Gothic-Ah Fashion Show - Memorial Day

The day was hot, for Memorial Day, even after four in the afternoon. Relentlessly beating down from between the skyscrapers, the sun illuminated the entryway to the Fashion Show's hall.

Rachyl brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and inserted herself in the admissions queue. Dozens of pairs of similarly attired people - most in Gothic fashions from one line or another, some exaggeratedly so with the occasional bondage paraphernalia - lined the street, sidewalk and curb next to the building.

Looking down at herself, she had a brief feeling of being "underdressed" for the event in her low cut, crushed velvet black dress, black silk choker with a dangling silver teardrop pendant that rested at the base of her throat, nude stockings and black leather high heels. She shrugged and decided to just smile at everyone who threw a "funny look" her way.

The line moved quickly, and Rachyl found herself outside the door just before 4:30. As she left her name at the admissions booth, an official took her aside.

"Ma'am, I really hate to say this, but in addition to the Hall being full, your name's not on the expected guest list. Do you have an invitation?"

Rachyl took a moment to digest what the man was saying. She looked up into his sunglasses, and calmly stated, "No, I wasn't aware an invitation was needed. I saw the show advertised on several billboards, am a fan of the designers, and wanted to see their newest offerings."

The guard nodded sympathetically. "You're not the only person who's come a long way to see the show, but unfortunately, it is invitation only. One is planned sometime mid-summer. I can take your name and number, and see if I can add it to the list..."

Rachyl's attention had drifted off at some point after he reiterated that the show was invitation only. She rattled off her name and number, not expecting any contact whatsoever, thanked the man absently for his time, and turned on her heel, walking back to the street. She realized that the entire street had been cordoned off for the show, and started down a side alley to an adjacent block.

As she moved purposefully through the alley, she heard the slamming of a door, and the sudden wrenching of someone - from the sound of it, a female someone - vomitting profusely and painfully. She followed the sound into a dark alcove of the building, and found a rather well-dressed woman leaning over the side of a dumpster, heaving and kicking as the splashes increased. Rachyl reached up to hold the woman still. A door slammed again, and Rachyl heard footsteps running, then yelling.

"I don't understand how you brain-dead, air-head, rail-thin models can not eat and expect to be able to function under such stress. Even the ones who have a little bit of meat on their bones, a few curves to support, all the same!" The slight lisp to the feminized voice instantly let Rachyl assume the speaker was one of the model managers, and the woman she supported had to be one of the fashion models for the show.

A gaudily dressed Latino with brightly mismatched colors, uncountable rhinestones, and nearly bathed in glitter, came around the corner from the hallway that Rachyl now spotted - her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the alcove - and came to a screeching halt. "Well what're you doing out here, too?"

Rachyl's mouth worked for a moment before she stupidly replied, "Holding up the girl so she doesn't fall in or out and break neck or leg?"

Sparkly (as Rachyl suddenly decided to call him) glared at her, and tsked. "What are you still doing in the evening gown? You should be inside getting ready for the strapless and lingerie lineup!" From next to the dumpster he pulled a large stepstool and slid it beneath the model's feet, who now seemed almost quiescent, if breathing shallowly. Then he grabbed Rachyl's arm, and it took all of her willpower not to enact a hold or throw. "Well, I'm not...," she began, but Sparkly had other ideas. He shoved her towards the hall and directed her, "Go back inside, dammit! Find Matricia! Get changed!"

Rachyl nodded once, and proceeded quickly down the hall towards the heavy steel door at the end. Swinging it open with ease, she closed her eyes for half a second to allow them to adjust again to the brighter interior, and was nearly run over by a rolling clothes rack. Briefly wondering how in the world she was supposed to find this "Matricia," Rachyl took a step towards the hall in front of her when yet another person grabbed her arm. Whirling to the source of the hand, Rachyl stopped as she nearly flattened herself on one of the biggest black women she'd ever seen.

"Did Branson send you back in? You're supposed to be getting changed! Matricia's in makeup four, get your ass down there! And the rest of you, too!" Again Rachyl found herself propelled down a hallway, and saw lights highlighting door numbers. One, two, three, and when she pushed open the door she thought should be four, she found a janitor's closet instead. Inside, she heard moaning - two male voices grunting, "Yes, yes! and could barely make out in the darkness their forms against a wall-mounted sink. Her brain instantly retorted, "Of course it's wall-mounted, stupid," and she quickly closed the door. Turning around, she saw dressing room four, and turned the knob, letting herself in. There she saw a towering, green sequin-sparkling dress bending over a chair, the hiss of aerosol can spraying tickling her ears.

"You're done, get up, get out! Go go go! I have my next masterpiece to work on!" Nearly aghast at the seemingly never-ending cliches she seemed to be running into, Rachyl dodged to the side as the coiffeured woman burst from the chair, noticing only clinking chains and jangling bangles, before she again was grabbed and hauled bodily, this time thrown into the makeup chair. Her assailant twittered and tsk-tsked, first tearing out the careful bun Rachyl had put her hair in, then raking a long bristled brush through her burgundy tresses. She twitched and clamped down on any whimpers as knots tore and scalp tweaked, then closed her eyes as a makeup sponge appeared at her nose. Enduring the poking and brushing for what seemed like eternity - when in reality it was only three or four minutes - she was told to open her eyes, stand, and get dressed.

Rachyl barely recognized herself. Where her light blue eye shadow had been now was layered a deep metallic blue, dark eyeliner, golden eyelash highlights, and a pair of rather stupid-looking twirls of black beneath her eyes. Her cheeks and forehead were mostly pale white, with gentle splashes of rouge for color. Her hair, previously bunned, was now a mostly straight bob around her head, curling gently at the ends. The silken choker at her neck was quickly unclasped and replaced with a leather band, festooned with a single silver Venus symbol at the front. She was roughly hauled out of the chair and stood by a clothes rack. Now that Rachyl got a good look at the woman, she realized she was actually looking at a very tall, very thin cross-dressing man.

Hanger after hanger was pulled from the rack before the man... woman... makeup artist held a shoulderless egypt blue dress - no, after looking at it a bit longer, Rachyl realized it was a corset - and matching spiderweb-print split skirt. "Strip," she was commanded, and strip she did. She tossed her dress into a corner, followed by her shoes and bra, and stepped into the skirt, aligning the slit with her right leg. The artist stretched the corset and held it for Rachyl, who moved forward into it. She was whipped around, and grunted as the buckles were snapped closed. A hand slid between her chest and the corset, placing her each breast in the cups, then more pale powder was dusted onto her bare skin. Shoes were handed to her - wide heeled, high platform shoes which seemed extremely unstable to Rachyl, but she slid them on anyway.

Out into the corridor she was ushered, towards music that she now heard, and propelled into a line of similarly-attired women of all shapes and sizes.

As each outfit before her was described in turn, Rachyl heard catcalls, whistles, and in some cases utter silence. (She guessed those designs that heralded silence were eventually scrapped.) Then she heard, "And now, one of the newest designs from Gothic-ah, we have a low Egypt blue corset..." The announcer's voice seemed to disappear as she was thrust onto the catwalk.

Rolling her hips lightly as she strode down the stairs - still unstable on the mountain-high shoes - Rachyl paused, looked around the audience, even though they were obscured by thousands of watts of halogen lights and dozens of camera flashes. A few faces were highlighted by the illuminated catwalk.
She took a few more steps and stopped, realizing the shoes were giving her balance problems. She extended her right foot slightly, showing a little leg, and smiled as a few whistles rose. Further along she moved and again her ankle twisted gently. She bent at the knees, and arched her back, pushing her breasts into the air. Standing straighter, she walked nearly to the end of the walkway when her right foot gave way. As she fell, she threw her arms in front of her, stopping her fall, her head swinging down, her eyes caught a hand sliding back away from the light. Gasps resounded in the audience. She whipped her head back up, hair billowing, and found herself staring into the black hole of a camera lens. Pausing briefly before regaining her feet, she winked at the camera and pursed her lips, pushing a kiss through the air towards it. She smiled as the flash lit up.

Rachyl brought her right foot forward, and pushed herself standing, then walked back up the catwalk, hips wiggling. She turned before the curtains, looked towards where she remembered the photographer sitting, blew another kiss, and exited the stage.

She kicked the offending shoes into the air, catching both as they spun, and walked into a blonde woman with bright, crystal green eyes. "You did wonderful, recovering from that fall. I'll make sure the bastard gets escorted out by security and is banned from my events. Go clean up, don't forget the afterparty." A sharp call from across the vestibule of "Meegan!" caught the blonde's attention, who quickly nodded at Rachyl, then stepped quickly to her summoner.

Rachyl hurried down the hall she'd come from, reentered makeup four (and heard banging on the wall across the hall) and quickly unbuckled the corset. She slid out of the skirt, placed the shoes back on the rack, and slid back into her dress, which suddenly felt baggy and empty after the confining grip of the corset. Glancing in the mirror, she realized her hair was still long and down, makeup still dark and broody, but she didn't want to take the time to clean up.

When she let herself out, she passed a goth-dressed photographer in the hall speaking with Meegan about the shots from the show appearing in next month's magazine. Straining to hear, she vaguely heard, "Got a great shot of that girl who fell. Awesome recovery! She's a keeper." Smiling, she found herself back out in the alley, the sun lower in the sky, and continued to the next street for a cab.




(( Meegan present with permission. ))