Frolicon, part 1
With many apologies to my inspirations, Dr Thompson and Mr Zelazny--may they look down, nod, and return their attention to the next glass of mead, and the tits of the Valkyrie bringing it. So...I have whisky, I have a Djarum kretek, I have Songs of the Doomed open next to me. Let's get this show on the road.
The last time I woke up yesterday*, I finally knew I was home, instead of thinking that the cat had somehow transported herself to my hotel room, or M.'s. The trip had ended in the kind of exhaustion where, wherever you find yourself, you don't quite believe you're there. It had also started that way. Atlanta traffic, at the wrong time of day, is the sort of thing that you can almost feel taking little carrot-peeler shavings off your sanity, and I had almost entirely forgotten about food in my desire to get to the convention quickly. By the time I arrived at the hotel, I looked like I was coming off a bad bender, and when I actually did pour alcohol on top of this combination at one of the room-parties that night ("Teenage Wasteland", 70s theme, blacklight and rock posters...), I was in a sad state indeed. Somehow, my idea of the proper sort of conversation with several young women I found interesting had become florid flattery edging out of purple and into ultraviolet, and my legs kept collapsing under me.
"Go drink more," one of the girls said, "You're making a fool of yourself." I took the point but not the advice, and finally noticed the condition I was in. A couple drinks shouldn't have gotten to me that badly--my blood sugar must be down. Food. I had to eat, and I stumbled off vaguely in search of it. I inquired around, and found that all of the delivery places were already shut down. Somehow, I ended up forgetting all about it in shooting bull with a couple and their friends (this including the woman's husband), ranging all over from life stories to philosophy and politics. After observing them, I can say that the most damning criticism of cocaine I have heard is true; it makes you duller, thinking you're more clever even as the forward pressure of the stimulation narrows the scope of your mind. Naturally, I declined their offer to partake of the stuff myself. I shouldn't be too hard on them, though; they had the brainwidth to spare, and I only noticed the progression when I remembered later. And they finally set me up with some food. I don't think I'd ever thought of comparing a granola bar and beef jerky to divine ambrosia before.
This spirit of sharing wasn't unique to them; somehow, in being a geeky event as well as a kinky one, Frolicon's atmosphere is overwhelmingly positive and open. Except for a few utter wankers who seem to only have heard it is a party and missed both of the emphases I mentioned (you can tell them by the tendency to whoop in the crowded elevators, or else to be disturbed by the spectacle of SM--one of the finest bits of free entertainment came when a turtlenecked Abercrombie type nearly jumped out of his shoes on looking in the door of a play space), speaking with anyone for a minute or two makes you feel you've gained a friend, and you have license to stare at anything you like. I often feel that we, and I mean the geeks, the playful ones obsessed with other worlds, really carry the torch of the old honesty-seeking counterculture. And that is the side of this event that I credit the pleasant vibe to; this may offend some, but I've found that "normal" leather events are far less confortable, full of conflicting overinflated egos and an overseriousness that makes them feel more like a business conference than a social event.
I'm certain that it didn't hurt that pretty much any intoxicant you were looking for could be found if you wanted it. Well, not quite any--word had spread that the acid man was out by ten the first night, but...my God. Acid. On the East Coast, in 2006.
Where was I? Ah, instant friends. A few notable among them--There was the couple I ran into repeatedly by sheer chance, who almost looked too young to attend, though they were close to my age. It turned out that the girl had lost much of her memory in an accident a few months earlier; all I can say is that she couldn't have picked a better place to build a new foundation of memories, at least if she intends on a life among the weird. There was also the fellow who spent much of the convention wearing a sign that said, "Big. Black. Bisexual. Bewildered. Hug me." And no one felt disinclined to; he was one of the most genuinely sweet people I've met anywhere, even after he realised that he was in the wrong place, that he wanted carefully developed friendships rather than instant, and that the open hedonism about didn't agree with him. I hope he finds what he's looking for...
I could spin this out into a long dramatis personae, but I think that I'll bring up other people as they enter into stories. Suffice it to say that there are many faces I'll be happy to see at future conventions, both geek, leather, and happily combined like this.
...any my mind refuses to be satisfied with the prior explanation of my ruined state that first night. The falling and stumbling wasn't entirely due to alcohol and weakness; that damned traffic had kept my foot jamming the brake hard for over an hour, and my right leg was considering a walkout, particularly after my rather ungraceful collapse onto the pile of the "dead" at the "Virgin Sacrifice" for those new to the con--which was everyone (who wanted to go up) this time, as Frolicon is new, risen from the ashes of Fantasm. It's funny in retrospect that people worried it would be a toned-down version; the figurative balls were out far more than at that last Fantasm.
At any rate, the "sacrifice" wasn't entirely pain and silliness; my well-trained manner, in trying to keep out of her sightline and in realising that holding my things when I went up was a favour and not just something to expect, highly impressed Lady G. Yes, I know I haven't mentioned her yet. I first met her and her boyfriend C. (Both tops. scooterbird, can you explain how this keeps happening?) at another, far more entertaining bit of programmed silliness, a game of Truth or Dare, with a liquor-shot penalty available if you couldn't take the question or challenge. It's a shame that outside Frolicon this is mostly a high-school thing, because it gets far more interesting when the players have more to tell... Anyway, I found myself sitting next to C. and exchanging side comments, and then to be the one looking most eager when Lady G. was dared to flog someone...some dare, I say, she couldn't leave the toy alone the whole time. Hell of a first impression, yes, especially when it's been as long as it had for me, but talking after, I found that they, especially she, were very cool, many interests in common in music and suchlike, and they became my on-and-off companions for most of the con. This is not the whole story, but I shall leave you hanging until the next part...
To return to some semblance of chronology, I felt better after the food, but found that it was the end of a long day, and I was too tired to keep up with the artificially energised...so I crashed out, a longer day awaiting me...
*Yesterday, that is, when I started this. Monday. Much like Coleridge, I was troubled with a visitor--but the inspirations of Scotch are less fugitive than those of opium, and I've been able to pick up where I left off. Wait, he came and left before I started actually writing--but the ideas were already bubbling in my head, and I'll hold onto the reference. It's a pretension that amuses me.
Will screen comments, and leave them so if you ask.
The last time I woke up yesterday*, I finally knew I was home, instead of thinking that the cat had somehow transported herself to my hotel room, or M.'s. The trip had ended in the kind of exhaustion where, wherever you find yourself, you don't quite believe you're there. It had also started that way. Atlanta traffic, at the wrong time of day, is the sort of thing that you can almost feel taking little carrot-peeler shavings off your sanity, and I had almost entirely forgotten about food in my desire to get to the convention quickly. By the time I arrived at the hotel, I looked like I was coming off a bad bender, and when I actually did pour alcohol on top of this combination at one of the room-parties that night ("Teenage Wasteland", 70s theme, blacklight and rock posters...), I was in a sad state indeed. Somehow, my idea of the proper sort of conversation with several young women I found interesting had become florid flattery edging out of purple and into ultraviolet, and my legs kept collapsing under me.
"Go drink more," one of the girls said, "You're making a fool of yourself." I took the point but not the advice, and finally noticed the condition I was in. A couple drinks shouldn't have gotten to me that badly--my blood sugar must be down. Food. I had to eat, and I stumbled off vaguely in search of it. I inquired around, and found that all of the delivery places were already shut down. Somehow, I ended up forgetting all about it in shooting bull with a couple and their friends (this including the woman's husband), ranging all over from life stories to philosophy and politics. After observing them, I can say that the most damning criticism of cocaine I have heard is true; it makes you duller, thinking you're more clever even as the forward pressure of the stimulation narrows the scope of your mind. Naturally, I declined their offer to partake of the stuff myself. I shouldn't be too hard on them, though; they had the brainwidth to spare, and I only noticed the progression when I remembered later. And they finally set me up with some food. I don't think I'd ever thought of comparing a granola bar and beef jerky to divine ambrosia before.
This spirit of sharing wasn't unique to them; somehow, in being a geeky event as well as a kinky one, Frolicon's atmosphere is overwhelmingly positive and open. Except for a few utter wankers who seem to only have heard it is a party and missed both of the emphases I mentioned (you can tell them by the tendency to whoop in the crowded elevators, or else to be disturbed by the spectacle of SM--one of the finest bits of free entertainment came when a turtlenecked Abercrombie type nearly jumped out of his shoes on looking in the door of a play space), speaking with anyone for a minute or two makes you feel you've gained a friend, and you have license to stare at anything you like. I often feel that we, and I mean the geeks, the playful ones obsessed with other worlds, really carry the torch of the old honesty-seeking counterculture. And that is the side of this event that I credit the pleasant vibe to; this may offend some, but I've found that "normal" leather events are far less confortable, full of conflicting overinflated egos and an overseriousness that makes them feel more like a business conference than a social event.
I'm certain that it didn't hurt that pretty much any intoxicant you were looking for could be found if you wanted it. Well, not quite any--word had spread that the acid man was out by ten the first night, but...my God. Acid. On the East Coast, in 2006.
Where was I? Ah, instant friends. A few notable among them--There was the couple I ran into repeatedly by sheer chance, who almost looked too young to attend, though they were close to my age. It turned out that the girl had lost much of her memory in an accident a few months earlier; all I can say is that she couldn't have picked a better place to build a new foundation of memories, at least if she intends on a life among the weird. There was also the fellow who spent much of the convention wearing a sign that said, "Big. Black. Bisexual. Bewildered. Hug me." And no one felt disinclined to; he was one of the most genuinely sweet people I've met anywhere, even after he realised that he was in the wrong place, that he wanted carefully developed friendships rather than instant, and that the open hedonism about didn't agree with him. I hope he finds what he's looking for...
I could spin this out into a long dramatis personae, but I think that I'll bring up other people as they enter into stories. Suffice it to say that there are many faces I'll be happy to see at future conventions, both geek, leather, and happily combined like this.
...any my mind refuses to be satisfied with the prior explanation of my ruined state that first night. The falling and stumbling wasn't entirely due to alcohol and weakness; that damned traffic had kept my foot jamming the brake hard for over an hour, and my right leg was considering a walkout, particularly after my rather ungraceful collapse onto the pile of the "dead" at the "Virgin Sacrifice" for those new to the con--which was everyone (who wanted to go up) this time, as Frolicon is new, risen from the ashes of Fantasm. It's funny in retrospect that people worried it would be a toned-down version; the figurative balls were out far more than at that last Fantasm.
At any rate, the "sacrifice" wasn't entirely pain and silliness; my well-trained manner, in trying to keep out of her sightline and in realising that holding my things when I went up was a favour and not just something to expect, highly impressed Lady G. Yes, I know I haven't mentioned her yet. I first met her and her boyfriend C. (Both tops. scooterbird, can you explain how this keeps happening?) at another, far more entertaining bit of programmed silliness, a game of Truth or Dare, with a liquor-shot penalty available if you couldn't take the question or challenge. It's a shame that outside Frolicon this is mostly a high-school thing, because it gets far more interesting when the players have more to tell... Anyway, I found myself sitting next to C. and exchanging side comments, and then to be the one looking most eager when Lady G. was dared to flog someone...some dare, I say, she couldn't leave the toy alone the whole time. Hell of a first impression, yes, especially when it's been as long as it had for me, but talking after, I found that they, especially she, were very cool, many interests in common in music and suchlike, and they became my on-and-off companions for most of the con. This is not the whole story, but I shall leave you hanging until the next part...
To return to some semblance of chronology, I felt better after the food, but found that it was the end of a long day, and I was too tired to keep up with the artificially energised...so I crashed out, a longer day awaiting me...
*Yesterday, that is, when I started this. Monday. Much like Coleridge, I was troubled with a visitor--but the inspirations of Scotch are less fugitive than those of opium, and I've been able to pick up where I left off. Wait, he came and left before I started actually writing--but the ideas were already bubbling in my head, and I'll hold onto the reference. It's a pretension that amuses me.
Will screen comments, and leave them so if you ask.