Songs_of_the_Satyrs by Aaron J. French Page B

snort, and Marco stopped again. His hands started to shake as he tried to determine what he had done wrong now. He looked at his hands—his empty hands—and resisted the temptation to slap his forehead. He changed course slightly so that his path took him to a table from which he collected a pitcher of wine and two goblets, his fingers still quivering.
    He closed in on the girl and she looked up at him, her expression one of gentle confusion. The male she had entered the club with snored gently beside her. Marco flicked a glance at him and looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was draw her attention to her companion. He smiled, lopsided, and waggled the goblets.
    “Can I tempt you?”
    The woman giggled, looked coyly aside for a moment, then nodded. “My name is Haylee.”
    “Nice to meet you, Haylee,” he replied, forcing his grin wider and hoping he would be able to remember the name long enough. “I’m Marco.”
    He handed her a goblet and poured from the pitcher. It was just wine. All of the guests had already been slipped their faerie-enhanced roofies, and the pitcher held nothing more than a cheap Californian red. Marco sloshed wine into his own goblet and put the pitcher on the floor.
    He looked into the cup. It might be rubbish, but it was still wine. Just holding the goblet was making his heart beat faster. He raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. His head swam and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with a sudden desperate thirst. He lifted the wine, trying for a sip. As soon as it touched his lips he upended the goblet and drained it, wine spilling from the sides and dribbling down his face like blood. His ego engorged as fast as his penis. Dropping the goblet he carried on drinking from the pitcher. Marco held his hand out to Haylee. Her whole attention was raptly focused on his groin. He had to give her a nudge to snap her out of it.
    “Let’s go somewhere away from this crowd,” he suggested, and she took his hand.
     
    ***
     
    A little over an hour later Marco stumbled into a storage room next to the kitchen. He closed the door quietly, leaned against it, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. He hung his head, only to be confronted by a view of his partially flaccid penis. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on not throwing up.
    He had left Haylee, wearing nothing but a contented smile, sprawled on a couch in a secluded corner. As soon as their sexual energy discharged into the collector, the effects of the wine evaporated and left him drained. He felt unclean and used. He covered his face with his hands. Before his heart rate or his breathing had returned to normal, the door shoved him mightily in the back and there was an angry hammering.
    “Marco? Marco? I know you’re in there. Get back out on the floor. Pull another pathetic stunt like this tonight and I’ll pull your fucking head off and grind you for hamburger.”
    The door slammed into his back again, lower this time as if it had been kicked. Marco waited long enough to make sure Leonides had gone before he stood. It was different for the others. As soon as they had finished with one customer, they reached for another pitcher and moved on to the next. Some even took the famous rhomboid purple helpers. Not that they needed them. Not for stamina, anyway. But there was the rumor that the drug made them bigger than any faerie magic could, and it was cheaper. There was a lot of bravado bullshit about getting off on the look of delight and fear in the eyes of the women. Marco had tried one once. All he had got out of the experience was a bright red face and blocked sinuses. And another reason for the other satyrs to mock him. He had avoided the pills since.
    He looked both ways along the corridor. Nobody was in sight, although he could hear clattering in the kitchen and ribald revelry in the “grotto.” He closed the door and hurried off, hoping nobody would see him. Then he realized he was wasting his time. Leo