The purr of its engine died away. Tatters of newspaper hopped and skidded under the glare of a single sputtering streetlamp. I nervously raised an eyebrow. “Where’s the club?” “At the end of the block. Most people park around the corner on Folsom.” The “club” was the City’s reigning BDSM establishment, the Cathedral. The Mercedes’ diminutive driver was Caryl Leverett, sixty-something venture capitalist and one of California’s most relentless Republican fundraisers (I’m a penniless liberal; at my lover’s request, I’d left my Dean button in the dresser drawer). The flickering streetlight transformed Caryl’s snowy hair into an improbably cherubic halo. My lover sat quietly in the backseat, not speaking unless spoken to. I ached to touch her, to reassure or to be reassured. Caryl cleared his throat. “Deirdre,” he said. I heard the rustle as she came to attention. “You may have forgotten about opening our doors,” Caryl said. His voice held a carefully modulated mix of annoyance and indulgence.
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