By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
It was a full, swollen moon on the Friday night of Fetish Factory's traveling monthly party, Alter Ego. And that was before the spanking, whipping, and flogging even began. I prepared myself for Club Boca's freaky fete in goth-anime style with plenty of black eyeliner, two pert little pigtails, and an ensemble complete with fishnet, thigh-highs, and platform boots.
More of a fetish sympathizer than an activist (that's the story I'm sticking to), I positioned myself at a railing overlooking the dance floor. The fetish fashionistas had blown at least a week's worth of working (wo)man's pay on a single outfit.
Breasts bobbed atop tight-laced corsets. Tushies flirted from beneath tulle tutus. Pecs and abs strained against leather straps. And naughty bits pressed against the small confines of their G-strings and thongs. If they weren't already elevated by the musical beats and freely expressed sexuality, many folks simply stood half a foot taller because of their platformed and spiked footwear.
Others had opted for lower-budget alternatives. Take the guy in only a G-string and black sneakers, for instance. Or the topless, tribal-painted chick in just a skirt and boots.
Around the multitiered club, cages, racks, and tables some with cuffs and chains were receiving their first victims of the night. Some tormentors wielded riding crops, others whips and floggers. Their subjects had gleams in their eyes brighter than the pink rising in stripes and blotches on their skin.
I was still visually soaking up the kinky energy when a middle-aged man with thinning hair leered at me suggestively. He invited me over by patting a small patch of barstool vinyl between his legs as he leaned back and puffed on his cigar. Definitely a Who's-NOT-your-daddy? moment for the Night Rider history book.
I wound my way through the pulsing bodies and multiroomed club space. And in my head, I judged an unofficial dance competition.
For scariest dance, my award went to the petite chica in a pink nightie who assaulted thin air in a five-foot radius so that she looked like she'd just escaped from the violent ward of the insane asylum. In the erotic category, the prize went to a cheeky, pink-and-white-latex-clad woman who undulated preternaturally, her arms and torso writhing through the smoke. I awarded extra points for exposing her perfect derriere while extending her gam on the railing. Indeed, she had a leg up on her competition.
Engrossed in all the T&A, I didn't notice the man who calls himself "The Evil Master K" until he was fast upon me. Behind nerdy glasses and an eager smile, he didn't look like he'd live up to his moniker. He held out two pairs of leather floggers, both buff-colored (maybe because they'd waxed a few asses?), to determine my interest before I politely declined.
Instead, I found a group of folks in one of the booths near the front who were standing on their seats to dance. Predictably, one woman was grinding her rear end into the bulge in her partner's leather pants. In a less predictable move, the dude tugged her pants down and ran his tongue up her mostly exposed butt crack.
Bootilicious? The smile on his face said "yes."
In the bathroom, a scrawny brunet with a heavyweight attitude was giving guff to a guy in a skirt for using the women's room.
"You don't come to these things often, do you?" the man asked, irritated by her reprimand.
"Hey, if you're gonna be in touch with your feminine side," she shot back, "then help me find a tampon!"
Soon, however, a steady stream of Y-chromosome packers some cross-dressers, some not demonstrated the clientele's established disregard for the gender divisions specified on the bathroom doors.
When I returned to the bar, I was so seriously pondering the sexism of separate bathrooms that I hardly saw the guy who kissed me and said "Smile, baby" as he passed. It jolted me out of my sociopolitical contemplation just in time to notice (but not soon enough to dodge) the return of the Evil Master, who was determined to show me the secrets of his craft.
I guess it was because I related to his dork vibe (something I've never outgrown even after quitting the math team in high school) that I didn't walk away. He showed me how he'd fashioned the smaller floggers himself from the leather seats of a 1991 Ford Taurus. Obviously, they were destined for ass action, even before they were born as an S&M tool!
"Yeah, you can make them out of all sorts of leather," he explained. "You've got your cow leather, pig leather, deer skin leather, soft leather, stiff leather."
"He's the freakin' Bubba Gump of leather," I thought to myself, though he never pretended to know everything there is to know about the floggin' bidness.
Soon I found out that fetish wear could be functional in more ways than one: Several attendees wore gas masks a fashionable (I guess) solution to secondhand smoke. My friend Rose wore a sailor dress and cap, which prompted guys to stand and salute. An inspiration, really.