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overflow crowds of uptown slummers, visiting firemen, and other assorted pleasure seekers, including New York’s leading fag hag, Adriana la Chaise, disguised as a man, who, while a faggot to the extent that she evades the responsibilities that her brains, her abilities, and her energies, in a more enlightened age, would have channeled, via adult commitments, via more positive injections, into a needful society, was, nevertheless, by clitoral choice, straight, though it was her habit to enjoy slouching in dark corners, wearing military attire, sailor’s suits or soldier’s, and watch the boys do things to each other, and enjoy fainting when the beauties on the stage wilted to the floor, only to be watered by huge blacks wearing hip-length Goodyear waders and furry guardsman’s toppers and tipping wax from large Rigaud candles that sizzled neath their stream, her distinguished presence, albeit in mufti, being naturally noteworthy enough to enter the Divine Bella’s twice-weekly column in Women’s Wear, so that Billy Boner, who owned The Pits, then imposed strict membership and attire and inspection requirements, which only made business even better, both downstairs and up.
    Yes, both Balalaika and The Pits were now like old standards that keep playing and playing.
    In Balalaika’s office this Friday afternoon, before such a very big weekend, Patty, Maxine, and Laverne were talking, while Patty opened their weekly shipment of cookies and noted that neither Fig Newtons nor Oreos had been sent, but Pecan Sandies.
    Patty, while wondering what the hell they would do with seventy pounds of greasy Pecan Sandies, thought he would try to edge into the problem gracefully. “Listen,” he said, “I’m beginning to think that I don’t know what sex is all about.”
    “That’s the first I’ve heard about it,” Maxine said, sampling several of the wrong order and beginning to study his heavy dark brows in the small mirror he’d pulled out of his Gap shirt of black-and-blue plaid.
    “He told me, Leather Louie did, that it was his own special world, he’d made it just for himself, and he showed me where he strings up a number, on his gallows, erected right there, in his own apartment…”
    “In the Dakota?” Maxine was commencing to notice several stubby black hairs bristling out of alignment.
    “…in the Dakota. Listen, he beats the shit out of them with the kind of whip I haven’t seen since Mutiny on the Bounty. ”
    “He showed you the whip?” Laverne sensed the conversation drifting into tributaries he’d been trying so hard to leave unrafted.
    “And the gallows. And the secret, hidden room, formerly I guess a maid’s room. But big enough. Blood on the wall. Which he giggled as he pointed out. Giggled.”
    “Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Hidden Room,” Maxine said, extricating his Avon tweezers from the back pocket of his jeans.
    “He tortures himself with his sexual fantasies,” Laverne ventured.
    “But he’s a very sympathetic person,” Patty said. “And I truly feel that underneath his appetite for extreme sadism—which he talks about very precisely, very movingly, admitting that most sadists think they’re ugly men, physically, and incapable of relating or feeling—there’s a loving human being. Hidden. Fighting to get out.”
    “Certainly fighting,” Maxine said, the tweezers now poised and ready to pluck.
    “Did he elucidate upon his…encounters?” Laverne’s toe was now succumbing, dipping into recollection.
    “Scenes. They’re called scenes. He says he prefers an evening with three scenes. The first two are pretend and the third is for real.”
    “How does he personally differentiate?” Laverne was sinking deeper.
    “He says during the third he will push the masochist further than he’s ever been pushed before. It’s in accomplishing this that the true climax for both of them occurs. I hope I’m quoting him correctly.”
    Laverne nodded to himself. Yes, it sounded familiar,