Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [30]
Once I’d been cleared, I entered a storm of strobe lights synced up to recorded music that was roaring out of amps the size of refrigerators. The entire building seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork. I could feel it in my spinal cord. It was like sitting underneath an unusually rhythmic subway train, something to which I have never aspired. When my eyes finally got acclimated to the darkness, I discovered two things. The first was: Shit! I got here too early. Leave it to me to once again be the only person in L.A. who takes the start time of anything seriously. Clearly no good fetishist worth their polyvinyl waist cincher would dream of showing up at a place like this before ten o’clock. The second was that there were many different theme rooms to visit. Most were still empty, though each was so loud that I could feel the strands of my DNA unwinding.
Massively ill at ease, and needing something to do right away, I headed for the closest room with a bar to accomplish the first order of business: separating myself from my wobbly ego via inebriation.
A naughty-lady-in-a-garter-belt-and-bare-chested-man-in-tight-leather-pants-cracking-a-whip performance was taking place on a small stage about ten feet from where I ordered a glass of white wine. That I was the entire audience for this bit of S&M cabaret was unnerving, to say the least. It was much too early and I was far too sober to face the responsibility of having to fake orgasm on behalf of some much larger crowd of people who hadn’t arrived yet. So I took advantage of the opportunity to grab a few cocktail napkins to wad up into balls and stuff into my ears. Then I wandered back out into the still mostly empty entry hall to watch the happy fetishists trickle in the front door.
Positioning myself against a back wall, clinging to a yellow legal pad like it was a life raft while pretending to sip from my now empty glass, I heard an odd kind of parade commentary running in my mind.
Oh look. The orthodontia contingent has arrived, in their polished and gleaming bite-plate headgear. And right behind them … why, it’s the Butterfly People! Followed by the solemn precision marching of the Irritable Leash Brigade. Let’s give them all a nice hand! No wonder they look angry. It takes a lot of hard work and practice for primates to maintain that crawling position. And here come … the Ancient Greeks, for centuries a Fetish Ball favorite, the timeless formality of their togas complementing as well as contrasting with their startling lack of undergarments. My, but it’s a nice turnout this year for those swashbuckling crowd-pleasers, the Pirate Brigade! Carefully tended facial hair, dangerous accessories … is there anything these guys don’t have? Wow! Will you look at who has just walked in the door! Everyone’s favorite: DIAPER BOY! Behold how his pale, naked torso shimmers in the black light as he waddles through the security checkpoint.… Hey. How come they stopped me but they didn’t stop him?
Heading for the main ballroom, I became preoccupied with the plushie standing near the entrance. Dressed in a sad-eyed panda suit embellished with angel wings, he stood unmoving as scantily clad women came up to pet him. Poor little sad-eyed, harmless, adorable panda angel … all he ever wanted was to cuddle! Come sit on his lap and give the big panda a hug! Just remember to pretend you don’t feel the sweaty erection of the guy inside the suit as he pushes against you, same way you pretended you didn’t when you slow-danced with that pale creepy boy with the clammy hands at your junior high dinner dance.
By eleven o’clock the main ballroom, a dark, cavernous chamber with a big stage on which a continuous live burlesque show seemed to be cycling in an endlessly repeating loop, was nearly full. None of the many provocatively costumed