a capital M, and never mind the pretentiousness.
"Colored hair, Icelandic, musician," Fiona finally sums up. "Likely to either have his guitar with him, or ... well. I don't know. Sorry; last I saw, well, you'd know him if you knew him, but it's just who he is." Who needs drugs to be incoherent? Magic and empathy and faerie men have done a number on her spoken erudition. She keeps a slightly nervous eye on Pharzuph, though gives him an automatic, perfunctory smile. Beautiful men, in her experience, are usually far more trouble than beautiful women - for her.
The name doesn't ring a bell, but then, there's not much of a bell to ring with Pharzuph. He ponders it though. He ponders it long and hard. Cinnamon and amber eyes sparkle. Oh! And then the lightbulb goes off. "I saw a guitar earlier. Yes! He played for me... but his name isn't Dei," the heart-shaped mouth puckers a coy grin.
My Lord played a song for me, he sang to me and he held me on his lap. When ... was... that? Today?
"He is a very good... musician..." Pharzuph smiles. "Hello," he offers his hand to one or to both of you, "... my name is Pharzuph..." He pauses. "It's Babylonian. Just like my preference in sexual positions," maybe you don't want to know. "Would you like to have a seat with me. We can talk about music. Music is one of my favorite things..." Yes, and kittens, mittens and things tied up with string, right?
Ahhh One of those. Victoria grins a little and covers anything else with a drink from her glass. Taking the offered hand in a light shake, "Lovely to meet you, I'm sure."
She looks to the woman next to her, the interest in her reaction to the invitation plain given the reservations that she seems to have with an approach alone. Curiouser and curiouser. Alice, will you go through that particular door? White rabbits not withstanding.
"I'm just killing time before going to meet someone, myself, actually, but until I have to take off, sure." Dr. Elegance turns back to Fiona again, raising an eyebrow, "Music's always interesting, though I have to say I've never been all that good at it myself."
Something tied up with something else, at any rate. With a shake of her blonde braids that sets off the chiming of her bells, Lady Arundel looks briefly disappointed, but unsurprised. There are, after all, how many musicians in the whole of London? But the conversation's moving on, threatening to leave her behind, and she glances from man to woman, poised to react and respond.
"Err." Fiona gives Pharzuph a more direct, but nevertheless odd look. "How do you do?" Victoria taking Pharzuph's hand relieves her of the necessity to bring herself into direct contact; she fiddles for a moment with her cellphone, on her belt, then settles for folding her hands together in front of her as primly as though she were wearing full formal gear with gloves and a hat.
Music. Well, music is more of an acceptable topic than details about sexual positions. "I used to work in the business, but I'm not a musician, myself," she agrees, more out of the need to continue polite conversation than a desire to share. "I've a small amount of training, but I've never considered doing anything of that sort with it."
Hesitation. She doesn't really feel like going off and sitting with strange golden men of Babylonian proportions. "As for sitting ... well, I've got work tomorrow, actually. Perhaps, though, I could ... leave a message here, with you, if you're here often, or maybe one of the bartenders. Though," one corner of Fiona's mouth quirks up, "it was an odd sort of tip, and a bit of a long shot to begin with, I suppose. Quite likely, I should give it up as a bad lot. But a pleasure to meet you both, nonetheless, so no whole loss."
Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 03:39 PM
