Volume 4, Issue 18
Sepptember 4 - September 17, 2002
by Rob Williams
If you read this column regularly (and thanks if you do) you should know by now that I'm no stranger to the fringe. Then again, when the fashion models all have tattoos and only lawyers and doctors can afford a Harley, what exactly is "on the edge," anyway? Is it a daring dyed, spiked haircut or a bolt through your brow? Please, the kid who serves my latte at the local javalopoly has that covered. (Speaking of which, on what planet does a $5 cup of coffee make sense?)
So you want edgy, daring, weird. If nothing else you want to see stuff you don't see everyday, right? Well, I'm pretty much the same way. Which is why every six months or so, I like to take in a fetish party. "Fetish?" You ask coyly. But you don't have me fooled. I've seen you around the scene in all your leather-wrapped-toe-sucking-genitortured glory. You don't have to pretend with me, kiddo. I've seen you at the clubs and parties, sipping on a cold Blavod Martini watching women apply lipstick and smoke with the same attention to detail that a sniper has before the final squeeze of the trigger. You probably have a kiddie pool in your basement you've been dying to fill up with Jell-O, only Sam's Club was out of black cherry. You secret isn't so secret anymore. It's definitely not safe with me. It's no big surprise that many scenesters, from the goth kids to the rockabilly set, have that secret pair of bondage pants, riding crop and cat-o-nine stashed in the trunk of their custom Ford. (O. K., the goth kids keep it in the passenger seat of a rusting Geo.) But that isn't the point.
Fetish used to be underground. Now it's not. Thanks to the resurgence of Betty Paige fandom and Denver's internationally renowned Goth Scene (just ask a German exchange student or Belgian rock hoodlum), fetish is as commonplace as your average aforementioned coffee dictatorship. If you know where to look. Which takes us to Erotika v. 04. A garden of fleshy (pleather, feather, rubber, vinyl etc.) delights for the senses. Masterminded by Christiaan Howard at the Gothic Theatre. This party included fashion shows from Bunker Bunny and Androgantia, Joey Strange scheduled to do a full body suspension from hooks thirty feet in the air along with a complimentary whipping booth and a sound and light show that rivaled any sixties psychedelic love-in.
And that's what I was really there for. The love. Not that I don't mind the visual symphony that is fifteen drag queens giving simulated fellatio to a seven-foot albino python, I was primarily there for the chicks in leather (or fishnets, electrical tape, bubblewrap, liquid latex) and extreme shoes. Let's face it, unless you work in a record store, or here at Go-Go, you just don't see too many six-foot divas in chain mail with seven-inch heels in real life (and no, Cher doesn't count.)
So imagine my delight, having been going to these heathen gatherings for so many years, to run into not only an ex-girlfriend wrapping herself to the hitching post for DJ Rexual's erotic beatings, but doing so in the company of two delightful damsels of the dark, Darcy and Elaine.
I had met Darcy back in March, having no idea she was into this scene at all. Suddenly here she was at the upstairs bar in black mesh and go-go boots, with all her morsels sparingly covered with electrical tape. Faster than you could say "Hello (rubber) Nurse!" I had her out on the dance floor grooving to DJ Demon. And that's where I met her lusty gal-pal Elaine, all bustiered up like a french maid at Hef's Grotto. Bumps, grinds and phone numbers were exchanged, not to mention shotgunned cigarette smoke and quarts of icy liquor. And really, isn't that the best way to get to know someone new . up close and personal on a sweaty, writhing dance floor?
It may have been Ty-Tek spinning when Joey Strange recruited me to run "The Pickle," the electric crane that would raise him 30 feet off the ground on a set of shark hooks that would have made a crusty Robert Shaw proud. Now I'm all for helping out and doing my part, but Joey just put me in charge of his life, or at least the skin off his back. That's when I decided these guys were for real. If they were to trust this black-clad Fifth of Estate poster boy with that, well, they just might do anything. Sure enough, on cue, I'm on "The Pickle" (fresh glass of firewater to the side) and I'm taking hand signals as skin is lanced, and then I'm lifting Joey skyward as he's jamming on a bass guitar. Yeah, this is why I spent four years in art school! You have to admit, that's not something you see, or do everyday.
Soon I was back on the floor with Darcy and Elaine grooving the night away, cocktail in one hand and a cat-o-nine in the other (thanks for the loaner, Bat-Wing Bob.) You don't need to know the rest, but it made last week's outing look tame.
That's the best thing about a fetish party. Everyone gets a little loose, like someone sprinkled kinky pixie dust on the crowd. It's not really surprising at the end of the night (at a good party) to run off into the sunrise with a new found friend (or two). Even if it's just to have a little dawn's early light breakfast with your newfound Marilyn while the church crowd shuffles in sporting their Sunday best. So the next time you are feeling frisky, or risky, or just a bit bored with the everyday, check out one of Christiaan's parties. You just might like it. They like it! Hey Mikey!
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