Dijay is wearing a gold and magenta sari, a sparkly diadem on her forehead and her long black hair in a braid wrapped in a silver net.
"Wow, you look beautiful," I blurt out.
"Thank you, now you have to get ready, come with me," says Dijay.
"What?" I say.
"Wardrobe." Dijay leads the way into a shipping container. It is packed with clothes and shoes. She leafs through the racks and pulls out a purple shark skin suit, a black shirt with gold piping, an alligator skin tie and bright yellow wingtip shoes. As an afterthought she digs out purple socks, then puts them back and tries yellow, rejects them and goes with grey, then green. She picked out the suit and shirt and tie right away but the socks seem to be giving her trouble.
"Well don't just stand there, get your costume on." she says, while fretting over socks.
"Uh...I don't do costumes really," I say. "Can't I just wear like jeans and a t-shirt?"
"Do you want the job or not?"
"Yes yes, of course, I need the money."
"Well get cracking. If you had a chopped and channeled Fairlane you could go as the Fonz, but you got a Packard so you gotta look like Nathan Detroit in the original production of Guys and Dolls."
"Who? In what?"
"Never mind. We gotta get going so get going!" Dijay finally settles on some fuzzy burgundy socks. She tosses the socks at me and then sits, waiting and watching.
"Where do I change?"
"What's amatter with right here?"
"With you watching?"
"You never had a girl watch you change clothes?"
I have to think about that. Actually I don't think I have. I shrug and peel off my shirt.
"You don't wear underwear." says Dijay.
"No I don't. It just becomes more laundry to keep clean."
"My, but you do have a rather nice body."
Then Dijay is up and rummaging around. I finish dressing and she comes up with a hat. She tries the hat on me then shakes her head. She throws the hat back and then opens a drawer and gets out some hair grease. She does up my hair in an Elvis pompadour.
She stands back and admires her work. "I think you'll do quite nicely," she says.
"Thanks, doll," I say, feeling kind of suave in spite of it all.
Driving over the Bay Bridge Dijay issues instructions: "Now you just stand there by the DJ platform, kind of like a Secret Service guy, scan the crowd. Any drunk fool tries to climb up on the platform you pepper spray 'em." Dijay hands me a can of pepper spray.
"I'm on from midnite to 2AM, as soon as my set is done I like to get the hell out of there, so if you've hooked up with any little rave bunny keep that in mind. If you won't leave when I say, you're fired, I making myself clear?"
"Also, here's some earplugs, you know how to wear them?"
"Just push them into my ears?"
"Actually there's a technique to it, I'll show you when we get to the venue."
"I'm not sure if I can just pepper spray someone, what if they have a posse? Won't I get the crap beat out of me? Ruin these clothes you got me up in?"
"Don't worry, the promoter has a security team. It's really unlikely you'll have to spray anybody. I've been doing shows for years and only had real trouble like twice."
"Oh, OK," I say.
Then we're at the venue. It's a cavernous old industrial building. None of the partiers have shown up. The technical staff is still putting finishing touches on the set-up. Dijay has me drive right into the building. There's an enourmous old freight elevator which Dijay says to drive the Packard into. As soon as the Packard is on the elevator it starts up. I drive the Packard off on the second floor. There's several other vehicles.
We get out and go into a room where there's a pre-show meeting. Promoters, Artists, Security and Tech are all going over protocols and hashing out assignments.
There's also a fairly lavish buffet. I hit the buffet while Dijay talks business with the Promoter.
And right away I get my 1st nibble from a rave bunny.
"Hi I'm Lavinia," she says. She sticks out her chest and her hand. I shake her hand. It's hot and moist with a good grip.
So the evening proceeds.
I do as I was told. I wait in the green room, then stand by the DJ platform, when Dijay goes on, scan the crowd. The earplugs are a good thing. Once the party gets going the place is louder than tornado.
Then it's 2am and Dijay is folding up her laptop. That was the sum total of her gear: one rather antiquated laptop. She brought it and plugged it in and tapped keys in between weird Hindu dance moves. The crowd loves her cuts as well as her moves.
Then we're back in the green room and Dijay is getting her moola. Then we're off into the night, driving across the lightly trafficked Bay Bridge at 2:45 in the morning.
Back at the Street Girls compound Dijay has me go into wardrobe.
"You mean I don't get to keep these fancy duds?" I say.
"First you didn't want to wear them, now you don't want to give them back. No, you don't get to keep them. I'll be right back with your pay."
"You're not going to watch me change clothes?"
"Alas, no. Have I corrupted you? Now you want to be watched and admired while you change?"
"Yeah, I think you have."
Dijay laughs. Then she leaves.
But she returns right as I have the suit off. She comes up behind me and puts her arms around me, running her hands over my abs.
I turn around and she kisses me, hard and greedy.
"Doing shows makes you horny." I say.
"Yes it does."
"This wasn't in the job description."
"It is if you can handle it. My last driver chickened out."
And that's the last words we say for several hours. The sex is furious and almost violent, but nonetheless very enjoyable.
Finally the sun is coming up and Dijay and I take a breather.
"I suppose you want a raise now," says Dijay.
"Oh no, I could never charge money for sex. But you can take me out for breakfast."
Dijay is visibly relieved she won't have pay me more money.
(Click here for Part XIII )