Whip it Good.

A history of velvet violence
By Dan Gillis III

In this postmodern world where truth is merely an agreed-upon lie, the aperture of reality forever opens to the point of complete saturation of choice and consequence, paralyzing us with endless possibilities.

So where can I find an S & M club in this god forsaken town? And more importantly, what should I wear?

Yes, my felines, it’s been something that you’ve struggled with for years, possibly more than choosing a 401k plan or weighing the advantages of using Pantene Pro-V. I know this because I was once like you, a mere sapling growing in a dark forest of latex and ball-gags. But with a few S & M trips behind me, (and at least one trip to a South American hospital) I feel confident enough to give you a little peek-a-boo into your first visit to a darkwave fuck club.

My first jaunt into this underworld was a few years ago (cue flashback sounds please) at a club charmingly called Dungeon, where confused tourists from Manchester, New Hampshire would mingle with black nail-polished convenience store workers to songs about Manchester, England. It’s an intercontinental meeting of Level 4 sages who hate their parents in Calabasas and have names like Thistle or Anguish Panda.

Then there was me.

I went there to meet with a group of young writers, many of which had more experience watching SNL than with S&M, and I thought this would be a good introduction for them to the world of bootlicking—which is not to say that I was a guru of whipped ass either. At this time, my dominatrix experience was limited to one who I met, fatefully, at her 30th birthday party. She took Polaroids of her no-no zone and apparently made the physical act of love with a young gentleman through the bars of a cage.

It was complicated, I think I need to draw you a diagram.

It was at this tender young age when I could never know that I would later go on to work with two whip wielders (one was a 300-pound snaggle-toothed dominator, the other was the former editor of Juggs), but what I did know was that there was some shirtless man walking toward me with arms raised.

“Why did he just emerge from that curtain, and why am I wearing an ‘80s prom dress?” I thought to myself.

Oh yeah, he’s just my friend Mike, and I slipped into that backless dress in the parking lot. I’m so forgetful sometimes.

I entered through the fake velvet curtain as the crunching sound of my ruffled sleeves mixing with the low bass drum hits kicking in my chest. The room was large with exposed brick walls—it would have made a great loft in the Real World London—and in the center were ladies in corsets hanging upside down from ropes, their nippies covered with electrical tape.

I hadn’t seen that shit since middle school.

We got closer to what was called the “suspension area” and watched as men in pleather pants (he got ‘em at Ross) were whipped by those ladies from Hot Topic. It was an epic battle of the strip malls and I was there to watch, all while Skinny Puppy droned in the background and dudes in black lipstick swayed like sea anemone.

As one guy received some sweet little front-whips on a chiastic crucifix, I thought about the future, hoping that someday I would be able to see this same goth-a-rama at in a town outside of Santiago, Chile.

And luckily, three years later I did—if you just replace “some guy” with “my buddy Anthony” and “front-whips on a cross” with “chain whips in front of a bus,” then my premonition would be correct.

Don’t worry kids, Anthony ended up being fine after being “Double Dragon-ed” outside “El Cure Noche” at Club Mascara and we had a nice little visit with the stray dogs in the Chilean emergency room and that one senora screaming about machetes.

But that was thousands of miles away from Hollywood and for some reason Mike and I were now dancing on the elevated blocks to what sounded like Depeche Mode. An overweight Asian woman in our group was shooting a disposable camera up my skirt, and this led to an accidental “back sweep” that was the first in a surprising sequence of events that reaffirmed that I wasn’t gay.

The second happened during a reach for popcorn while watching the movie Troy. We were stoned, ok…

Don’t tell Dad.

So, you’re still interested in S&M clubs? Just remember that you will need a safe word if you decide to put your ass on the block. I suggest you use something that cannot be misconstrued as some crazy shit you say during sex. For example, say “Hall & Oates” not “You’re a man-eater!”

Trust me, you don’t want to end up in a Chilean hospital.

For more answers to your ass-whipping questions, contact Dan Fucking Gillis at http://www.underbellyLA.blogspot.com.