By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
Aside from the fetish festivities this evening, which I'll describe in a sec, Chasers in Scottsdale looks like everyone's friendly neighborhood dive, with pool tables for the cue-ballers, a low stage for musical acts, and an abundance of TV sets, which I'm guessing on most nights feature sporting events. But not this Saturday, baseball fans. Ce soir's "Club Hell" is all about the more salacious spectator sport of S&M, albeit set to an incessant, grinding industrial-noise soundtrack.
Various kinky video shenanigans are being screened in all their grody glory on those very same boob tubes. And unless you pluck your eyeballs from your skullys, like Uma Thurman did to Daryl Hannah in Kill Bill: Vol. 2, you're bound to be assaulted with the less-than-savory porno antics of some depressingly average fucks. This is exactly what the Jettster and I are enduring at this very moment as we attempt to obtain bevvies from our blessed barkeep.
"Uh, Kreme," mutters the bi-lovin' Meagan Good, peeping the nearest screen. "Is that woman trying to poop on that old dude?"
The Jettster's referring to the morbid mise en scène unfolding before us, apparently filmed at P-town's premier dungeon, Mistress Porsche Lynn's Den of Iniquity. On a couch is former porn star Lynn herself, dressed in pantyhose and little else. She's watching one of her fellow dominatrixes squatting over the face of some wrinkly, nekkid geezer -- prolly a banker in real life. Squatting chick is also nekkid, and making the sort of grimace that usually accompanies doing leg thrusts on the weight machine at your local gym. Fortunately, though, she ain't giving any backdoor births, if you feel me.
"Nah," I reply to my AC/DC adjutant. "I think she's going for number one, but I can't be sure."
Our jaws stay slack with horror as I collect my Crown 'n' Coke, and Jett does likewise with her vodka-T. Seems to me that if you plan to veer into the performance aspect of this particular genre and let your freak flag fly for the world to see, a somewhat slammin' bod should be a prerequisite. But if that booty be saggin' and them thunder thighs are coated in cottage cheese, keep that ish to yourself. Puh-lease! I state this as a man-boobed Fat Albert no one wants to see minus his muumuu. Fond of Snickers and Old Milwaukee? Then maybe you shouldn't be showing off your pimply backside to the public. Also, squalies starting their hot flashes and doods requiring that lil' blue stay-hard pill should keep it parked in the voyeur zone, for real.
These Den of Iniquity videos play on throughout the night, with Porsche at one point donning ye ol' strap-on, and going to town on Grandpa geezer, who reminds me of that little bald fella in reruns of The Benny Hill Show. Thankfully, the crowd in general is a lot more attractive than the video exhibitionists, and there are some truly mah-velous minxes in the mix. See, the night is the brain-abortion of DJs Nfin8 and Virgo, an attempted blend of scenes, crossing the AZ Fetish Ball with the more dance-oriented devotees of Sadisco. Actually, what's brought the J-girl and me out to this inaugural Club Hell is the fact that one of our all-time fave DJs, Shelley, a.k.a. ///she/// of Sadisco fame, will be on the decks, along with Nfin8, Virgo, and Blonde Noize, though not necessarily in that order.
At the moment, Shelley's spinning this dope track from drum and noise group Needle Sharing. Some folks are dancing, while a lot more are up around Chasers' stage, studying these three middle-aged broads tie each other up, pour hot wax over each other, and play with dildos. No way these mingas could make it as call girls, though they could certainly pass for Van Buren pre-ops on the ho stroll.
"This is nasty," gripes the J-Unit as one hella-heavy sista in dreads feels up this Bride of Stankenstein wanna-be. "I wouldn't do them with your crank, Kreme."
"Er, thanks, I think," I reply. "Anyway, you better go snap some pics, just in case anyone doubts my word regarding this train wreck."
Jett scoots up front to the action, while I hang back and scope the clubgoers, most of whom seem pretty cool, and certainly, more worthy of being ogled than the onstage performers. Next to me is this exotic, dark-haired witchy woman. Her name is Effie Bouras, a writer for mags Java and Desert Living, and an architect by trade. Seems she has degrees in engineering and architecture, and is currently working on her doctorate in urban planning from Arizona State University. This Canadian-born stunner easily must have the biggest brains in the club, without a doubt.
"So have you, like, helped design buildings 'n' stuff?" I ask.
"Yes, I actually worked on the Guggenheim Museum in Las Vegas," she explains. "I also worked for a structural engineering firm in New York City. They did a lot of work for Frank Gehry and other contemporary architects."
"Impressive," I state. "I know who Frank Gehry is. He did the Guggenheim in Spain. I didn't even know there was a Guggenheim in Vegas."
"It's at the Venetian," she informs me. "Rem Koolhaas designed it. The juxtaposition of those two elements I find fascinating, the casino and the museum. Rem said it was all part of the same thing. In Vegas it's all about putting on a show, whether it's classic or modern architecture."
"So what do you dig about this scene?" I inquire.
"I've been in it for a long time," she replies. "When I was growing up in Toronto, the underground was becoming mainstream. It was something everyone was into. Eventually, it went back underground, but it's an aesthetic I really like because of the artistic and performance art aspects of it."
Chatting with Effie is no chore, though I wish I'd brought my cerebrum with me instead of leaving that sucker at home. Who'd have known I'd need it at Club Hell? Jett's finally back from paparazzi-ing stage perverts, so now we can ignore that crap for the rest of the night. We corner Saucy Bastard Ben, a.k.a. DJ Nfin8 (as in "Infinite"), and drag him outside. Dressed in a red-and-black-striped shirt with a perpetual boyish grin and black horn-rimmed glasses, he seems like a deranged Torah student on X. But later on, we'll catch him humping some hottie in the loo, without a Bible in sight! For baggin' a babe in the bog, he gets big ups from us, for real. We ask Ben what's the dilly with the De Sade shtick inside, and he gives us a run-down on how Club Hell came to be.
"We're filling a need," Benjie tells us. "When Tranzylvania first opened, it had that gothy feel to it. It's a really nice venue, and the music was pretty good. They advertised themselves sort of like a fetish event, and at first they drew in that crowd, but it was quickly driven away."
"Why's that?" queries the Jettster.
"You used to see in every dark corner people spanking each other, some light BDSM activity, but it was strongly discouraged by security," he relates. "Those of us who used to go to that club saw that there's a big crowd that wants that. Additionally, a lot of us go clubbing in other cities like L.A. or San Francisco, where there are dance clubs that have a strong fetish vibe."
Ben asserts that Club Hell is meant to be different from the AZ Fetish Ball, which has more of a "convention feel" and isn't "so much of a party." While he's breaking this down, Jett becomes enamored of Ben's package, visible in the dark outline of his black britches.
"Um, what's this?" asks Jett. "Ben, are you hung?"
Ben gives it a squeeze. "Well, I am Italian," he says, smiling. "The front of it is my cell phone, but if you want to see what I've got, we could go to the green room we have set up next to the stage."
Before the Jettster can take Big Ben up on his offer, this cute lil' breezy in glasses stumbles past us, blood streaming down her head, and a maxi-pad-size hanky in her hand, red with hemoglobin. Her name is Starlyn, one of the go-go dancers. So at least we know Club Hell's go-go dancers are hot, even if the hags onstage aren't. Adorable Starlyn claims she ran into a speaker in the darkness of the club, and shows us the cut on her head. Somehow, Starlyn seems even more alluring because of her gory gash.
Starlyn's heading home, and Ben has people to punish, so the Jettster and I dive back inside for another drinky-poo. Back at the bar, we rub shoulders with this dom-sub couple, the male being the subordinate half, and the female being the dominant party. The gal Paris is fairly fine, with long black hair and pale skin, and she's literally got this fella Sugar on a leash. I'm no fan of the male form, but at least Sugar's no gross old dude. Thanks be to Yahweh, I'd say these two fall in that category of the non-hideous.
"You could say we're friends in the lifestyle," Sugar confides, kneeling before his mistress. "I have a job where I'm very responsible, a high-profile position. This is totally opposite of what I'm normally accustomed to."
"So you basically give the orders?" Jett asks of Paris.
"For the most part, what I say usually goes," she admits. "Currently I have four other male subs, and one female. But I've had up to 10 or 12 at a time. It kind of just depends on how bored I am, I guess."
"Kreme, this would be perfect for us!" exclaims the Jettster. "All I'd have to do is get a dog collar big enough to fit around that tree trunk of a neck you have."
"I'll wear the collar, Jett, sure," I tell her. "Just give me a crack at your ample ass with a leather paddle first, then I'm all yours."