When I lived in New York, I was in-house artist for the Black Party, New York's underground no-more 'dark side'-show. Once it was an amazing, beating black heart, lodged in the ribcage of the city. In a way, it still is, but a lot had happened in the thirty years of its existence. Now we were living in a splintered New York, Manhattan looking over its shoulder at a insouciant Brooklyn that didn't give a fiddle for its grubby, gilded past. The codes of yesteryear, all those Folsom fetishes might have seeped into the porno-mainstream consciousness, but let's be honest here, a (Roseland Ball)room, this fleshfarm of shiny cowhide and methy machorobotics seemed anachronistic at best. I'm being nice about a societal dead end. The kids sniffed, wrinkled their noses, and mostly got back on the L-train.
I always wondered though, what if those desires still existed, their genepool mutated perhaps? Where was the window, slightly ajar, that allowed them to escape, and roam on the streets like they used to in the heady avenues of the seventies?
Then I saw this, and got to thinking.