She walks past a table, near the front of the club, where a gray-haired maternal type is selling Celtic-cross jewelry and riding crops. Next to that table is another, where a couple is dressed in and selling networks of leather straps and metal rings.
A woman with spiky hair, a mesh halter top and a belt made of handcuffs walks through the ozone-smelling fog that belches from the vent at the front of the stage. A young woman stops making out with her boyfriend to dance with a red lightstick clutched in each hand, her arms tracing designs in the air.
Up near the bar, clubbers are milling about in shirts and jackets advertising bands such as Skinny Puppy, New Order, Slayer, S.O.D., My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, Henry Rollins and the Psychedelic Furs. A man in silvery pants reminiscent of the Mercury astronauts walks past two projection screens showing scenes from Conan the Barbarian.
A curvy Draculina in knee-high boots, purple crushed-velvet dress, scarlet lipstick and Bettie Page bangs passes. A pair of pale Lane Bryant types with absurdly large shelves of cleavage, pushed up medieval-barmaid-style, smoke and look around disdainfully.
To the funeral-parlor organ of Nick Cave's "Red Right Hand," a guy with a raccoon tail dangling over the ass of his jeans walks by. As he passes, the fake horns glued to his forehead are visible.
To the wails of Danzig, two lesbian couples make out next to one another, as if on cue. A woman shaved bald passes a man with a butch collar and a widow's peak drawn on with kohl.
It's time for the show.
Two women in thong underwear and dark bras under catsuits and strap-on butterfly wings cavort across the stage, batting each other with flowers. Then the spider-people -- a man and woman in various leather garments -- come to eat the butterfly-women, first wrapping them in cocoons of bondage straps and fake spiderwebs. One butterfly-woman is bound face-first to an X-shaped crucifix and stimulated anally with a large massage vibrator; the other is tied to a suspended scaffold of metal pipes and whipped lightly with a cat-o'-nine-tails.
Suddenly two men clad in overalls, gas masks and tool belts holding flyswatters spray the ensemble with fake insecticide. The butterfly-women are pretend-abused; then the gas masks come off and the exterminators make out with their quarry amid general whipping.
While all this is transpiring onstage, in a dark corner of the club, near the bathrooms, a young woman sits on a stool, kissing a standing young man. He succeeds in getting a hand inside her shorts. They find the right openings in their clothes and have slow, drunken sex.
It is just another Fetish Night at the Galaxy.
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