|Fiume Club, packed! Modern dress acceptible, great live singers! me far right at bar|
Sometimes a doll needs to trim her hair into a bob, wriggle into a slinky dress or a mini with fringe, rouge your knees, roll your stockings down, and all that jazz!
Shep and Starla's Fiume Club was packed, parking was blocked down to the bridge over the Chicago River, dozens of scary, beefy men in suits, protecting the cars of their bosses. You get used to getting cat calls and whistles, its a comforting reaffirmation sometimes. But these bruisers just stare, quiet, and so serious,,, my Florsheims made great time, and quickly plopped on a stool. Franky recognized me at once, handing me my coconut rum.
|Matt420, the guy dresses sooo swell! but the quiet type, and not a dancer, i guess.|
The room was full of the Chicago elite- showgirls, top businessmen and women, and gangsters with piercing eyes and silk scarves.
|Crooner Carlucci, excellent singer! jdepoy and augusta, left, debbie standing, Shep and Starla owners, center|
|Crooner Carlucci, great live room performer!|
|Harry, singing, his friends beside me including Master Oakleaf in leather beside me|
|Master Oakleaf and me|
"Master Oakleaf?" I seem destined to attract people named Master and Mistress, it is possibly a doll's lot in sentient Second Life, I do not know. I pretended to scratch my back, checking for my key. No, I had remembered to have a friend wind me, then remove the key at the nub, and smooth the small fleshy flap of Syn-Tex over the nub. He could not know I was a clockwork person, could he? With the name Master, you always wonder if you are going to be dancing with your back against him, grinding your soft into his hard, letting his hands roam to see how far he will go in a packed club, and then with that instant shock, you hear the CLIK of a slave collar and jingle of the slender chain leash in his hand. Though, he is very attractive, a great dancer, conversationalist, how bad could bad be? why is it always the bad boys that dare to talk, dance and more? After the narrow escape from those copper salvage people, I have been re-thinking what "bad" is anyways. He had great hands....
|Lag mismatched all dancers, sim near crashing, but great fun at The Fiume Club|
My right arm dropped from his shoulder, hanging at my side. I am quite good at freezing my expression in a pleasant doll smile, for obvious reasons! I could not let him know I was near unwinding, how would he react? Would he be confused? Would he find me unworthy, as just a mannequin with a great hairstyle? or would I get carried back to some museum of his after I wound down, propped up in a corner with a lampshade on my head?
I told him the truth- I had a really great time! I tipped the venue and hostess again, and singer. The last beat of Harry's tune ushered out all the lag makers in modern clothing, like bubbles that popped at his last note. Left were all the Guys and Dolls, gathering their 1920's handbags, checking the ammunition in their concealed weapons, fixing their dresses, hair and lipstick, and hurrying out into their waiting Packards and Fords. I looked up and down the river for my friend, Deusenberg, but he was probably hurrying his boss somewhere, he and his moll warming up the back seat. I got back to the deserted shoppe, jumped into my cold pajamas, then felt like kicking myself for running away from a bad Guy that seemed so good. Do human women go through these mixed up feelings, or is it just sentient dolls?