Graham Chapman, �A Liar�s Autobiography, Volume VI�
[Ed. Note: If you didn�t see the entry from Friday about the Halloween Exotic Erotic Fetish Bash, you may want to go back and read that, as this if the follow-up.]
Well children, I�m sorry to say I don�t have a whole lot to report. As worked up as I got over people getting themselves worked up, I�d say the night was a colossal failure. Apparently, there�s a lot of infighting in the BDSM scene here and another club usually hosts this type of event on a monthly basis. From what I heard, that club was angry that we were moving in on their territory.
And how do you punish somebody in the BDSM community? You can�t smack them, as they won�t really think of it as punishment. So the only thing you can really do is ignore their cries for attention. I was informed that the word was put on the street that people who attended our event would be barred from the regular spot. And word must have got around, as the turnout was abysmal.
People said the BDSM nights at this other club are fairly big, filled with people you might actually want to see naked. But apparently, a small group of people, mostly involving the old and the ugly who probably don�t get much in the way of offers for flogging and whatnot, hoped to establish their own circle.
Well, good for them. But really, isn�t that the saddest, most pathetic, heartbreaking thing you�ve ever heard? All these poor people want is some attention, and they can�t even find somebody to smack them on the ass with a strap.
Or piss on them.
This is why I�m disappointed in the turnout, because I can make jokes like this all night long. And Golden Shower humor? Pure comedy gold.
Some of the best jokes I thought of before the event even started. Consider from the contract list of rules that I wrote about last time, and specifically, #5. �If you choose to do Golden Showers, please speak to the host.�
See, first of all, when I think of the word �Host� I have an image of the person who seats you at the restaurant. �Hello, and welcome! Party of seven? Would you like flogging or non-flogging? Let me tell you our drink specials. Tonight, we have urine.�
The first bar I reviewed for the weekly newspaper had a waitress who would occasionally walk though the crowd with a tray of Dixie cups filled with Jello-O shots. I hoped the people putting on this event hadn�t visited the same place.
The night before, I asked the owner what they were planning if somebody actually wanted to take up that offer. �What�s gonna happen?�
�They�ll go to the bathroom,� he answered.
�I know that. But where?�
�Don�t be an asshole.�
The aspect of this actually happening was both repelling and fascinating. I mean, it�s a Dance Club. Hardwood floors. Disco balls. Booths that look like they were swiped from a diner, except that they�re black to keep the deathrock club motif. The bathroom stalls aren�t big enough for two, and besides, isn�t this event all about exhibitionism? I had visions of an X-rated version of Flashdance, with the person sitting on a chair and yanking a chain, making a bucket of piss splash over them, strobe light flashing.
Am I being immature? Childish, even? Probably, especially since the first way I envisioned this scenario was more like that Nickelodeon show where kids would say a word and get a bucket of slime dumped over their head. Except, you know, substitute the slime with pee.
Pure comedy gold. A shower of golden comedy, even.
Anyhoo, I showed up at the club and start setting up. As it turns out, the Martha Stewart woman I pegged as the dom turned out to be very meek and asked me politely to speak with her Mistress, who was running the event. Her Mistress gave me a quick lowdown on what my duties were. The promoters were very against the idea of frat or military boys getting drunk and asking to relive their initiation days, and so my role is to keep the drinkers away from the Play Area.
After she finishes she tells me to fetch her two garbage bags. I fight the overwhelming desire to tell her to say please.
Well, whaddya know? I just figured out my trait!
And since this is a foreign environment to me, what happens in this kind of situation when two Dominating types clash? Do we take it outside and settle the problem like perverts?
We open and people start to trickle in. Surprisingly, the majority of them aren�t half bad on the eyes. And of course, my favorite part of Halloween is the outfits on women, who use the night as an excuse to add the word �Naughty� onto any theme. Naughty maid. Naughty librarian. Naughty Satan underling. Naughty Margaret Thatcher. Short skirts and garter belts are everywhere.
Hoo-ray.
But the influx of people soon peters out. It cost 25 dollars to get in tonight, and it�s a first time event. The promoters obviously failed to think this through, thinking everybody would want to go simply because they dubbed it an �exotic erotic bash.� My feeling is that they would have at least three times the people if they had a reasonable cover charge, as people don�t want to spend that kind of money on something that might suck.
A little after midnight, they announced the show was about to begin. The troll-like Dom woman takes the stage, announcing she�d like to begin with a poem.
The fliers that circulated had big bold letters announcing �BEWARE OUR TORTURE CHAMBER!� I was expecting some strange behavior. But poetry? What kinda sick fuck enjoys poetry?
Lucky for you, I found the printout that she read from. I�m transcribing a portion as it was printed, spelling errors and all, taken from a myspace blog. Those who want to look it up for themselves can ask me privately and I�ll send you the URL.
- take my hand and embrace your death
the slow of times wrath consumes your chest
your eyes are buldging with tears of blood
a pain so intence the screams just wont come
a torture so gruesom its been exiled to dream
here bringing fantasy to reality
�Next,� I said to the bartender, �I bet she reads from Emily Dickinson.�
Instead, she introduced the Martha Stewart lookalike, whom she addressed as �her imp.� Bending the imp over a chair, the dom started the spanking. The idea was to get a crowd chant going, but they lost interest after 16 whacks. Somewhere after 30, I couldn�t keep my big mouth shut any longer.
�You hit like a girl!� I shouted.
The dom asked if somebody would like to take over spanking duties, and a girl who had been sitting at the bar and complaining loudly about how lame this event was shot her hand up. As she passed by me, she leaned over.
�After an hour and a half of this crap, I�m in the mood to hit somebody,� she said.
She jumped on the stage and the Mistress showed the acceptable areas on Martha�s ass she could strike. Finally, just as the newcomer raised her arm, the dom stopped her, noticing her armband showing she had been in the bar portion of the club and turned the girl away.
�Our movement,� the dom explained to the crowd, �was started by a man named [name deleted], who wanted to have a clean and sober BDSM community to prevent the risk of transmitting STD�s.�
After a short pause, she continued. �[Name deleted] died of HIV-related complications last year.�
Way to work the crowd, lady.
The �show� ended mercifully quickly, More than half of the crowd decided to eat their losses and left to find a place that wasn�t filled with overweight older people for the remainder of their evening. The Play Area went completely unused by the public, save for the club owner�s 80-year-old mother who decided to take up the offer for a massage. Two of the promoters decided to use a strapping post for more spankings in hopes to inspire the dwindling crowd, but even their session seemed indifferent and lackluster.
Meanwhile, I was bored out of my skull. I approached the owner.
�I�m bored out of my skull,� I said. �How about letting me go next door to get a beer?�
�No,� he answered. �You�re getting paid to be here.�
�Yeah, but see, I can go over there and talk about how cool it is here, and maybe convince people to come over!�
�OK, fine, go have one beer.�
The club owner doesn�t drink, so he doesn�t know the bar next door sells mini-pitchers instead of your standard bottle. I ordered one of those.
While I was gone, one of the hosts apparently decided he would try to pump up the involvement factor with some public displays of nudity. Because, you know nothing gets a crowd moving like a dumpy, balding, slightly overweight man in a leather strap that went from his shoulders, down the middle of his torso, expanding over his hips and finally knotting directly around his penis.
Moving toward the door, that is. When I returned, the only people left in the club were employees all of who had given up trying to suppress, or even hide, their giggling fits. I walked in and approached the bar, only to have naked leather strap man cut off my path as he sashayed past. I waited for him to pass and then leaned over the bar.
�I quit,� I said with finality.
I didn�t, however. The owner convinced the event planners to close up shop an hour early. As I was sweeping up in the bathroom, I overheard the Martha Stewart woman talking with her Mistress, with high-voiced cheerful optimism.
�You know,� she said, �even though there weren�t all that many people, it seemed to go really well.�
Jesus. No wonder this woman gets smacked.
