fetish nation
- - - - - - - - - - - - BY CAROL LLOYD | "It's the premier fetish center on the West Coast!" gushed Michael. "Don't you know how lucky you are?" The fog glowed with bruises in the neon lights as we turned down a one-way street and headed for a row house wedged between a synagogue and a public housing project. My friend Michael, a scrupulously polite sadist whose erratic mane and vivid blue eyes led him to resemble Charles Manson one minute and Jesus Christ the next, was still trying to convince me of our good fortune. The pink invitation for the Fetish Easter Fantasy at the Playland Academy had promised "safe play" and "realistic reenactments of messianic suffering" -- two activities I couldn't quite imagine circulating around the same punch bowl. But Michael's enthusiasm was infectious and since he needed me to get in, I agreed to go. "Don't worry," Michael was saying. "No one will do anything to you without asking first. Just be yourself. Have fun." He glanced at me dubiously, adding, "And it's probably better if you didn't take notes." I was patting the pen in my pocket in compulsive little beat-beat-beats, as if a ballpoint could protect me from the spectacle ahead. "You've got to be kidding," I said. "People are going to be having violent sex in public but my scribbling will seem vulgar?" Michael sighed. Shiny leather latex creatures were leaping from cabs and bounding up the stairs to the wrought-iron gate. Two young men with twin Johnny Depp miracle-do's arrived at the steps giggling and panting. The taller one, clasping a chain that ended in a dog collar around the other's neck, gave a sharp tug and the smaller one rang the doorbell. A blue-haired woman in a demented cherub outfit traipsed down the stairs. Carefully, she inspected our invitations and exploded gleefully: "Happy Easter!" Although the evening would end in beatings, burnt flesh, blood and perhaps some shuddering ecstasy, the mood in the lobby had the merry hum of a children's costume party. We paid our $13, signed a waiver promising to "play safely," and no matter what happened, not sue for injuries. Against one wall, industrial metal shelving held piles of towels, and behind the sign-in desk, rows of clothing racks stood awaiting discarded street garb. This was the locker room, the backstage to a dark, dramatic sport that demanded special uniforms and serious cleanup. We wandered down a dark hallway toward a living area where a cluster of buzz-cut women in chaps and lace brassieres gossiped around an open bar. I sunk down next to a platter of penny candy to watch Linda Blair's head spin like a weed whacker on a TV screen. In this context, she seemed like a positive role model. The pageant of nipple-pierced bishops, ravaged nuns and cookie-cutter, leather-clad sadists marched by and disappeared into a large woodsy courtyard. Deep in the bowels of the building came lush waves of 16th century choral music broken by bloodcurdling screams. "Quite a sound mix," I remarked. Michael laughed as if I had made a good joke. "Ready to go downstairs?" I followed him through the backyard, past a naked woman hanging upside down from a tree branch, down the basement stairs. The screaming grew louder and we rounded a corner to see a man, shackled to a cross, being whipped by a hooded figure. The torturer's right forearm bulged like a tennis pro's. The air smelled of incense, leather and sweat. We pressed past a trio of quiet voyeurs into a small chamber where two young women, one skinny as death, the other cream-fed, did a hot candle wax scene with a blindfolded, bare-chested girl. The two women communicated in hand signals so as not to spoil the surprise for their eager victim. N E X T+P A G E: Distinct dioramas of sexual torture - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ILLUSTRATION BY DAVID LLOYD |
