almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

That Dirty Show thing opened last weekend. I attended with some friends on Saturday night and was pleasantly surprised that the atmosphere wasn't completely fouled by cigarette smoke this time. Oh there were smokers, to be sure, but the only place it was a real problem was in the back of the room, down the narrow, low-ceilinged passageway that housed several erotic sideshows, the restrooms and an ancillary bar.

The main room was crowded with the usual assortment of curious onlookers, paid strippers, artistes and an assortment of freaky fetish folk. There was a place near where my painting hung where I could stand and get cool fresh air being blown in from an overhead duct, so I spent much of my time there. The stage was within view, and as an added bonus, there was a young, shapely woman dressed in a skimpy red, white and blue outfit and sunglasses standing atop a short wooden box in six-inch heels. Except for calm breathing, I didn't see her move for at least an hour, her frozen, pale, nearly naked body adorned in the colors of the flag apparently being a performance 'piece'.

There didn't seem to be that one big blockbuster object that attracted a crowd this year, though. There were many, many photographs (far too many in my opinion) of naked tits, cocks, cunts and cocks inside cunts. My painting was actually sandwiched between a large sepia print of a fake-boobed naked blond fingering herself on one side, while just past the exit door on the other side hung a black and white photo of a huge limp dick. Little wonder why I saw so many people pass my image by in favor of the pornographic nature of the photographs that surrounded it. Of course, you know my opinion has always been that if you put the Mona Lisa in a room with a small photo of a couple fucking that the photo would draw far more attention than da Vinci's masterpiece.

A large print of Bettie Page by glamour photographer Bunny Yeager dominated the far side of the room and there were a handsome pair of colorful small gouaches by Chicago illustrator Mitch O'Connell that featured the Hanna-Barbera characters Yogi Bear and Wally Gator, the latter two pieces being my favorites from the entire show.

I drank beer steadily having secured a designated driver, watched the stage shows and roamed the room flirting with any woman that would talk to me. Around 10:45, while on my way to the back bar for a refill (Heineken... they'd run out of Blue by then!), I heard them caution that the next act was not for the 'faint of heart'. I didn't think much of it, hype being two-thirds of the Dirty Show to start with. Upon my return I was a bit shocked to see a young couple suspended high above the stage by a series of meat hooks run through the skin of their backs just above the shoulder blades.

I watched numbly (thanks in part to the beer, of course) as the two of them swung back and forth like pendulums, meeting in the middle for hugs, kisses and caresses, while their back flesh stretched to what looked like the point of tearing completely through. Especially the guy, who's weight seemed to cause him to sag ever further until I half expected him to fall to the stage with a thud. Blood streamed down their sides and backs in thin rivulets as they hung there. Eventually they were joined by a third person - a bald man wearing white makeup that simulated the look of a vampire, who was similarly hooked in several spots on his back. He swung around behind them, arms outstretched like a demonic angel overseeing the lover's movements, all amid the din of metal music.

After the 'act' was over and they were lowered to the stage, one of their assistants disconnected the hooks from the apparatus that had supported them, and they took their bows with the stainless barbs still protruding from their shoulders. Once they'd exited, stage hands began swabbing the area with mops and spraying the blood-soaked floor with disinfectant. I went for another beer. On my way back from the bar I noticed the young couple walking through the crowd and saw as they passed me that they had a couple of large, flesh-colored rectangular bandages over each side of their backs where the hooks had been set. They seemed happy and full of life.

Shortly thereafter, Louis and I decided we'd had enough for one night and left. As I crossed Russell directly in front of Bert's, a large SUV took off from where it was parked and accelerated directly towards me. I was so stunned by the driver's carelessness that I just stood there in the middle of the street lit by the headlights while he approached. Eventually the car veered around me, with me screaming 'Asshole!' as he drove away and swerved around the corner.

“Why didn't you jump out of the way?” Louis asked.

“I couldn't believe it was actually happening,” I said.

I wasn't able to talk Louis into a nightcap at Hot Tamales, where I had hoped to force the bloody image of the people hanging on hooks out of my memory with a warm lap dance or two, so I was home in bed by midnight.

By the way, my painting thus far hasn't sold, but there's still another weekend of attendance planned for the show, the next big bash being on Valentine's Day. I'm not sure if there will be a repeat performance by the people hanging on hooks, but I'd doubt that their flesh would stand up to it twice within a week's time. I know if they'd hung me above the stage on meat hooks, that speeding SUV that nearly ran me down would have been somebody (anybody!) driving my screaming, squeamish ass to the emergency room.

Warm Regards,
Rembrandt van Sherman