A dingy S/M basement bar on Ninth Avenue. No sign; just the number: 28.
Spider is giving this costume party benefit to legalize tattooing in New York City.
Everyone will be here. Center stage is a huge blowup of out latest collaboration: TATTOOED FETUS.
"Whadda ya think Chaz? Shall we pass out blindfolds and play Pin the Tail On the Fetus?"
Marco dressed in a lavender jockstrap, cringes at the thought. "That's disgusting. I'm not going to have anything to do with this. I'm going to stay in the back rooms and eat shit all night. Perverts!"
"OK," says Spider. "I thought that game might be a wee bit heavy. So I brought along this basket of tomatoes. We'll have a little theater along with the art show."
Annie squats on the bar, pissing all over some guy. Three others ravish some girl in the corner. A pregnant witch named Original Sin throws the first tomato at the fetus photograph. SPLAT! Someone offers me a hit of LSD: I hear the Devil talking. SPLAT! I refuse, remembering the last time I mixed street acid with hard booze and made a comlplete fool of myself. No thanks.
I have been sober for weeks, but whiskey flows in my veins tonight. I wonder through the crowd, flashing pictures. A hooded leatherman silently pantomimes smashing my camera if I take his picture. I move on. In a hallway near the back rooms and glory holes, a paunchy middle-aged man sniffs popper and jerks off, lost in his own private reverie. My flash explodes: the image is blinding.
Photographer GATEWOOD's party reminisces.
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