Monday, March 26, 2007
BPM at the BP.
Yesterday, or I should say the day before yesterday, as in Saturday, I went to the Black Party. The boys and I had been hired to do a little stage show which consisted of putting together a dungeon bed and sling while everyone watched. Michelangelo, the producer who got us into this job, has a fantastic outlook on fetish that puts a priority on the process and exactness of what we do--turning the mundane or exotic into ritual--and it vibes with me and my compulsions very well. I think we gave him what he wanted; there were a few starts and stops, but overall it worked. For this we got in free, which at $125 per ticket, is no small thing.
Now everyone is going to have some opinion on the Black Party, and as far as I can tell, they go toward polar extremes. You either love it, wouldn't miss it, and accept it for what it is, or you hate it, wouldn't be caught dead there, and probably mock those who you believe are foolish enough to pay that price for entry. I'm not quite crazy enough to make an attempt at talking anyone out of the second camp, so if you're one of those, this post may bore you to tears.
Going into it, all signs pointed to me enjoying the experience. I love to dance. I love music and light shows. I like to dabble in a little public sex in the corners. I like looking at beautiful bodies and creative costumes. I can put up with the silly, overblown attitude of some of the circuit queens. I enjoy getting caught up in the moment, in the sheer hyper-reality of what is happening.
I was not disappointed. The production was beyond belief. Lasers, lights, dancers, video screens, thousands of beautiful people...it was something to see. As I told many over the course of the party, I'm just a kid from Kansas, this was my first Black Party and indeed, my first circuit party, and thus I'm fairly easy to impress. But while my New York-imposed dismissiveness demands that I excuse my enjoyment of the thing, if pressed I could not deny that I would most likely love it just as much on my tenth visit as I did on the first.
I didn't have a watch, so time was fairly meaningless to me there, but I believe it was about halfway through my 14 hours there when something strange started happening. I began to run into people who were totally unexpected and out of context.
Top Dog and Headmaster were the first. I've had a little crush on them both for a while. Top Dog and I frolicked and fooled around, finding interesting and fun ways to turn each other on. Headmaster was subjected to one of my very long rants on leather and politics, and even some leather politics, from which he gracefully and kindly extracted himself when he'd had enough--understandably, as it was more than most would take. We danced and I grinned like a kid in a candy store; I knew I looked like an idiot, but I just couldn't help myself, it was too much a fanboy's dream come true.
And then there was Joe. I haven't blogged about it yet, but I met Joe a week ago at the Buck Angel movie screening. He's the closest thing to a blog daddy that I have--though he'll hate hearing that term applied to him, and it's hardly the "traditional" blog daddy relationship. Couch Stalker started out as a joke I made to Joey, who took it seriously and started this blog and then gave it to me. The format has changed a lot from those early posts, but in a very real way I'm writing today because of Joe.
The fact that I spotted him at the party wasn't a surprise, it was the nature of the contact that was unexpected. Talking with Joe is so new that I'm still nervous and falling over myself. For a week now Joe has been a real person with whom I've had conversations and non-stalker interactions. And it's great--Joe is just as interesting, intelligent, and sexy in person as he is on his blog. But reading a blog is not knowing someone, and for all that I'm a child of the computer age, it turns out once again that knowing someone is better than reading them.
Joe and I hung out for quite a while. We snuck outside to have a cigarette in the 53rd Street sidewalk smoking corral, where I was painfully reminded that it was nearly lunch time on Sunday, and where he took a photo of me shirtless and in skinny jeans (that would not stay on my ass) with a couple of orthodox Jewish men in the background. We talked about the paradox of D/s relationships when the sub is also a masochist. He told me stories about sex in the 1970s and he explained what the DJs were doing and how morning music works.
At the Black Party! I really hadn't counted on the event being anything more than debauchery and fluff.
Of course there was a lot more. Spiky turned it out like only Spiky can--motorcross body armor, goggles, army helmet, intense kneepads--he was fierce. Tall Top managed to get himself leashed and tied on stage, something I'm sure we'll never let him forget. Bonfire was looking fine and totally in his element helping Michelangelo run errands. Satan's Straight Boy was extremely helpful and bemused by the whole thing. Papa was all kinds of fun--he doesn't realize how much he's the social center of a very extended group of excellent guys. Adonis is a dancing fiend who is gorgeous to watch, and I suspect he may have danced out a lot of his recent stress.
There was more, but I have to keep some it for myself. Plus I've probably forgotten a lot of things--14 hours is a long time to be at one party. And I think I understand why this can happen only once per year--it's just too much to do it any more than that--but I'm certainly looking forward to my second!