The Club was full of sad vampires.
Feb. 12th, 2009 10:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elfsThe club was full of sad vampires.
Omaha and I had managed to find a sitter for Wednesday night. Lisa, who had recovered from a terrible chest cold, offered her services and even offered to take the girls to the weekly family swim at the local pool, so we took her up on the offer and swept outselves out to a restaurant and then over to the club.
The restaurant we hit was the Flying Fish, a place on 1st Avenue famed for their seafood and feared for their prices. Omaha and I shared a bowl of steamed mussles, then she had crab cakes and I had the cold-seared Ahi tuna. When they say "cold seared," they mean it: the fish is lain cold on a hot skillet just long enough to sear the outside and kill any bacteria, then served with the core of the thick fish cool and still quivering. A hash of diced onions perfectly herbed complemented the meal wonderfully. The price was outrageous, and not something to be repeated often, but it was still exceptional.
We went to the club. Our first sign that this wasn't going to be our night was the music: surf music. Inside, the club was dead, maybe 25 people, a third of its usual draw. The theme was surf night, with Hawaiian shirts and grass skirts. As we walked into the socializing area we passed by a buxom woman wearing a red bra and brown cotton skirt. Three men had been buzzing around her politely, only one of whom I recognized. The woman looked up at me and Omaha and said, "Hi! Are you new here?"
We both bust out laughing, and so did one of the three around her. Our ID cards are sub-100, and more than that I've got ID cards from Beyond the Edge, which was before the Wetspot, which was before whatever the current club is really called.
Omaha and I stayed less than an hour, and eventually left. The place was... sad. There was bad porn on the TV-- Astrid and Freya, guys, if you're gonna put on girl-girl porn, make it good girl-girl porn. There was really bad surf music playing through and, I'm sorry, fucking to the Beach Boys is just not Omaha's thing, or mine.
But more than that, the club was full of lonely men in street clothes there to fill their eyes and memories to serve their later masturbatory moments. We call these guys "vampires" because they suck all the pleasure and fun out of any scene you might be having with their avaricious gaze.
[Elf pauses to tie an onion to his belt.] Twenty years ago, the overwhelming rule at these parties was that you had to bring someone. Those events were called "Kinky Couples" for a reason. You had to have at least one friend who'd go to this kind of thing with you. While I understand the economic realities that force the club to be open to singles, I don't have to like it, and I don't.
I understand that having children has blown a big hole in my social life and I can't be the once highly-visible advocate and educator for my personal kinks as I once was, nor can I interact with all the different flavors of sexuality being supported by the club these days. But I miss the days when being kinky and leather meant something, and we had a unified idea of that meaning strong enough to discourage trolls.
Damn, I'm starting to sound a lot like the generation of gay men and lesbians who taught me about leather, aren't I? "You kids, you just don't understand how hard it was." Ah, well.
Omaha and I had managed to find a sitter for Wednesday night. Lisa, who had recovered from a terrible chest cold, offered her services and even offered to take the girls to the weekly family swim at the local pool, so we took her up on the offer and swept outselves out to a restaurant and then over to the club.
The restaurant we hit was the Flying Fish, a place on 1st Avenue famed for their seafood and feared for their prices. Omaha and I shared a bowl of steamed mussles, then she had crab cakes and I had the cold-seared Ahi tuna. When they say "cold seared," they mean it: the fish is lain cold on a hot skillet just long enough to sear the outside and kill any bacteria, then served with the core of the thick fish cool and still quivering. A hash of diced onions perfectly herbed complemented the meal wonderfully. The price was outrageous, and not something to be repeated often, but it was still exceptional.
We went to the club. Our first sign that this wasn't going to be our night was the music: surf music. Inside, the club was dead, maybe 25 people, a third of its usual draw. The theme was surf night, with Hawaiian shirts and grass skirts. As we walked into the socializing area we passed by a buxom woman wearing a red bra and brown cotton skirt. Three men had been buzzing around her politely, only one of whom I recognized. The woman looked up at me and Omaha and said, "Hi! Are you new here?"
We both bust out laughing, and so did one of the three around her. Our ID cards are sub-100, and more than that I've got ID cards from Beyond the Edge, which was before the Wetspot, which was before whatever the current club is really called.
Omaha and I stayed less than an hour, and eventually left. The place was... sad. There was bad porn on the TV-- Astrid and Freya, guys, if you're gonna put on girl-girl porn, make it good girl-girl porn. There was really bad surf music playing through and, I'm sorry, fucking to the Beach Boys is just not Omaha's thing, or mine.
But more than that, the club was full of lonely men in street clothes there to fill their eyes and memories to serve their later masturbatory moments. We call these guys "vampires" because they suck all the pleasure and fun out of any scene you might be having with their avaricious gaze.
[Elf pauses to tie an onion to his belt.] Twenty years ago, the overwhelming rule at these parties was that you had to bring someone. Those events were called "Kinky Couples" for a reason. You had to have at least one friend who'd go to this kind of thing with you. While I understand the economic realities that force the club to be open to singles, I don't have to like it, and I don't.
I understand that having children has blown a big hole in my social life and I can't be the once highly-visible advocate and educator for my personal kinks as I once was, nor can I interact with all the different flavors of sexuality being supported by the club these days. But I miss the days when being kinky and leather meant something, and we had a unified idea of that meaning strong enough to discourage trolls.
Damn, I'm starting to sound a lot like the generation of gay men and lesbians who taught me about leather, aren't I? "You kids, you just don't understand how hard it was." Ah, well.
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-12 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-13 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-12 06:39 pm (UTC)Just as sad, but in a much different way than your club full of vampires.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-12 06:43 pm (UTC)(Sorry, Elf, I know this one in person, for about as long as you've known Jeremy, or possibly a tiny bit less.)
And actually, regular LARPS often felt that way in FL.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-12 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-12 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-13 12:05 am (UTC)But apparently they were more about 1960s hawaii. Oh well.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-13 11:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-13 02:16 am (UTC)***hugs***
no subject
Date: 2009-02-13 06:54 am (UTC)Miss you kind sir. Call me some time.