We are now standing on the premises of a large, old warehouse. Everyone seems chilled. The girls touch up their lipstick. The full moon casts a silver glow upon the iron fence and illuminates my girlfriend’s black hair.
We approach the security check. This February night promises safety with a strict entrance policy. They take time to look into our faces and all of our bags, just as we want to take a deep look into the feelings of a kink night.
We head inside. The moon no longer sees what happens.
As we walk through the entrance and into the first hall, I can sense the essence of this old abandoned factory. We pass by a single cage in a massive space, where a woman in lingerie is dancing slowly, passionately surrendering to the night. Some girls are changing their outfits in this vacant space. I tilt my head back and gaze through the numerous large windows high above us on the ceiling. I notice that these windows are as large and stretched out as the clocks in Dali’s famous painting The Persistence Of Memory. The room is dark. However, the light filtering through the windows accentuates the contours of the women’s bodies, their naked legs and breasts, as they change into fetish outfits.
Music approaches us, its bassline resonating on my throat, conveying a message that no words are necessary here. A doorknob to the final entrance leads us to the heart of the party. And here, you dance. And here, you live. I offer up all my thirst and longing as I stride over the dollar bills on the floor, revealing the shoe prints of hundreds of guests. Women look into my eyes as they press their dancing bodies against the stripper’s pole.