The week leading up to Skin Two, eyes lit up whenever I mentioned I had extra tickets to Secret Room’s fetish party and medical fashion show at The Castle. Friends were excited to finally have a chance to show off their fancy lingerie or to just ogle fetishists in fishnets. Of course when Saturday rolled around, I stood alone in line to The Castle, fighting my impulse to flee.
Normally I pride myself on going out in public wearing one of my wigs and an outfit that highlights my aerodynamic crotch. But, I wasn’t used to wearing a bedazzled codpiece in front of a crowd that thought this sort of thing was normal.
Secret Room guru, Jason, was kind enough to loan me a white medical coat from his suitcase of bloody medical props so I wouldn’t stick out. Still, I was a bit worried people would think I was a Scientologist who strayed from his flock.
“Why are you dressed like a butcher?” asked the half-drunk woman in line ahead of me, dressed like she was going to a beach bar.
“A doctor.”
“Why are you dressed like a doctor?”
“I don’t know," I said, beginning to sweat. "Some women have a thing for doctors I guess.”
She stared. I stuttered.
“This is the line to get into the medical fashion show isn't it?”
She studied the couple in line ahead of her who called themselves Fifi and Gigi: two thin figures in ornate black dresses, matching mime masks, and bobbed wigs.
“I don’t know what’s going on here tonight,” she said. “My friend is visiting from Columbia and The Castle was the one place I knew I had to take him.”
Her male friend looked as apprehensive as me, studying the couple ahead of him, unsure how to feel about a man who wore a dress but still managed to hold hands with a woman who had the body of a model.
About that time a tall fit man with blond hair spiked out like an anime character pranced across the street wearing what looked like Sesame Street’s Grover on his arms, a transparent top, and superhero stockings. He was arm in arm with a short attractive woman in a network of dark lingerie. That was the moment I started regretting not packing my embroidered Speedo beneath my medical coat.
* * *
The inside of the old warehouse looked like Count Dracula’s party pad: stained-glass, dark red lights, and smoke drifting down dark corridors. Upstairs, heavy electro-syth-trance music reverberated off the dance floor filled with mobs of people moving independently of one another, like marionettes controlled by the music. This was one of the rare dance clubs where woman could dance free from the fear of being molested by an over eager partner—though perhaps this had something to do with the number of lanky figures in tight dresses, and thick concealing hair, who were actually men.
The downstairs dungeon room was set up with several torture stations and giant spider-webs made of chains where exhibitionists were lightly flogged. A row of seated enclosures surrounded by bars lined the walls. Volunteers acted out R rated versions of their fetishes, from suspension to spanking. Others sat on vinyl bunk beds kissing. One he/she dominatrix spanked a partner with a machete.
The space was full, but not so packed that you were forced to rub up against men wearing less than most of the women. Going in, I hadn’t expected as many people to be dressed up, or so undressed. Skin was the overwhelming trend. Colored duct tape or Xs made from black electrical tape concealed nipples. Tattoos showed through neon fishnets. Electrified cords of hair twisted off heads in every direction, accentuating bold facial piercings.
Batman, in only his mask and a thong made of bloody gauze, danced on a pylon with an equally de-cloaked Robin. One man spun his wheelchair into a dance machine. An older couple showed off their ornate, Victorian-goth costumes. Even the camera men were grooving in fetish gear. The real freaks, people dressed normally, evened out the crowd, creating an eclectic mix that made the place feel like a gothic Studio 54.
Tampa’s thong patron, The Senator, was on hand, consorting with his constituency, wearing a sheen of sweat and his signature erection protruding from a stylized jockstrap. The fact that he can sustain an erection for nearly half the night, or that he keeps it up almost every night, is not the impressive part. What’s amazing is that he is left alone to do his thing. He just dances, mostly alone, smiling crazily like a g-string Buda, and posing for pictures with whoever asks.
He even had an imitator, Chud, who was drafting after his fashion icon with a black cowboy hat, a long sleeve sheer shirt that stopped just passed his naval, and a miniature vibrator clipped to his teabag. He also claimed to be sporting a temporary tattoo over his shaved pubic zone, but I didn’t get close enough to verify this. You may think these men crazy, but I bet The Senator gets laid by a wider variety of women than the majority of clubster patrolling Ybor City.
A good number of attendants actually fit into the skintight PVC fetish wear as impressively as the models advertised on the event's flyer. Granted, this was partly because many of them were the models advertised on the flyer, wearing Kamila in white pasties that matches her lace lingerie. Gia Nova, the most tattoo woman ever in Playboy, also hung out after performing a burlesque fetish show involving baby oil and a mannequin hand.
Many of the attractive people came in pairs, wearing matching outfits, and having a tendency to fondle each other. Maybe all you need to keep the spark in a long term relationship is a few fetish outfits and an open mind.
This wasn’t the anti social crowd of vampire wannabes I was partly expecting—people who spend their days hiding from the sun, gaming, reading comic books, or
These were the people who serve your coffee, fix your computer, or head up your HR department as was the case with a woman named Maus, wearing a form fitting leather dress, black stockings, elevator boots, a white nurse’s cap, and a white medical mask smeared with blood. Her fellow go-go dancer, Lena was in a similar black PVC suit with a vampire cape, fishnets over red stockings, a black medical mask, and a
The more I talked to people, the more I realized the only real fetish most had, other than an affinity for tattoos, electronic music, piercings, and wild hair, was a fetish for dressing up and drinking.
After the first hour I didn’t mind being stood up. Alone, I was forced to meet people I might otherwise have been intimidated by. It helped that I was taking pictures for
If you missed this fetish party, don’t worry,
Secret Room is throwing a
Fetish Con After-Party August 14 at The Castle, with a Vamps and Vixens theme.
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This article appears in Jul 22-28, 2009.