I usually try and avoid the rubber underwear crowd. I stay away from that whole cyber/fetish/goth-a-billy/vampire bar scene. It’s just the same old glam/dom rubbermaids, techno-trannies, go-go-ghouls and (Ann) Rice Queens that we’ve seen for the past twenty years. The girls are all stocky horrors, stuffed into identical rubber dresses, wearing that same damn corset night after night after night. And bangs! What is it about big girls and Betty Page? The boys are prematurely bald, chronic masturbators with lumpy multiple penis piercings. It’s sad, creepy, self-indulgent and unoriginal.
I just want to sit them all down and explain to them that LIQUID EYELINER IS A PRIVILEGE NOT A RIGHT, PEOPLE. That means no cobwebs, no crucifixes, no random pattern of dots that extends to your temple, and absolutely no cyborg computer chip doodles on your cheek.
#1: It’s not tromp l’oeil and you’re not that good
#2: It runs when you sweat.
#3: You sweat a lot
#4: because it’s SUMMER and you’re wearing a RUBBER NUNS OUTFIT
Anyway. That’s why I avoid those places.
I do however make an exception for Miss Kitty’s. Mostly, because Miss Kitty herself is so fun. And, the crowd isn’t as artless and offensive as some places. There is a high glam/low glum quotient, and the ‘kitschy witch’ factor is kept to a bare minimum.
So I agreed to judge a HOT COUPLE contest. But what to wear? I threw away all my old straightjackets and body bags years ago. I loaned all my capes to Keoki, and haven’t heard from him in a year. What to do? I finally figured that if everybody else would be wearing black on black on slightly blue-black, I might as well rock my Myrtle Beach Country Club look. It just felt so inappropriate. Totally subversive, in a cheery and annoying way – just like me! The clash clown! ]
The contest itself was pretty lame, as those things tend to be. You know how it is: microphone not working, uninspired contestants, drunken judges. (Judge. Me.) Nobody whipped out his penis for extra points (as I repeatedly suggested). No quick flash of tit for the heterosexuals. Not even a little butt crack. Bashful fetishists? Prim whip-mistresses? WHAT IS THAT ALL ABOUT?
Halfway through the show, I spotted Monkeyboy — my Monkeyboy! — in the audience. I hadn’t seen him in months, due to that whole “falling into the black hole of hustling” thing (bad, Monkeyboy, bad!). You know how that is: Suddenly you’re broke. Homeless. Cross-addicted. No cell phone. And, worst of all, due to rapidly shifting priorities, nightclubbing becomes non-essential. NO MORE JAMES ST. JAMES. Oh, isn’t that always the case? But he said he was doing better, and I believed him. We hung out after the club at the Odyssey offices (don’t tell) with MISS KITTY HERSELF. Before things got too messy though, I got a cab and went home. End of story.