Tainted Love V

The question emerged from completely out of the blue.

“Do you want to get pierced?” he asked.

I’d heard some odd questions erupt from Kaleidoscope before, but never one quite so disconnected from the moment. His tall frame was laid out on a hammock, swinging gently in the Arizona breeze. His messy, blonde hair fell closer to his eyes as his expression shifted, and his gaze caught a glimpse of me; his eyes searching just as curiously as his ears for my response.

"Nah. I’ve never had the desire to get a piercing," I said from my crouched pose by the river. "I’ve thought of getting a tattoo-"

“I don’t mean to wear,” he went along, “but just being pierced for an art project. These people I know need volunteers.”

I laughed at the suggestion. “I’m not getting stuck through for a little gathering of sadists. What’s the art project, exactly?”

“It’s like—it’s not a project, exactly.” Kaleidoscope—or Scope, for short—had begun the makings of a cigarette, “but a... showing?”

“An exhibit?”

“Exhibit!” he repeated.

I thought for a moment trying to picture just how a scene of this magnitude would look, but nothing solid formed and I let it be.

By now, Scope had screwed the cigarette into his lips, and careful as not to put holes in his hammock, he lit its tip over the edge. When it caught, he laid back again, and exhaled a long, smooth jet of smoke into the air.

“Well, if you know of anyone that’d be interested, let me know. They need volunteers,” he said.

I laughed, “Nobody immediately comes to mind, but you’ll be the first to know if someone does.”

What I hadn’t yet realized was my new roommate had a dark-side. I’d seen darkness in her art, but Scope was soon to help her push the boundaries of sadistic/masochistic artistic expression.

It was called Tainted Love, and it was to be their fifth annual installment; Tainted Love V: Future Funk.

After some brief discussion, my roommate and Scope decided to be pierced together for the occasion, and I was going to tag along, because this was something I had to see.

In a description on their Facebook page, it read:

“The future will be here faster than you think and it’s gonna be damn sexy!”

So get ready to bring your futuristic, fabulous self, and be amazed as worlds collide when all manner of aliens, robots, cyborgs, laboratory-born genetic creations that defy nature, and even a few of those puny humans find themselves sharing one funky dance floor!”

Whether you’re single or coupled, mono or many, lonely or lascivious, come to us in your most exotic, erotic, intoxicating, awe-inspiring, powerful, and provocative outfits. Regardless if you are channeling Judy Jetson or Furiosa, Flash Gordon or Wall-E, or adorned in your own incredible fashion-forward creation, the future will only be as bright and incredible as you make it!”

Let your imagination run wild, and step into tomorrow with friends, lovers, strangers, and others!”

And so it happened, the three of us found ourselves in Mesa on a Saturday afternoon, following directions to an address none of us had been to before. This would be the warm-up; a test-run to see if the volunteers could handle the carnage without passing out, throwing up, or crying “mercy.”

Pulling into a spot on the street, we gaped at the unassuming home before us, fascinated by the hypothetical that behind any door up and down the block and all across the world, there could be something as random and kinky as the piercings, costumes, and artistic-expression taking place inside these very walls.

As we approached the trunk of the car for our own contributions to the cause, a spunky woman with the sides of her head shaved, wearing a grunge T-shirt, holey jeans, and sneakers, came trotting toward the car.

“It’s fucking Momo,” Scope said.

Momo

Momo is a presence that demands attention in both her seemingly natural flashes of driven creativity, and in her outstanding beauty in both the physical regard and the mental attitude she radiates.

If there is any question as to why this amazing party we’d find ourselves moseying through had men and women attached to ropes or each other via chains and piercings they’d just received, whilst dressed in provocative and revealing lingerie, we must look no further than the mysterious and dashing Momo.

To be sure, I knew a man named Boots was the host and creator of this event, and we wouldn’t be expecting his company that day, but Momo was his assistant, or “echo,” as she described herself.

“Boots—I’ve seen him sit up in his sleep... that man never stops,” she said of him.

“It’s been so long!” she said excitably as she strolled across the street.

They embraced and we all said our “hellos” pretty rapidly, and were being ushered into the house as welcomed guests almost immediately.

Walking swiftly through the kitchen, Momo asked, “Would any of you like a beer or cocktail?” But before anyone could answer, she said, “The makings are on the counter; help yourselves.”

I smiled, “I suppose a little ‘hair of the dog’ never hurt anyone.”

Momo laughed, squeezed by us, and spoke behind her shoulder, “The piercings and paint will happen down here,” she said, descending the steps in a graceful quickness.

We followed her down and to the left, into a room that was spotted with mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and other various places, a group of chairs sitting in rows on top of a small stage to the south, (mannequins serving a few of the chairs as audience-members), a mini-DJ contraption surrounded by speakers to our immediate left, and plastic laid out across a cement floor to the far wall.

This is where my roommate and Scope would be pierced together, and where I’d snap pictures of everything and everyone I had the permission to so do.

The entire scene was fascinating, but nothing could prepare me for what the actual event would be.

After a few dry-runs—one in which they were able to convince me to be a participant as a “tape-model,” which essentially means exactly what it sounds like, the festivities were prepped and imminent.

An invite for the event had been extended to a mutual friend of Scope’s and mine named “Biggie” who lived in Sedona—a twenty-minute drive up 89A from Cottonwood.

Biggie was a towering redhead with flowing hair, the build of a Viking, and the demeanor of a gentle Wookiee; a true love-child of the 21st century.

He was a procrastinator, and laid back, so it was needless to say I was very happy to have his company if for the single purpose of not being the only member of our posse not panicking over details at the last minute.

For instance, my roomie had booked us an Airbnb just a hop, skip, jump away from the venue for the night, and following night of the event; February 16th-18th.

She and Scope had visited no less than half a dozen costume and sex shops across Arizona to prep for their showcase. They picked up matching light-up masks that, when lit and immersed in darkness, reflected a “Suicide Squad”-decor likeness, and costumes consisting of leather-straps and neon glow-sticks.

All these things seemed to take form in the final moments, and with the car packed, we departed for Phoenix.

We arrived around three or four in the afternoon to unpack and help with set-up.

Making decent time, we were able to make it to the Unexpected art-gallery by our intended time; 5 PM—just three hours prior to the event’s launch.

The roomie and Scope immediately got to work on their room, Biggie found a couch on the second-story by the upstairs to nap and ready his energy for the main event, and I made my way about the entire gallery, seeing and touching everything in awe as if I owned the place.

That’s when I almost had my much-anticipated run-in with the man of the event.

“Who came through here??! Who moved this curtain?! Who in blue fuck moved this curtain?!”

I was standing with Scope in the room he and my roomie would be pierced on display.

“What’s going on in there?” I asked Scope.

“It sounds like Boots is reprimanding someone for fucking up his curtain.”

“Boots?!” I exclaimed. “I need to talk to him!”

“Good luck with that,” Scope responded. “He’s been on the move since I’ve been here, and I’m sure for hours before we arrived. Besides that, now doesn’t sound like the best time.”

I nodded my understanding, and quickly found elsewhere to be. The curtain he was upset about—I was certain I’d been through it at least three or four times.

Participants arriving to the Unexpected art-gallery in Phoenix, Arizona on the night of February 16th, 2019 would find themselves approaching an entrance enveloped between two towers of blinking red, yellow, orange, and green traffic-lights accompanied by the sound of little metallic clicks and whirs from the machinery working away behind large speakers built into the front that were set to blare funky, electronic music throughout the course of the entire evening.

Just beyond these towers, they’d see lit up in neon-letters, the words "Tainted Love V" hanging from a large black curtain, but once within the parameters of the gate, they’d be herded through a pair of double-doors and into a dark, neon-lit vortex of body-piercing, mannequin-limbs, coy smiles, sideways winks, scantily-clad performers of the female and male persuasion, spectacular costumes, and an ever-present sexual energy as palpable as it was influencing. This is a scene that might be met with nervousness if met unexpectedly, but as heavy in the undertones of complete surrender as Tainted Love could appear at initial contact, the concept of consent is equivalently and as passionately expected and enforced, and this is a concept driven home by a sign to your immediate right just as you’re being checked in that reads: “Your Consent Is Our Kink.”

This—leaving your imagination to run wild while simultaneously allowing the various live-action art-displays to enthusiastically break down the barriers of possibility one might not even assume had been instructed deep in the untapped potential of fetish-driven eye-candy in such an unassuming warehouse near downtown Phoenix—all of it—was a sight to behold, indeed.

Any admirer of beat-generation literature couldn’t be able to help themselves, but think of Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, and conjure images of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters in regarding the similarities of mechanics and ingenuity tied into the event.

Also appreciators of film might link the imagery’s influence to the likes of Stanley Kubrick, Robert Rodriguez, or even going so sinister as mentioning David Fincher, to certain regards, but in style alone. Others may even conjure parallels to a healthy dose of Moulin Rouge meets Coyote Ugly ground into fine powder to be sprinkled all over Chicago.

The fifth installment, though being my first experience, resonated a futuristic, alien, science-fiction-esque atmosphere, and by design, was themed what I could only find to describe as; “psy-chedelic-fi,” but sported a more coherent description in its title; Future Funk.

At the helm of this sensual extravaganza is a purpose-driven individual they call Boots, whom I’d mentioned earlier, and, at first sight (or glance should you catch him in action, which he appears to be more often than not), might be mistaken for a youth pastor or camp counselor by his demeanor in careful consideration above all things, but his creations prove there is more than meets the eye.

I was unable to get a sit-down with Boots before the event, so my hope had been to catch him some time after things calmed down. I came to learn even this was easier said than done.

The night was underway, but after traveling and helping around the gallery, I began kicking myself for not following Biggie’s lead in catching a nap before the main event.

It didn’t matter. I’d come prepared after all, as I am wont to do, and proceeded to one of the restrooms to powder my nose.

In lending a hand during set-up, I discovered the furthest bathroom to the left out of the four available to us happened to obtain a glass table-top, so my aim was there, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the line for the bathrooms had grown so extensive, I knew they’d wait for no man.

The one made available was the first to my right, so I counted my blessings, and entered making haste with my choice of recreation. For starters, as the line was growing by the second, I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone with legitimate need to relieve themselves another moment, but more importantly, I knew Kristen was ready to receive me for taping, and I didn’t want to keep her waiting.

At the last moment, I’d borrowed a gas-mask and figured my Harley boots, bare chest, black briefs and black-light reactant tape would be sufficient for a costume. There was no thought on my part toward my wear, because I was a virgin to this section of the world, and the best I figured I could offer was my participation.

So, I finished powdering my nose, tucked away the necessaries, and erupted from the bathroom with, what might be considered, “grand eloquence,” aiming toward the sink to soap and rinse my hands.

Without a second thought, I tossed the soiled paper towels into the nearest can, gave myself a couple slaps across the face to disturb my neighbor at the sink, and proceeded to the dance-floor.

Anytime I walked through, I’d do a bump and grind around everyone I’d pass for fractions of a second at a time, and it’d get laughter each and every time, so I kept it up for the remainder of the night.

When I finally made it back to Kristen, she’s gotten busy taping someone else as I’d been tardy. So, I proceeded to my roommate and Scope’s display to snap more photos.

This is more or less how my night continued to go. I’d use the restroom, become refreshed, dance across the changing rooms to be taped, snap more photos of the display, and back to the restroom or bar for free drinks.

The “real” party started at 4 AM, and by then, I was so unbelievably tired, I decided to retire to the Airbnb for a few more cocktails and sleep.

I hadn’t seen everything, and I certainly hadn’t snapped enough pictures or even gotten much of a glimpse of the other displays. And, unfortunately, these sort of people are busy enough with their own projects to provide much help towards anyone else’s, so my attempts to get more from others fell on deaf ears for the most part, and I understood why. My job was to cover the entire event, and I’d only managed to capture a smidgen, but it was still more fun than I’d had in some time.

The following day, when we’d returned to the venue to help clean up, we discovered Momo again, who still hadn’t gone to sleep. She gave me a vile of her blood, and mentioned, “You should check out Saguaro Man. It’s a regional burning man event, and I think you’d really dig it.”

“Would I be able to get a word from Boots at that event?” I asked.

She responded, “He’ll be there, but who knows if you’ll get him to stand still.”

[Months later at Saguaro Man...]

On our second day at camp, Boots arrived at our camp on a mission. He passed out hugs, and when Scope spotted him from the hammock in the shade (while they tried to hang the hammock trifecta), he looked up, eyes blocked by his shades, hat covering his head that read “BOOTS” in shiny, gaudy letters.

“Wanna do a womp womp?”

“Have I ever said ‘no’ to that?” came his quick reply. He tip-toed around the hammock contraption, and stood next to us in the shade. Scope handed him the cracker and, without hesitation, he took in a breath of nitrous.

“Would you like to pull up a chair?” I asked. “I’d love to ask you some questions about Tainted Love.”

Holding his breath without wavering, nor faltering, he released his air, and in a voice three octaves deeper, he said, “I’m on a mission or I’d stay. Helping a camp set-up over here.”

“Oh, I’d only have a few quest–" but he was gone. I hadn’t even seen him leave. In my whole fucking life, I’ve never witnessed a man move so quickly whilst high on nitrous. Nothing could slow that man down. To this very day, this humbled author hasn’t even received a reply back via messenger nor email.

That’s the life when you’ve a family and an entire world of seekers, wanderers, trippers, users, artists, performers, etc. ready to combine efforts and put on a show. These were fascinating people, always on the move, always supportive, and gone in the blink of an eye.