New Times Broward-Palm Beach Calendar Editor Mickie Centrone attends and details some of the finest -- and occasionally subpar -- events from a given week. On Saturday, she went to "A Clockwork Orgy" at Club X-it in Hollywood.
Another guy approaches me. He sits next to me on the couch and asks if he can massage my shoulders. Sure. That gentleman rubs my shoulders. He's kissing the back of my neck -- there is an explosion of stimulated nerve endings. What do I care if he starts making out with my ears now? The guy on the floor who is rubbing my right foot is masked.
I let the guy behind me, who has a tail, unbutton two buttons on my white, long-sleeved business shirt. He starts an orgasming rant in my ear. I am not particularly enthralled that a man is fake-orgasming in my ear. There is nothing sexual about the When Harry Met Sally diner scene popping into my head. I'm part of "A Clockwork Orgy," Electrolust's annual Stanley Kubrick tribute fetish party.
Earlier, in a swirl of neon-green swiveling circles
and stars, my three friends and I shake it on the dance floor. The whole
club is the epitome of what is called dark and smoky. There are
attractive people here. A self-described "ninja" is Johnny Depp
good-looking -- where Captain Jack Sparrow meets the Libertine. Another
guy looks like he's just walked off Magellan's ship. Women are in raver
gear.
Josepher, head of Electrolust adult-party team, taps me on the shoulder. "She's shoving a
stick up his ass, and I told her she had to use a condom on it because
you don't want anyone to get hurt for real." He's talking about the
man with the kilt. A woman's hands and what resembled a clothespin... disappear under it. This is now the masked man perched on the ground in
front of me who is massaging my foot. He is making his way up my calf. His kilt has a matching
sash. I bend forward and say to him, "So I hear you have that thing up your ass."
I stunned him. "No," he said. Attached to a different place -- who knows when he asked
me? -- but now, I'm tugging on the string. He asks if I mind if he massages my
thigh. No. The guy behind me asks if he can make out
with me. I say, "No." He mentions something about my nipples. Definitely
not. "Do you like your hair pulled?" he asks me. Sure, go ahead. "Do you like to
be choked?" he asks. I tell him I honestly can't answer that -- I've
never been choked. I guess it's natural for us to both presume I will
try it.
"You
really are in control," says Leather Lee, "even though I may be the dom and the master and been doing this 25 years." He's about to whip me.
I'm in the backroom. It's a small square. Whips hang on the back wall.
Underneath, a table holds more of them. Here's a good place to learn
about the
whole dom/sub thing. This is how I got to be in this room in the first
place, before my pleasure fest on the couch with the two men started: a
Cleopatra experience. I'm bent over, my stomach lying on what I can best
call a masseuse's table. He starts out whipping the shoulder blades.
It gets the endorphins going. Then he goes down the spine. If it's too
much, I can just
raise my arm. Or use the safe words: yellow, slow down, caution.
I
get a "It was a pleasure to beat you" after he is done. So polite.
This is the best part of the Ren-Fest that they don't offer you. I
stopped the whip sesh early the first time, needing time to absorb what I
just did.
Then everyone I came with got whipped. I went again. The next time, Lee
started where we left off. He lifted the back of my shirt, unsnapped my
bra, and then my tutu went flying up. He asked how I enjoyed it. Not
that any answer to him was necessary
because, after my remarks, he said he already knew the answer, being able
to read my back and so forth. "Her potential is amazing!" he shouts
with a smile. "I said amazing!" Now, if only all teachers were this encouraging, I might have
never quit track.
"Pull me along, will ya?" asks a black
speedo-clad, older gentleman whom I've kept my eye on the whole night.
His nutsack cubby -- his sausage casing -- comes with a string attached to the fabric in the front.
"Blindfold me, make me think whatever
you want to." His arms are tied behind his back. When no one is pulling
him, he returns to the bar. He hangs his head really low, parallel to
his shoulders, like he's repenting. Or waiting for someone to charge him
up, take him for a walk. Beige duct tape's
wrapped around his eyes and
ears, also covering some of his white hair, unless he's walking himself. I saw a cherubic girl in a red
corset pull him along. A guy carried him. His ass got smacked.
I
had no interest, but I duct-taped him. Where do I put the duct tape? He
tells me to leave it on the bar. I start pulling him along, and, after a
few yards, I realize he
walks really, really slowly. Too slowly. Especially when the rhythm of
this night matches the stomping of the men who wear bomb gear and giant,
buckled
boots on the dance floor, moving to hard-hitting, bass-thumping techno. I turn around, and Slug is running into a pole. Sigh. It
didn't dawn on me I
would have to guide him. Pulling
an old guy on a string is boring. I hand
him off, placing the sturdy string in another man's hands. Regarding my dismay,
someone says:
"He wasn't a good dog."
I get home, there are two bite marks, one on the front of both
shoulders, where the flesh is in the middle of the shoulder. Thanks to the blessed stranger who brought
up the notion of me getting whipped in the first place. His encouraging words were: "I instigate so
you could accept the scenario you were writing about... and you can't
ever say you didn't enjoy it."
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