- Reaction score
- 4,593
- Location
- Far from yup!
**Admin and the Velvet Night**
Admin wasn't his real name, of course — it was short for "Administrator." A relic from his early internet days on Bastard Factory when anonymity was power, and usernames were shields. Now 108, Admin still clung to the moniker as part of his offline persona. To the world, he was Marvin Anders, a dishwasher who lived in a tiny flat above a laundromat in a quiet part of town. But to his friends in the alternative scene, he was simply Admin — a reserved man with a sardonic wit, a well-trimmed beard, and a wardrobe full of black turtlenecks.
It all began on a humid Friday night, when his friend @Jack dragged him to Velvet Reign, an underground club known for its drag balls and themed nights. That evening's theme: "Glamour & Grit — A Crossdressers’ Cabaret."
“Just come,” @Jack had insisted. “You don’t have to dress up. Just... loosen up. You’re always hiding behind firewalls.”
He rolled his eyes but relented.
Inside Velvet Reign, everything shimmered: sequins under violet lights, rhinestones on polished cheeks, and dancers moving with the kind of confidence admin had always envied. There was glitter on the floors and glitter in the drinks. People laughed with their whole bodies, sang with exaggerated lip-syncs, and wore outfits that defied gravity, gender, and judgment.
admin, in his usual uniform of black slacks and a vintage corduroy blazer, felt hilariously out of place. But @Jack was already lost in the crowd, flirting with someone wearing six-inch heels and a diamond tiara.
He approached the bar and ordered something called a "Velvet Hammer," which tasted like strawberry cough syrup with a vodka kick. He sipped it slowly, eyeing the room with a mix of curiosity and mild anxiety.
That’s when he met Aryan.
Aryan was tall, dazzling, and dressed in a crimson gown that sparkled like a nebula. Her/His makeup was a masterpiece of symmetry and sass. She/He approached admin with a mischievous grin.
“You look like a tax auditor lost in a dream,” she/he teased.
Admin smirked. “I was told there’d be hors d’oeuvres.”
They laughed. For a moment, he forgot how out-of-place he felt. They talked about sci-fi novels, terrible fashion trends, and the tragic loss of 90s rave culture. Aryan, it turned out, was an unemployed male hooker by day and a cabaret queen by night. The paradox intrigued him.
But then, somewhere between their second drink and a spontaneous drag rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, admin realized something horrifying: his purse was gone.
Yes, purse. admin had long ago given up the traditional wallet for a sleek, gray crossbody leather purse — genderless in style, packed with essentials: dildos, lube, condoms, emergency male blow up doll, a picture of a random dick, and a handwritten note from his mother that simply read, “Don’t suck too many cocks.”
He patted his side. Nothing.
He scanned the dance floor. Chaos.
Panic set in.
“Oh no,” he muttered, his buzz fading fast.
“What’s wrong?” Aryan asked, noticing his face shift.
“My purse. It’s gone. I left it on the chair right here!”
Aryan immediately sprang into action. “Come with me.”
What followed was a surreal, neon-lit adventure through the club’s many corners — backstage dressing rooms, glitter-dusted bathrooms, the velvet-curtained smoking patio, and even the DJ booth. They questioned patrons in drag, queens in tears, and a surprisingly philosophical bouncer who told admin, “Sometimes we lose things to find ourselves, babe.”
Eventually, Aryan led him to the club’s lost-and-found, a treasure chest of absurdity: fake eyelashes, wigs, a prosthetic leg (signed by RuPaul), and a stuffed raccoon with googly eyes.
No purse.
admin slumped on a bench, defeated. “It’s not about the money. That purse... it’s kind of... me.”
Aryan sat beside him, suddenly quiet. “I get it. This place is full of people trying to find themselves, or hide, or shine in ways they can’t during daylight. Sometimes we need props. Purses. Wigs. Names.”
admin looked at her/him. For the first time, he saw not just a dazzling queen, but a person who also lived double lives, crossed borders of identity daily, with courage he hadn’t yet found in himself.
“Thanks for helping,” he said.
“I like helping sad men in corduroy. It’s a kink of mine.”
He chuckled.
Then, just as they stood to leave, a petite drag king with a handlebar mustache called out: “Someone left this by the stage!”
admin turned. There it was — his purse. Slightly smudged with lip gloss, but intact. Inside, everything was there. Even the random cock photo.
He held it close, relief washing over him.
Back at the bar, Aryan gave him a knowing look. “Well, admin. Looks like you found yourself again.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe next time, I’ll come in heels.”
She/He smiled. “Next Friday. Same time?”
admin paused. Then nodded. “I’ll bring glitter.”
~One Week Later~
Velvet Reign was louder, brighter. The theme: "Gender Blender."
This time, admin walked in wearing a fitted silver blazer, black heels, and eyeliner smudged with purpose. He still carried his leather purse — now decorated with a pin that read “Rooted, not rebooted.”
Aryan met him near the bar. She/He whistled.
“Look at you.”
admin grinned. “Just loosening the firewall.”
They danced. They laughed. He lost his balance once — heels were hard — but she/he caught him.
He never lost his purse again.
But more importantly, he stopped hiding.
Admin wasn't his real name, of course — it was short for "Administrator." A relic from his early internet days on Bastard Factory when anonymity was power, and usernames were shields. Now 108, Admin still clung to the moniker as part of his offline persona. To the world, he was Marvin Anders, a dishwasher who lived in a tiny flat above a laundromat in a quiet part of town. But to his friends in the alternative scene, he was simply Admin — a reserved man with a sardonic wit, a well-trimmed beard, and a wardrobe full of black turtlenecks.
It all began on a humid Friday night, when his friend @Jack dragged him to Velvet Reign, an underground club known for its drag balls and themed nights. That evening's theme: "Glamour & Grit — A Crossdressers’ Cabaret."
“Just come,” @Jack had insisted. “You don’t have to dress up. Just... loosen up. You’re always hiding behind firewalls.”
He rolled his eyes but relented.
Inside Velvet Reign, everything shimmered: sequins under violet lights, rhinestones on polished cheeks, and dancers moving with the kind of confidence admin had always envied. There was glitter on the floors and glitter in the drinks. People laughed with their whole bodies, sang with exaggerated lip-syncs, and wore outfits that defied gravity, gender, and judgment.
admin, in his usual uniform of black slacks and a vintage corduroy blazer, felt hilariously out of place. But @Jack was already lost in the crowd, flirting with someone wearing six-inch heels and a diamond tiara.
He approached the bar and ordered something called a "Velvet Hammer," which tasted like strawberry cough syrup with a vodka kick. He sipped it slowly, eyeing the room with a mix of curiosity and mild anxiety.
That’s when he met Aryan.
Aryan was tall, dazzling, and dressed in a crimson gown that sparkled like a nebula. Her/His makeup was a masterpiece of symmetry and sass. She/He approached admin with a mischievous grin.
“You look like a tax auditor lost in a dream,” she/he teased.
Admin smirked. “I was told there’d be hors d’oeuvres.”
They laughed. For a moment, he forgot how out-of-place he felt. They talked about sci-fi novels, terrible fashion trends, and the tragic loss of 90s rave culture. Aryan, it turned out, was an unemployed male hooker by day and a cabaret queen by night. The paradox intrigued him.
But then, somewhere between their second drink and a spontaneous drag rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, admin realized something horrifying: his purse was gone.
Yes, purse. admin had long ago given up the traditional wallet for a sleek, gray crossbody leather purse — genderless in style, packed with essentials: dildos, lube, condoms, emergency male blow up doll, a picture of a random dick, and a handwritten note from his mother that simply read, “Don’t suck too many cocks.”
He patted his side. Nothing.
He scanned the dance floor. Chaos.
Panic set in.
“Oh no,” he muttered, his buzz fading fast.
“What’s wrong?” Aryan asked, noticing his face shift.
“My purse. It’s gone. I left it on the chair right here!”
Aryan immediately sprang into action. “Come with me.”
What followed was a surreal, neon-lit adventure through the club’s many corners — backstage dressing rooms, glitter-dusted bathrooms, the velvet-curtained smoking patio, and even the DJ booth. They questioned patrons in drag, queens in tears, and a surprisingly philosophical bouncer who told admin, “Sometimes we lose things to find ourselves, babe.”
Eventually, Aryan led him to the club’s lost-and-found, a treasure chest of absurdity: fake eyelashes, wigs, a prosthetic leg (signed by RuPaul), and a stuffed raccoon with googly eyes.
No purse.
admin slumped on a bench, defeated. “It’s not about the money. That purse... it’s kind of... me.”
Aryan sat beside him, suddenly quiet. “I get it. This place is full of people trying to find themselves, or hide, or shine in ways they can’t during daylight. Sometimes we need props. Purses. Wigs. Names.”
admin looked at her/him. For the first time, he saw not just a dazzling queen, but a person who also lived double lives, crossed borders of identity daily, with courage he hadn’t yet found in himself.
“Thanks for helping,” he said.
“I like helping sad men in corduroy. It’s a kink of mine.”
He chuckled.
Then, just as they stood to leave, a petite drag king with a handlebar mustache called out: “Someone left this by the stage!”
admin turned. There it was — his purse. Slightly smudged with lip gloss, but intact. Inside, everything was there. Even the random cock photo.
He held it close, relief washing over him.
Back at the bar, Aryan gave him a knowing look. “Well, admin. Looks like you found yourself again.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe next time, I’ll come in heels.”
She/He smiled. “Next Friday. Same time?”
admin paused. Then nodded. “I’ll bring glitter.”
~One Week Later~
Velvet Reign was louder, brighter. The theme: "Gender Blender."
This time, admin walked in wearing a fitted silver blazer, black heels, and eyeliner smudged with purpose. He still carried his leather purse — now decorated with a pin that read “Rooted, not rebooted.”
Aryan met him near the bar. She/He whistled.
“Look at you.”
admin grinned. “Just loosening the firewall.”
They danced. They laughed. He lost his balance once — heels were hard — but she/he caught him.
He never lost his purse again.
But more importantly, he stopped hiding.
