Goth-illas in the Mist

INTRODUCTION

On occasion, I find myself with the opportunity to attend a gathering of non-like-minded individuals. That terminology is not to imply that I do not like the individuals in question; rather, it usually means that they are much cooler than I am. At these times, rather than try to fit in, I take the position of cultural anthropologist and vow to only make polite conversation and observe the proceedings in a detached manner for later consideration. Unfortunately, when the gathering you are attending is called "Fast, Loose, and Out of Control," polite detachment is impossible. These people are fast, they are loose, and they are decidedly out of control. They suck you in with their frenzy, fishnets, and friendliness, and these are just the men. The women, besides having the above-listed attributes, are also so beautiful and sociable that one feels compelled to do anything to be near these slack-jaw-inducing sirens. My fascination, coupled with the group's immediate acceptance of someone who did not look the part, is how I became Fast, Loose, and Out of Control. Well, I'm actually not cool enough for that. I was more like Quicker, Not Quite Securely Attached, and On the Verge of Loss of Inhibition.

Names have been changed to protect the participants, who, despite their debaucherous tendencies, hold responsible day jobs (doctor, computer programmer, research psychologist, and the like) and whose clientele would probably prefer not to know about their penis piercings and stomping gyrations to goth-industrial music. Oh, and I didn't make any of this up.

PRE-BACCHANALIA

Many people meet with their friends for a drink at a nearby bar before they head to a club. Such was the case with these people (I say "people" loosely; some would rather be zombies, or Mapplethorpe photographs), who imbibed lagers and girly drinks with cherries at the bottom of the glass. The difference was that their conversations turned to who was posing for what Suicide Girls photo session next week and their activities tended towards the adjustment of tall industrial boot buckles and gentle slapping of cohorts. Bianca, who is a sweet and intelligent girl when the lights are bright, takes joy in mild public sadism when the lights go dim. She expressed silent violent pleasure in the rough tightening of Raquel's corset strings, jamming her foot in her lower back and pulling on the tethers until Raquel bucked with pain and her cleavage busted out in a satisfactorily sexy fashion. I gazed on in intimidation and admiration in my mall-bought v-neck t-shirt and jeans while I swilled a Cosmopolitan, hoping to get drunk enough to be that fascinating. The most I could do at that time to fit in was make sure my belt buckle was centered. It was not. I am that big of a dork.

Clothing adjusted and empty beer bottles slammed on the bar, Anthony, who was graciously sponsoring my foray into the seedy side, drove us to the club. After acquiring TV parking right in front of the club (cool people always get TV parking), we proceeded to the check-in point. A sign at the door declared prohibitions on visible genitals and nipples, as well as public sex. The bouncer checked Anthony's ID, frisked him, and waved him in. He checked my ID, but, disappointingly, did not frisk me. Confused as to whether I was authorized to enter, I aked him, "Am I cool?" He replied in his "being a bouncer gives me the only power I have in life" tone, "I don't know if you're cool, but you can go in." Annoyed at the immediate calling-out of my dorkiness, I stomped up the stairs and entered the dim den of iniquity.

FAST, LOOSE, AND OUT OF CONTROL

After my eyes adjusted to the dark smokiness, I noted a beautiful woman clad in lingerie and garters languishing motionless on a couch, looking euphoric. Knowing that exotic dancers were sometimes hired at these parties, I figured that that she was a performer paid by the promoters to hang out and look sexy, like a perverse decoration. I asked Anthony, "Is that performer supposed to look like she's been smoking opium or something?" He replied tersely, "I know her. She's not a performer, and she's strung out on heroin. She's a total mess." I rolled my eyes. At least I was in-the-know enough not to do heroin, for chrissakes. Heroin chic is so 1993. Bolstered by my non-opiate-abusing hipness, I proceeded to the bathroom.

In the bathroom, however, my cockiness dissipated with a temporary burst of anxiety as I realized that the bathroom was co-ed, the urinals were out in the open, and there was no door on the stall. I would have to potty in front of that dude with his pants around his ankles and a tattoo of a cobra snaking around his thigh, ending with a fang-baring head on his ass. Despite my misgivings, I recognized an opportunity to shed some of my uncoolness and be blase about the whole thing. I proceeded to pee and pretended not to be appalled by the empty roll of toilet paper. With an expressionless face, I copied the (very visible) girl before me and used the shake-it-til-you-make-it technique of urethral cleansing, previously only employed in the privacy of a closed-door stall. Realizing that a crowd was gathering that was all too willing to engage in conversation with someone actively urinating, I pulled up my pants and went to wash my hands. I paused with trepidation at the lack of soap at the sink. There was not even an empty dispenser to indicate that once, patrons of this establishment washed their hands after voiding. I made a mental note not to shake hands with anyone and headed toward the bar, where Anthony, who would babysit me unti I got drunk enough to talk to random people, was standing.

Deciding what to drink, I found out that in the limited selection of available beverages, you could get a Yuengling for $3.75, or you could get the "The Special" for a quarter more. "The Special" is a Yuengling and a shot of Jim Beam on the side. It is the alcoholic's version of the Extra Value Meal. Never one to pass up a bargain, I ordered two. Becoming unmoored from my slight nervousness, I asked Ray, an acquaintance, where his girlfriend was. "She's recovering from surgery," he reported. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I offered. "No, it's okay," he reassured me. "She got implants." I congratulated him; he shrugged and said philosophically, "Breasts don't make the woman." In an ironic twist that surely explained the surgery, I later found out that their relationship was on the rocks because he was spending all his time coked out at the tittie bar.

The sum of two Specials and a beer was a not-gentle loss of inhibition. I allowed a scantily-clad Marlboro representative who was scouting around the club giving away free cigarettes to scan my driver's license, at which point I signed a computerized certification that I was a regular smoker aged 21 or older who would like to receive "special offers and coupons for cigarette products." I am not a smoker. I am vehemently against smoking. But they were giving away free Zippo lighters for sharing your personal information. One year and a move out of the state later, I am still receiving these "special offers and coupons." "The Special" really has an effect on your judgment. But hey, free Zippo.

After procuring my Zippo and calling my boyfriend at 1:15 am to crow about my new acquisition (he was neither impressed nor glad to hear from me), I slurred to a goth girl in the midst of conversation, "Some days I wish that someone would say or do something really shitty to me, just so I could punch them in the face." She heartily agreed, and we bonded over our secret tendencies towards violence. At that moment, I fantasized that I could someday be a Bianca, with blunt-cut bangs and my foot up someone's ass, tightening corset strings. The girl asked me through her black eye makeup and pasty face if I would like to join something or other, an organization to which she belonged. At that point, inebriated and glad to be (in my mind) free of my uncoolness, I readily agreed to join. She said she would contact me the next day. I was a bit confused as to what I just got myself into, but toddled off in search of Anthony to tell him that I had made a new sexy friend.

Misguidedly confident, I joined Anthony and Bianca on the dance floor. Peggy Lee blasted from the speakers, and I smoothly gyrated with the others to "Fever." At least that's what I thought I was doing. In reality, I probably looked like the drunk cousin at some chick's wedding, jolting on the dance floor as though I was being electrocuted. Fortunately, the attention was not on me. It was on the several nearly naked ladies, who were not paid performers, simulating sex on the dancing platform. One of them had dispensed with the nipple tape requirement and compensated for the reduced weight on her body by grabbing and donning a man's hat. The idea was for her to look hot, but it was actually the creepiest display of public sexuality I had ever seen, even worse than in any movie in which Rodney Dangerfield scores a chick. She should have left the performance to the paid dancer, who had kept a crate of implements nearby so that paying customers could spank her with a plastic spatula.

As "The Special" wore off, my interest in the whole affair waned, as did my chemically-induced confidence. Anthony, who was tiring of the scene as well, drove me home. I lurched into my apartment and toppled into my bed (after polishing off some leftover Chinese) for a sleep that was much, much too short. After slamming off the alarm clock and throwing a spoon at the cat, who was disdainfully knocking hairbrushes off my dresser, I squinted through my pounding headache and made a stunning realization. I remembered through the fog the night before, talking to the violent chick, and readily agreeing to participate in her organization. I whispered to myself in wonderment and sudden understanding, "I think last night I joined the roller derby!"

EPILOGUE

I did not join the roller derby. Fortunately, the only binding contracts made at Fast, Loose, and Out of Control are those signed with Zippo-toting Marlboro representatives. Now that I have moved, I don't speak with Anthony as much, although I can't wait to attend his next party, which will likely feature burlesque dancers and fire breathers. I am still a dork.