
In contrast to the menacing dress code being enforced at Element, Vault was all flower-powered heterogeneity. Barney Rubble and Fred Flintstone made an appearance in a clever tribute to ’60s television, as well as Lily’s anachronistic friend Kyoko whose little white bowler hat we decided looked slightly more celebrate-the-victorious-Allied-troops than bring-the-boys-home-from-Vietnam.
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Before long, however, a stream of leather-clad émigrés began making their descent down the stairs. What had we here? Apparently, a decision had been made to open the staircase between the two venues, allowing a free flow of Halloween revelers from one party to the other. One of the first pilgrims, a chubby witch with fishnet stockings, a coffin-shaped handbag and a lollipop in her mouth, followed close behind a young couple chained together at the neck. A science experiment unfolded: what chemical reaction would result as these newcomers decked out in their house of horrors best interacted with all of us ’60s throwbacks?

Now, I’ve seen a lot in my six years exploring the nightlife of this iniquitous capital. But the sea of gotho-sado-masochism surging upstairs at SMack!, which bills itself as NYC’s premier fetish party, caught me off-guard. Everyone upstairs was dressed in black. Chimeras with ram’s horns curling out of their dreadlocks stared at my dandy attire through vacant white pupils. A sturdy man in leather rotated a spit to which a young woman was strapped horizontally (like a roasting pig, but without the fire). I lasted only five minutes before I decided to put an end to my peek upstairs (though I ventured back a while later, just in time for a depressing display involving two topless she-devils, some hot wax and a strap-on dildo of a not inconsequential size).

Downstairs, Elegantly Wasted was getting lively. Our guests from SMack! were digging the electronic stylings of Elegantly Wasted’s resident DJ, Velizar?, and crowded the dance floor. I marveled at the strange circumstances that brought such two unlikely crowds together on the dance floor: hippies mixed easily with harpies, afros and devil’s horns bobbing in unison. Once I got away from the Marilyn Manson soundtrack, I saw they were such a sexy and fun bunch. I met a lovely Cleopatra who asked me if my notepad was part of my costume. Yes, I responded, I’m covering the Vietnam War protests. “Are you kidding?” she laughed. “Dude, this is a fetish party.”
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© Justin Lynch 2007
1 comments:
unbelievable! I stumbled upon this blog through this party's listing on NYMag... you told me this story on the subway after Jessie's performance, but not the name of the party - and here it is. small world. well, hope your dance hiatus from law is going swimmingly!
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