Brain Poops

WARNING:This post contains photos of a graphic sexual performance. While there is no nudity displayed, anyone offended by such content or otherwise restricted from it should go to http://www.zombo.com in lieu of seeing those photos. You can do anything… at Zombocom.

In our last episode:

She asks me for more details on what I do and such, seemingly interested in just who the hell I was. I catch the slightest traces of a European accent, and though I couldn’t place it, it was enough to know that while she looked strikingly similar, it was thankfully not Johansson.

I take my leave after a few short minutes to not mess up first impressions and get down to seeing the underbelly of the Ball.

I wander over to the Asian Diva stage and get down to the serious business of photographing hot, barely clad ladies. They each have their own unique costumes, except the tired looking woman wearing a teddy with her nipples hanging out like runaway slugs.

There’s a small crowd of dedicated perverts with large external flashes on their digital SLRs jostling me for position. Now, I’m a hobby photographer with a 6MP Nikon d40 and a history of social insecurity. It takes about 5 seconds before the incentive of photographing slugnipples breaks me out of my shell and starts me hip-checking expo patrons.

I take my snaps and quickly wriggle my way out of the birth canal of horny photogs. At events like these, if one were to see them from a birds-eye view, one only has to look for the clustering hordes to know where boobage and good photos are going to crop up. I make a note of the herd behavior and wander the compound.

Passing the burlesque stage, I see the jackals swarming on the barricade. Something is about to happen and I don’t have a clue what it is. Earlier there were some women who were, shall we say, not to my personal tastes getting whipped on a rack. I kept one eye on the stage and the other scanning around for photo ops.

Out of the corner of my best Marty Feldman stare, I see a familiar figure. NotScarlett? Sure enough, decked out in a corset, mini top-hat and stockings is the lovely [and seemingly innocent] NotScarlett.

She gets a few bits of her clothing off before my feet decide to work. Without consulting the rest of my body, they pound it to the stage with the rest of my self in tow. My hands, primed by the promise of nakedness, flick the lens cap off and ready the camera.

Yet again, the public is my enemy. I have underestimated my fellow man’s strength and dedication to boobies, and now have to duck and weave around the hardening crowd in order to take photos. I become a track star jumping erections for hurdles in the shuttle-run from stage left to stage right, my camera flashing and clicking like a frustrated futuristic surveillance system looking for retinas in Grand Central Station.

Snap snap snap… wipe sweat off face with handkerchief… snap snap snap.

My first burlesque show is in the bag, or so I think. This is more of a striptease than anything else, but I bet the Porcelain Twinz are going to be wild.

The Twinz

George jumps on stage while people still have a lingering interest in it from NotScarlett and says the Porcelain Twinz are next. I 180 from my vector towards the booths and stand at attention, waiting for the show to begin.¹

I feel a worm breakdancing in my gut as the opening strains of “El Tango de Roxanne” from Moulin Rouge start leaking from the speakers. As they step onto the stage, I’m struck by how completely unrealistic they look. Twirling not 5 feet in front of me in Victorian costumes are two identical nymphs² with smooth, pale skin and ballet figures dancing to a tune which, in my more sensitive days, stirred the very core of me.

I, however, know this song well. It does not escape my memory that it doesn’t end as sweetly as it begins. Knowing this, and the nature of the Twinz’s act, I spread my feet

shoulder width apart and brace for impact as the song gathers momentum.

In a flash one sister is standing on a chair wearing a strap-on, being fellated by the other while lip-syncing to Ewan MacGregor’s voice. I’m floored, but I still manage to move and snap photos with an increasing fervor.

Their frenzied simulated fuck-fuck in synchronous to the music is a scene to behold, and the audience feels every thrust. The group of 50 claps with the fury of 200 as they leave the stage and go back to the green room.

I decide it’s time for some water and a sit-down in the YouTube Leper cage located in that same green room.

For the past two months, I have cultivated politeness in an effort to replace my characteristic coarseness. My justification is that in our current American society being polite is the new rebellion. My Gentleman Punk veneer is only one layer thick, though, and it takes a conscious effort not to tap on the Twinz’s dressing room door and babble like a loon.

I sit down, take off my fedora, and mop the sweat off my face while sifting through the photos of the past two performances. I have always hated using a flash, so the show is washed in the magenta stage lights and the blur of frenzied motion captured by my camera brings a smile to my face. These, I think, are shots of incredible action and fury. I should show them off.

I tap my ring against the metal pole to get their attention and they invite me in. I introduce myself and show them the photos like a kid with his first dinosaur drawing trying to get his dad to put it on the fridge. They “ooh” and “ah” a bit and say “They never come out like this.” I take that as less a compliment and more a recognition of my flashless technique.

Not wishing to linger, I excuse myself and exit the intimate dressing room for the cold, industrial exterior dressing room. George blows past me without a glance and ducks into NotScarlett’s dressing room for the umpteenth time. After he leaves, I “knock” and am invited in.

She’s back in her cutesy, innocent dress and organizing things for the next show. I compliment her on her performance and she defers it by saying she didn’t have the shaving cream or razor. Apparently, I didn’t get to see her show after all. I offer to show her my snaps and she politely accepts, with appreciation at my photo work.

Realizing I don’t know her name, I introduce myself. Her name is Ancilla, and she hails from Amsterdam. We get acquainted and get to know each other for a bit, then I mention I’m off to take more photos. She offers to come with me, and I say I’m happy to escort her.

“Well actually I’ll be escorting you, but don’t tell anybody,” she says with a laugh.³

I decide to let her get ready in privacy and wait outside. Within a few minutes Georgy Porgey has ducked back in, and they exit together. George is latched to her side like an oversize malformed prosthetic, and after a moment of awkward walking together I excuse myself for a smoke. He’s got a serious crush, there… Better not tangle with that mess.

Nick joins me outside and we talk about the event so far. He’s been videotaping tons, but wants to save most of the footage for tomorrow. He tells me that he used his credentials to get backstage at the Asian Diva section and “accidentally” got on stage. I give him a “yeah right” look and we both go back in.

I wander around a bit more, and see the various displays. It becomes evident that all that we were really going to see was seen within the first few hours, so I don’t take as many photos. This is the first time I get honest-to-god burned out by nakedness and boobage. It’s a frightening feeling.

What would America be like if this sort of thing wasn’t taboo? If we embraced the human form in all it’s splendor instead of censcoring it at every possible moment, we might be less stressed about sexuality. That alone would probably keep drunk Americans from being thrown out of strip clubs for causing a ruckus and would save the noble bouncers of this country a lot of fuss. Who could really get twisted up over leaving a strip club with topless beaches and skimpy clothing as the norm?

The Twinz go on stage again, and this time I’m ready. I flash my credentials at Evil B and he nods me through past the barricade to the photog pit at the base. Their next act is different from the first, and certainly more entertaining for me given my newfound proximity and aquaintences.

A dainty Geisha intro gives way to Marine uniforms, goose-stepping and a simmering fan dance to the distorted screamings of Marilyn Manson. Synchronized at every step of the way, the Twinz’s performance betrays their dancer background with its crisp timing and precise movements. This is pearls before swine, I think. Oink oink.

Before long they break into their third act, and there is a moment of confusion carved into my face when I see the strap-ons they are using are HUGE purple monsters with tips coming out. I think I’m prepared for this. They prance around for a minute and then start masturbating the dildos. I’m wrong. They “climax” and send a huge jet of silly-string arc-ing over their heads to immense comedic effect.

It becomes obvious to me that what they do is not a glorification of sexuality but a satire, a gross caricature of the sex act detached from all it’s importance and imposed sanctity. They aren’t demonstrating these things on stage in order to turn the audience on⁴: they are at best ridiculing the audience for taking it so seriously, and at worst slicing at the gut of male dominance. Knowing what they went through at The Box in New York, I’m inclined to favor the latter.

I go back to the green room to find Ancilla lounging in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs reading up on Geography. We decide to go for a walk on the island to get a good look at the bay and take a photo or two. Figure the fresh air will do us good.

Along the way she asks what I do for a living, and I don’t have a straight answer. I tell her I’m an out-of-work artist and soon I’ll be working at Target to pay the bills. For a while I can’t stop whining about not having a job, but I catch myself and find another topic.

We get to the edge of the island looking out over the bay and a motorcycle cop pulls up and asks if she wants a photo on his bike. A few minutes ago he was talking to a few gorgeous women down the way, so it’s not hard to believe that is his best line. I snap a quick photo of her on the bike, another one of her in front of the bay, and we’re off back to the ball.

In the green room, George tells me that the projector isn’t coming in today at all and that we have been bumped till tomorrow’s panel. Nick and I say goodbye to Halcyon and Ashley and head back to the hotel to get some rest. We both look like we’re carrying a week’s worth of groceries under our eyes.

CONTINUE to Day 2!

¹: It should be noted here that the three things I was looking forward to before I made it to the Ball were [in order of priority] Danny Bonaduce, the Porcelain Twinz, and Tone Loc. However the Twinz in my opinion were by far the most respected performers among the three, with Bonaduce being a curiosity and Tone Loc just being a cool dude.

²: In Greek mythology, a nymph is any member of a large class of mythological entities in human female form.

³: Sorry, Ancilla, had to say it here. Don’t hate me.

⁴: Although it happens anyhow, which I’m sure helps them sell the act to even the most cynical promoters.

I know the layout of this one is reeeeally cluttered with photos, but I wanted you to see everything I was saying without me having to write 5 paragraphs where 2 or 3 would do.