By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
We leave B&H to handle their biz, and circumambulate 'round the venue to press some flesh. Folks on the dance floor are bustin' some freaktified moves to the tracks being dropped, a combo of noise, industrial, EBM (electronic body music) and electroclash. Jerky and spazzed-out, like Herman Munster on crank, the boys in sheer tops and gals in tiaras and prom dresses could pass for a passel of androgynous androids gone haywire to the so-called "four on the floor" beats. On the various boob tubes currently: Heathers.
I bump into a stunner with a black Louise Brooks-ish wig, red-red lips, alabaster skin, and blood-orange eye shadow, resplendent in white dress and choker, with pearls and lace gloves. I'm smitten, even when I learn that she's a he, who refers to himself as "Abel."
"What are you able to do, Abel?" I query.
"Pretty much anything you want," he says, playing along. "As long as it's naughty and not nice."
"You look fantastic!" I gush, maybe a bit too much. "Tell me about your gown."
"I got this on eBay for $24," he confesses. "The whole outfit. I'm such an online whore."
"And the hair?"
"It's a $16 wig. It's coming off later, and so is this," he says, indicating the outfit.
"Be still, my beating heart! What's underneath?"
He lifts up the skirt to reveal a pair of sheer white stockings on shapely legs. "I took my garter belt off, but it'll be back on in a little while."
"You're a very attractive person," I say, flirting shamelessly.
"You're not too bad, either, but we have to do something with your hair," he frets. "Maybe a little Elvis wisp right here. Did anyone ever tell you you look like Elvis?"
Cue the J-unit, suddenly deciding to pay attention to her job: "Yeah, the fat Elvis, the one who keeled over on the crapper." She hooks my arm and drags me away from the gent in drag. "C'mon, lover-boy, I've got something to tell you."
"Get yer paws off me! Who taught you manners -- Ludacris?"
"Didn't you realize that chick was a dood?" she asks me.
"Of course I realized it. So what? Think you're the only one who can go bi? And anyhoo, that boy toy was a dime."
"Now you're really scarin' me," spits the switch-witch. "Keep yer yap shut, I wanna chat up this babe."
Before us is a bodacious beauty with long, straight two-toned hair and cleavage that'd put Monica Bellucci to shame. Her name's Stephanie, and she's wearing a one-piece fetishy sort-of dress that leaves just enough flesh exposed. Jett, of course, has her x-ray glasses on and is giving Stephanie the elevator stare, while I mind my Ps and Qs.
"What do you like about Sadisco?" I inquire.
"I really enjoy the effort Toby puts forth in it," she answers. "This place is decked out every single time. The music is incredible, and the people are very nice. I've been coming for the last three months because I really want to support it."
"Weren't you going to be doing some sort of performance tonight?" asks the Jettster, presumably recalling something Heidebrink had told her earlier.
"My friend Anna and I were going to be doing this sort of dirty cheerleader performance, but she passed on that," she says. "You know, I also do LifeSuspension performances with Steve Haworth."
"Wow, does that rip your back up?"
"You wanna see my back?"
"Sure," we reply in unison. Stephanie then turns around to show us the pinkish keloid scars between her shoulder blades.
"I know everyone asks this, but doesn't that really hurt?" I ask.
"Once your feet are off the ground, you forget that there are hooks in your back," responds Stephanie. "Then your adrenaline and endorphins kick in and it's a whole lot of fun."
"Intense," murmurs the Jettster. "Thanks for sharing."
Jett mulls over what the mysterious Stephanie has shown us as we make our way around the bar in the center of the room, and on to the entrance to the baños. The J-girl pops in to make a deposit, while I strike up a confab with this small, frisky gal named Rachel, who's hangin' with two pals in tuxes. Come to find out, she's a photographer by profession, and she shares that she recently left her husband for one of the cats in the penguin suits, a fella with a big ol' grizzly beard.
"Hey, can I take your picture for the column? Usually, my partner does this, but she's in the crapper."
"Sure," replies the alluring Rachel. "Wanna take one of my tits?"
"Is the pope Polish? Flash me them headlights, girl!" Rachel does, I do, and we're wrapping up as the Radha Mitchell of the PHX emerges from the bog. She shoots Rachel a nasty look.
"Who's that chick?" she asks me, ready for a catfight.
"Heh-heh, unless you keep me happy, that, my dear, is your replacement."