Review Summary: Here's a few ideas of what can be done to enjoy your sex life even more, complete in an easy-consumption format (EDM) by the Lords of Acid.
There’s a distinct sound of my heels clopping on the concrete as I approach the ticket window to pay for my entry tonight. He eyes my ID and then darts his eyes to compare as if confirming my arrival at a military installation. My ears resonate with the muffled bass from inside the club; it must rattle his poor cubicle all night. I hear the crowd cheering up a storm as I hold out my wrist for the stamp. This is it. This is the night I’ve waited all week for. A pulsing warmth flows through my legs as I step around the line for the phone booths, and I can feel the warmth like a mist from the crowd as I make my approach. I light a smile. There’s another pulse, a heady buzzing from a life breathing in my veins, and the strobe lights are smeared around my corneas. I pad my hand on the hem of my stockings to make sure it’s still there and run my finger over the plastic ziplock and safety pin. After all, one snort never put anybody back on.
I sniffle and make eye contact with another guy. He’s hella cute, rubbing up on another guy and gal next to him, and he glances toe-upward at me from my heels and through my short black dress with his superior vision before finally meeting my eyes. They must look as dilated as his, and he nudges me toward with his invitation. To be one with the crowd is to be alive, and to awaken. Here the men bare their bronzed definitions as they slip into face paint and mascara, and the women stand strong in denim and leather. I gyrate my hips and take in the flushed skin of the bodies around, comforting caress of flesh brushing as one in particular inches up behind me. A couple songs later and he’s contesting my place, fighting the same rhythm and pace. A sweat beads on my forehead and another wets the fabric on my hips as I close my eyes, my eyelids pierced through by strobe flashes of crimson and other hot colors on my cheeks. I can feel him throbbing through his tense shorts and I turn my head to catch a glimpse of his arms held high as he matches my dance, glow sticks fastened around them, an offering to the rafters.
Every aural beat is an assault to change the rhythm of the heart, each word an erogenous declaration of passion. And yet no one here would know the secrets beneath my plausible exterior without taking me to someplace more private. There’s a blaring and muffled Bill Cosby quote, complete in a drunken drawl saying, “Let’s get high and have fun.” I couldn’t agree more with the Jell-O-Pudding-man at this moment, despite that family-friendly persona he has going for him. When I was nearer to the entrance, I couldn’t hear much else aside from a song ostensibly titled “Rough Sex,” an acid rave featuring the Seven Dwarfs with a cowbell, and some kind of humorous alliteration about horny space-faring Aliens, but now I’m beginning to interpret most of the lyrics to these tracks:
“God I love myself. I’ve got a great body – I love my body, yeah…. I am the ultimate seduction,” she says.
I wonder if it’s about a woman exploring and expressing her body, as though she were in love with herself, or rather a scene of a crossdresser looking upon their new self in the mirror. I say that because there’s a Rocky Horror fan dancing in the iconic Frank-N-Furter attire in the front row, and another in a more conservative but alluring sequin gown on the stage. The latter is right up my alley, and I rub myself briefly to assuage a stirring at an improper time. I close my eyes in my dance and breathe in the brunt of this writhing mass of hundreds of deodorants and their accompanying sweat, and recompose myself in a single exhalation. With my hands lifted high I skim my ponytail with the flats of my wrists. The DJ himself, a man flaunting short shorts and a fishnet top, assumedly goes by the name Praga Khan as it is spelled on his keyboard, has diamond studded sunglasses on with crude streaks of dark body paint coming out from around his eyes like a burglar’s mask.
My attention is back at the ground floor and myself, where another guy beside us is nodding his dreads, he hands me a tab and I sacrifice it on my tongue while shooting him a daring look into his relaxed eyelids. I let my head fall back and laugh. Now blurred. Yeah, awesome. I turn around and return the compliment to my mysterious partner by placing my hands on his hips. I see he’s accompanied by another woman. She smiles and dances up beside me as well. She says a line of nonsense and she’s really concentrated on enunciating this something to me. I’m being asked by them for something more private. I nod hell yes and say cool with a wide grin. It’s more about how you’re dressed after all, and someone’s first judgment of you can mean free hits or drinks, and whether or not you are asked to the private rooms. And with music like this, with its pulsating hives and rave beats and themes suggesting the very ends of the imagination, what better activity is there?
The night is fresh and they lead the way. I’m distracted by the singer on the stage, a woman of intimidating power who stands clad in an ensemble of fetish wear, of a leather corset and thigh high boots with a crop firmly held in hand. The DJ announces a song called “Sit on Acid,” and she walks to the front of the stage.
"Darling come here, f*** me up the-" She says, omitting the final note in the tune of Ring Around the Rosie. Her disembodied voice moans over the feverish beat, breathing both as a part of the music and leading it with her pepperings of laughing in a state of ecstasy.
“I want to sit on your face,” she says, and then repeats into the mic in her trance-like mantra, “C’mon…”
She draws up the image of her straddling, to which the crowd goes wild. The people are gestating in an erotic fervor and building up to something grand I feel that I’m going to miss. I’m still being led around and through the crowd by the woman and her boytoy from earlier. I’m able to grab one of those flimsy opaque Dixie cups of water from the table in the back and I splash it across my lips, pretending it was accidental, and drink the last sips from the cup as I toss it into a bin. The dungeon monitors stand outside the rooms on their respectful watch. A look rests on their face as if to say “Only the young bring it in, but they aren’t young for long,” and the aural noise seems to fade into a pulsing bass when we shut the door behind us.
Dank room, I think, and I mean that in the best way. The night stands before me for my choosing, with my matching lace bra and panties on full display to them as I sit on the edge of the couch. The blond haired gal is giggling to herself as she takes her clothes off in a drunken stupor and is unable to kick the panties off her foot. He helps peel them off her toes and throws them to the side. I’m watching them intently as I unfasten my baggie of concentrated joy from my hosiery, and dap it into lines on the edge of the couch. Of course, I’m nice enough to share. They both take turns on the others. Fuck. A berserk pinball machine goes off in my mind, flashing red and blue lights. The girl kneels and sniffles, now clearly in the same state of mind as myself, and pulls his pants and underwear down. His erection is filling up and hovers mere inches from my lips and I shoot a glare at him, remaining refractory to his stance. The gal then leans in toward me as if to break me, and unclasps my garter belt in her dazzling trance. She pulls my mine down and an excited gasp escapes from her mouth like a cornered cat breaking into a sprint, her eyes in an exhibition of joy. Her hand cradles around the shaft I had been harboring, and meets me with a kiss. The man leans into us. I listen down into myself and relent, taking in the beat as it echoes off the room.
