By Natalya Jones
By County Grind
By Liz Tracy
By Chris Joseph
By Liz Tracy
By Matt Preira
By Jesse Scheckner
By Michael E. Miller
"I'll stick with the massage glove," I said. I liked Bill. He was rather up-front and impeccably polite for a bondage-treasure-chest-toting pirate.
"Well, let me know if you change your mind," he said. "There's something to be said for experimental journalism."
I popped into a room titled "The Tavern" to linger by a wooden booth and watch the band play — it was made up of a cast of freakish, clown-looking characters who actually seemed rather talented. Then I popped out, passed back across the dance floor, and watched a beautiful, bare-chested gentleman swing whips at a pigtailed dancer's ass. Pigtails' small, pert body was bent over something that looked like a medieval torture device, and she screamed as his whips hit her pale skin relentlessly. Then Joseph brought over the young man with the black angel wings, and Pigtails enthusiastically jumped up, grabbed the whips, and beckoned him. Equal-opportunity beatings!
Steampunk: Bella Skyy wore garish clown makeup but had the kind of face that could render it artistic and elegant. She had kinky hair and wore white tights and a skirt. She worked for ElectroLust as a talent coordinator, finding and hiring dancers willing to place electrical tape over their nips and shake their asses for a few hours.
"My eyelash is falling out," she complained. Her huge, false eyelashes weren't cooperating.
"Why do you dress like that?" I asked.
"To stand out," she said simply. "Though, I will say, New Times ran a calendar item and featured me, in my clown makeup, in the paper. One of my coworkers at Outback Steakhouse told me they saw it. It was more exposure than I'm used to but pretty cool."
I laughed. I asked if she could explain steampunk as she understood it.
She contemplated. "It has to do with the 1800s, and videogames..."
Suddenly, she stopped and pointed.
"That! She is steampunk. That girl." She was pointing to a slight, dark-haired young girl who wore a long dress, black leather boots, a top hat, and a gas mask. A pair of goggles sat perched on her forehead.
Well, good enough. I'd gotten some clarification, seen enough balls, boobs, and butts to last a lifetime, and hung with some of the freakiest — and most gorgeous — folks in South Florida.
On my way out to my car, a young man, casually dressed in jeans and a long T-shirt, approached me.
"I was driving by and saw this club," he said. "Is it cool?"
"Yeah," I said. "People are spanking each other, everyone's in latex, and a guy has clothespins on his balls."
"What?!" he stopped in his tracks. He seemed to think I was kidding.
"They're all really nice," I said. "It's not as scary as it sounds." And it was true — a few clothespins never really hurt anyone.