The sUsPiRiA Club. Essentially the closest thing we goths, rivetheads, and various creatures of the night had to an equivalent to Studio 54. The club looked like the set of a Marilyn Manson video. There were men and women in cages who were either dancing (either our kind of dancing or the bad kind, albeit ironically in the latter sense) or scowling and writhing. In one corner near the ceiling, there was a female mannequin buried in barbed wire, a nod to the club's namesake. Above the bar, more mannequins were posed and covered in fake blood and hung from the ceiling by black metal chains, like something from Hellraiser. The bartender, a minxy little thing who called herself Nightshade served up a drink called a Bathory Blitz, which was red wine mixed with tomato juice, licorice (which was actually toxic in high doses) and pomegranate seeds. I slunk over to my favorite table against the wall, listening to some all-dyke Skinny Puppy cover band blaring out a total assault to the non-deaf. I saw a few of my... we'll call them "friends", even though I'd rather see them all do a swan dive into broken glass... at the table waiting for me. My name is Kasaandra. And around the table were the other people in my sex story club. We all met weekly and told real-life sex stories, mostly ones that happens to us. I slid into the seat next to Betti Bleck, a drag queen who though he was Rose McGowan in The Doom Generation. I hated him, simply because we were so much alike. Across from the table was Steffi, an S&M goddess in blue leather. As always, she went first, I went last, and everyone else went in between. "Okay," she started. "This story is something I've been saving for a rainy day. But it's LA, and those don't happen enough, so here goes." COMING SOON: STEFFI PRESENTS "THE BOY FROM UTAH" Steffi loves S&M. She never does it with anyone outside of the types that haunt the sUsPiRiA Club, until her eyes wandered to a young Mormon man, who may prove that maybe Mormons aren't as prudish as we think.