Pleasure In A Time Of Suffering

I

                         ( Notes: I haven't a clue why this took so long.  I got this amazing, amazing idea from Anon, KonaKona, who originally wanted it to be a part of Amantes Tomate, however my brain took it and absolutely ran with it. All I have to say for myself is that this made me really think while I was writing it and it was a treat. Please enjoy and let me know that you did!
Warnings for: Panic Attacks, Racism and Age Difference. )

                    Madrid, 1930's
                Antonio's Memories

La Vida Nocturna was a small, brick building, stuck in between two bigger buildings in the dirty part of the city. Really, it wasn't even a building, more of a large suite connected to one of the other buildings. During the day it was just an empty place, and many didn't give it any thought at all. It didn't have a proper sign, or lights, or even a window to indicate that it wasn't just a vacant area. It was only after the sun had gone down, and the two buildings beside it had closed for the day did it come alive. Hence the name. The club was not advertised to the common public, but rather the underground community. It's diverse entertainment and secluded space made it perfect for people not of the norm to have a drink, a laugh, perhaps a dance, and take their face off.

I had stumbled upon this place years before there were even whispers of a full-blown war, young, and looking for trouble wherever I could. A friend of mine, a French man named Francis, had taken me to the club. It was a warm night in 1934, and almost shaking with excited nerves, I entered La Vida Nocturna for the first time with an immigrant I had just met the day before. Since then, I had continued to be a regular in the club, sometimes coming even without Francis.

There was a time, when i had found myself working to support my mother, as my brother could not. He had gone to Avila, where he was occupied with chasing a girlfriend. When I had entered the club again, after a period of seven months, I realized that the atmosphere had seemed to change. It was not barely midnight, and already there were so many people. There was singing, beautiful singing, and the piano on the stage was trying so hard to do justice to the voice. Center stage, a performer I had never seen before, painted lips parted to form the words of the sensual tune. My mouth fell open a bit in disbelief and interest. Drag was not like this in the club. Drag was comedy, an in-between performers act, not this. This was  pure sex. The singer seemed to know what he was doing, hitting notes, and moving his hips in a way that males simply could not accomplish. His features were made up, doll-like and soft, and his seemingly endless legs were clad in panty hose, feet sporting shiny kitten heels. His dress looked worn, but beautiful, a scanty, ( by women's standards ) red piece that brushed his thighs and hugged his features. He, like Francis, was very obviously not Spanish, though he sang it in an accent that gave him away as an Italian.

My mouth was dry by the time he had completed his number, lingering on stage for a moment to thank the pianist before leaving the stage, dissapeaing behind the curtain like a phantom. I closed my mouth and swallowed hard, aching to know something more of the stranger. Who was he, and just what was he doing in a place like this? Someone like him belongs somewhere far more- expensive than La Vida Nocturna. Cross dresser, or not, he didn't belong there.

Despite that, he stayed. He, being the well-known Romano, the most popular ( and most paid, I presume ) performer the club had ever seen. I like many others drank his act up, drooling at his graceful form, and voice. Probably foolishly, I felt as though I knew Romano the best, though I was just another source  for him. After I had seen him for the first time, my curiosity, and thirst for more information, drove me to venture to the back, where the shabby dressing rooms stood. With direction from another visitor, I located the one belonging to the mysterious 'Romano', and took it upon myself to knock, ( Manners are good to have, even when dealing with club performers, mind you! ).