It could only happen like this in New Orleans. I spent part of the afternoon securing a couple of printed invitations and then Jamilla and I prepared our costumes for that night. The ball began at midnight, but we’d heard most of the crowd wouldn’t start to arrive until closer to two.
It had already been a long night for us by the time the festivities started. We waited until just past two to approach the house. Some of the partygoers were college age, a few were even younger, but at least half of the crowd looked to be thirty or older. A few arrived in limousines and other expensive cars. The dress for the night was definitely eye-catching: antique mourning coats and top hats, velvet Victorian gowns, corsets, walking sticks, tiaras.  The Goth crowd sheathed their androgynous bodies mostly in black leather and velvet. There were body piercings everywhere; frilly white and black lace on several of the women; belly rings, dog collars, black lipstick, and gobs of mascara on both the men and women.
Blood-red eyes stared out from every direction. It was difficult to avoid them. A rock song called ‘Pistol Grip Pump’ played from hidden speakers outside the house. Fangs were everywhere. And stage blood. A few of the women wore black or purple velvet bands around their necks, presumably to conceal bite marks.  It got more interesting and eerie as we went inside the house.
People were addressing one another with titled names,’Sir Nicholas’,
‘Mistress Anne’.’The Baroness’,’Prince William’,’Master Ormson’, A statuesque woman walked by and brazenly sized-up Jamilla. She was bronze............