By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
By Pete Kotz
By Monica Alonzo
By New Times
Directly above us, on the stretch of ceiling nearest the bar, is a glow-in-the-dark panel of naked sinners dancing through flames, led by some odd, greenish demon with a clarinet for a nose. Look close enough, and you'll see that some of the nudists have both tits and cock! On the large space behind the raised DJ booth where Kevin Brown is droppin' darkwave tracks from groups like Razed in Black and Blutengel, there's a bluish expanse that looks, well, Transylvanian, with a castle hidden behind lifeless trees. To the left of that is a Hieronymous Bosch-like orgy scene, and across from it, along the catwalk, are a number of fetish-inspired panels, one showing a fetish bitch givin' some lucky playa head.
"See that panel up there," I tell the AC/DC Katherine Heigl, indicating the BJ-one. "Study and learn."
"In your dreams, Kreme," spits Jett. "Plus, from here, it looks like the guy on the receiving end actually has a penis."
Before I can come back with a comeback, Rogers stops by us again to explain that the black-light murals were all done by Hollywood company WildfireFX.com, and specifically artist Kent Mathieu. Seems Rogers discovered the company at an FX convention, and contracted with it to produce the glow-in-the-dark art. Prior to midnight, the scandalous imagery is invisible. Only under UV light does it reveal itself.
Nearby, and equally in awe of Tranzylvania's "transformation," is James Bound, known for his work with Life Suspended, the artists who, among other things, suspend themselves from hooks plunged into their backs. We thought Bound was P.O.'d at us because of the B&T beef, but like Simon, he introduces himself to us, and is quite friendly as he explains that he is helping to bring the underground to Rogers' doorstep. We accompany Bound upstairs where he introduces us to the legendary Steve Haworth, a founder of the Church of Body Modification, who declines an interview, but seems cool nonetheless. The Jettster and I then wander into one of the hidden rooms where a whole passel of gals calling themselves the Pussy Posse is kickin' it.
"So, uh, how do you join the Pussy Posse?" I query.
"You need a pussy, and must enjoy women fully, sexually, okay?" replies a honey named Zen, a founding member of the Pussy Posse. "And you need to be a crazy motherfucker, willing to have a good time when you're out at the club."
"Right now, we only have about five members," relates co-founder Miss Cookie, eyebrow raised. "But there are many who want to be initiated."
"And what do you pussies do together?" gulps Jett, sounding verycurious.
"We just hang out, and it's all about the girls," responds Miss Cookie.
"All about finding the power of the pussy," adds Zen.
"Excellent," coos Jett. "Do the pussies have a Web site?"
"We're working on it," Zen advises. "Right now we're on MySpace.com under PussyPosseGirls."
It's about this time that I start to pull the Jettster away from the pussies.
"Wait, I wanna play with the . . ."
"Shush!" I tell her. "If I let you stay, you'll be here all night, and there's more to Tranzylvania than just a bunch of horny bi's and lezbots."
"Jeez, I never get to have any fun," she whines as I tug her after me, and back down the stairs. Not that I would have minded watching a hot, steamy lezzy grope fest with Jett in it, but we do have to get some work done occasionally if we're gonna keep this column flowin'.
We head out to the patio where various cliques are mingling here and there. Over here is a dude in a leather kilt, and over there are two cats in drag, waving red-lace fans about, like a pair of 21st-century Blanche DuBois. But most amusing seems to be this dandy with a cane, drinking a spot of port, in flowing silk robes worthy of a Chinese prince. "Okay, we've got to conversate with this dood," I think as we perambulate in his direction. Come to find out he goes by the handle Xious, and tells us he does systems engineering for a living.
"What is this rock you're wearing around your neck?" wonders Jett.
"That's 30 grams fluorite, egg-shaped," he relates, slurring a tad. "Fluorite is an Oriental mineral respondent to fluorescent light and comes in either purple, green or clear. It's also useful for mental protection. You know, mind-shielding, and that type of thing [trailing off]. Sorry, I'm a bit smashed tonight. I think I've had about 15 drinks."
"Good man," I say, patting him on the back. "Have you been here before?"
"I've been to this club six times," says Xious, straightening himself up a bit. "I love it. I would compare it to Fang in L.A., but not as open. Still, it's quite nice."
"Evidently, he hasn't met the Pussy Posse," whispers Jett, nudging me.
"Heh," I laugh. "No one's seen the number of pussies you have, Miss Meow Mix. Not even my grandma's kitty litter box."