Saturday: Hexxt on Wheels
Jan. 16th, 2006 02:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonIt was Gangster-Zombie-freeze-your-ass-off-in-a-corset night, and always a sucker for a mixed theme party, there I was shoulder to shoulder with wiseguys and walking dead alike. I showed up at around 11ish, brandishing a big ol' bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon, a two liter bottle of coke and an open mind. What else could I do? I had a full moon howling in my blood, a bug up my ass and an itch I just couldn't scratch. So when my buddy called me up, asking whether or not I wanted to ride shotgun with him to a gothic speak-easy, I found myself verbally shrugging my "why not" before I even thought about it.
A pretty little Flapper transvestite takes my money when I walk in. I register my alcohol with 'secuirty', trading my bottle for a green wrist band. I'm given a number to drink with. I walk in down the hallway, passing a brightly lit play dungeon with a zombie cheerleader doing cheesecake poses for a leather clad photographer. She leans in forward provacatively and for a moment there I forget the necrosis skin and blood stained chin. A flashbulb fires and throws her shadow behind her like a loaded pair of dice and she shifts poses, lifting the hem of her skirt to show some fishnet flank and she puts a single finger in her mouth. I keep going before I creep out living dead girl. Finally the hallway twists down and opens up on a large pocket of packed dancefloor. A wave of body heat, darkwave and crowd chatter wash over me. I make my way to the bar and then outside to the patio for a much needed shot of cancer.
I get out there and am swarmed by familiar faces, casual acquaintances and old friends alike.
"Hey!"
"Hi!"
"Whassup?"
"Aren't you...?"
I smile. I shake hands. I hug. I fire a volley of winks into a battalion of thick thighed mob molls who deflect them with a bemused smirk. I'm not two cigarettes in before I need a refill. Memory grows denser now. Compacted images. The layers of recall begin blurring into each other: Crying she presses her face into his chest. She takes her by the back of the neck, bends her over and begins laying down a slap/spank rhythm you can hear over the jackhammer beat of the music. A circle of coughing fanatics assemble around the heat lamps, talking madness under the canopy netting. An old friend is bear hugged into submission by a laughing friend while a quiet young thing in a bowler hat and a teddy finds the smile of just the right guy. It all blurs around me. I shift from spectator to spectacle. I am taken by the hand and guided to the floor. I remember the song and dance to it easily. I pivot. I crouch. I kick. I take her and thrust her into me. Our hands glide over each other. I throw her against a wall that has Boondock Saints being projected across it. I pin her wrists above her head and kiss deep while the giant sized head of William Dafoe sneers on. Everything spins around me. I am perfect in my drunkness. Invulnerable to the crippling insecurities that plague me in public situations. I'm fiction me now. I can do anything as long as I have the imagination and the balls to pull it off.
Reemerge. The sun is coming up on Ponce DeLeon. My friend and I are sitting at the Majestic. He's watching me vacuum eggs, waffles, sausage and coffee down my throat. The place is quiet. Just the rattle of silverware being washed from the side kitchen.
"Why didn't you go home with her?" He asks.
I shrug, savoring a fresh mouthful of waffles drenched in syrup. I know the answer but that's not for here and it's not for now. Soon i'm walking through the door of my apartment only 8 hours after walking out of it. In 24 hours i'll be leaving for work. I sit on my bed and wait for the room to stop spinning.
That was Saturday and that was Hexxt.
A pretty little Flapper transvestite takes my money when I walk in. I register my alcohol with 'secuirty', trading my bottle for a green wrist band. I'm given a number to drink with. I walk in down the hallway, passing a brightly lit play dungeon with a zombie cheerleader doing cheesecake poses for a leather clad photographer. She leans in forward provacatively and for a moment there I forget the necrosis skin and blood stained chin. A flashbulb fires and throws her shadow behind her like a loaded pair of dice and she shifts poses, lifting the hem of her skirt to show some fishnet flank and she puts a single finger in her mouth. I keep going before I creep out living dead girl. Finally the hallway twists down and opens up on a large pocket of packed dancefloor. A wave of body heat, darkwave and crowd chatter wash over me. I make my way to the bar and then outside to the patio for a much needed shot of cancer.
I get out there and am swarmed by familiar faces, casual acquaintances and old friends alike.
"Hey!"
"Hi!"
"Whassup?"
"Aren't you...?"
I smile. I shake hands. I hug. I fire a volley of winks into a battalion of thick thighed mob molls who deflect them with a bemused smirk. I'm not two cigarettes in before I need a refill. Memory grows denser now. Compacted images. The layers of recall begin blurring into each other: Crying she presses her face into his chest. She takes her by the back of the neck, bends her over and begins laying down a slap/spank rhythm you can hear over the jackhammer beat of the music. A circle of coughing fanatics assemble around the heat lamps, talking madness under the canopy netting. An old friend is bear hugged into submission by a laughing friend while a quiet young thing in a bowler hat and a teddy finds the smile of just the right guy. It all blurs around me. I shift from spectator to spectacle. I am taken by the hand and guided to the floor. I remember the song and dance to it easily. I pivot. I crouch. I kick. I take her and thrust her into me. Our hands glide over each other. I throw her against a wall that has Boondock Saints being projected across it. I pin her wrists above her head and kiss deep while the giant sized head of William Dafoe sneers on. Everything spins around me. I am perfect in my drunkness. Invulnerable to the crippling insecurities that plague me in public situations. I'm fiction me now. I can do anything as long as I have the imagination and the balls to pull it off.
Reemerge. The sun is coming up on Ponce DeLeon. My friend and I are sitting at the Majestic. He's watching me vacuum eggs, waffles, sausage and coffee down my throat. The place is quiet. Just the rattle of silverware being washed from the side kitchen.
"Why didn't you go home with her?" He asks.
I shrug, savoring a fresh mouthful of waffles drenched in syrup. I know the answer but that's not for here and it's not for now. Soon i'm walking through the door of my apartment only 8 hours after walking out of it. In 24 hours i'll be leaving for work. I sit on my bed and wait for the room to stop spinning.
That was Saturday and that was Hexxt.
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no subject
on 2006-01-17 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
on 2006-01-17 02:00 am (UTC)