Downtown Seattle, The Rendezvous, the night after Valentine’s. It was a perfect night for what the good people of Heart-On called an Anti-Valentine’s Cabaret Massacre. When I woke up the next morning it wasn’t because I felt rested. I felt sick. I didn’t have too much to drink, but had definitely indulged in way too much kummerspeck.

Heart-On, hosted by Armatage Spanks, was a joint venture between Seattle performance artists and a New Orleans based burlesque troupe called Freaksheaux To Geaux (pronounced Freakshow To Go for those of us who don’t speak Creole). I didn’t know what to expect, but any self-described massacre, especially involving semi-nude women, could only be approached with severe caution. I arrived early and met my safety monitor, Natalie, who at my insistence brought along an orange traffic-cone. Natalie didn’t understand, but I’d dealt with burlesque before and wanted a clearly marked buffer-zone between me and the pernicious pasties.

In general, pasties cover nipples, there were none to be found at the bottom of my twelve-dollar, double rum & coke, so Natalie and I headed toward The Grotto, a largely unknown section of The Rendezvous buried in the subbasement.

The performers were still setting up and an anxious crowd was queuing to get in. Natalie and I took our place at the top of the stairs. Always alert, Natalie was first to notice the thick and pervasive odor; a porcine-miasma, effluviating from the black and shadowed maw of the descending stairwell. Bacon? But why?!? Several theories were bandied back & forth. The idea that any one human, subhuman, or pack of wild dogs could eat the gross amounts of savory sowbelly necessary to create the dense-ether we were wading through seemed alien and impossible. We were given the all-clear and the line started moving down.

The stairwell opened into a dimly-lit room that was probably an old speakeasy… blood-red & sparsely decorated with moth-addled curtains, dinette sets, and a golden bar glittering with bathtub-gin. A hairy, beetle-like chef stood in the corner, hunched over a hibachi and grilling great stacks of tumaceous bacon. “No time for that now-” I thought. I had to find the stage and secure a spot as far from it as possible, otherwise I’d spend the rest of the evening fending off an endless parade of painted women, buxom bosoms and fiendish feather boas.

I found a black-pleather booth, the only booth in the blushing boudoir. Natalie perched the traffic-cone on a ledge behind us and to it we added a flag that read “press.” We were official.

With the official safety zone set, and Natalie holding the fort, I approached the Kafkaesque chef. He looked up at me through coke-bottle glasses and explained the German concept of kummerspeck; essentially it’s the weight gained by emotional overeating (a serious hazard for those of us who’re single). He also explained that his unique, kummerspeck-bacon would have no deleterious effects. In a thick German accent he continued “Zis bacon comes from specially reared pigs. Zey have been trained by experts to engage in sexual congress at every available opportunity. As a result, zis food is sexually-charged and zerefore guilt-free, vich means you vill not gain veight from it.” I’m single and frequently indulge in comfort food, so I tried some. It tasted good, so I tried some more, then I took a napkin-full to share with Natalie back at the safety zone.

Natalie had made friends with a man named Arron, who was sitting just outside our booth, alone save for the company of his expertly-waxed and imperial, handlebar-mustache. I described my bacon. Arron dubbed it “Bangin’ Bacon” which I thought was hilarious, so I deputized him and offered him a seat in the press-box. I went on to describe my work as a journalist. He asked if I’d be taking pictures, I explained that I’d be making drawings. Arron congratulated me for choosing to draw, adding that in an era where photographs capture a moment all-too quickly, illustrations take time to develop. He had earned his seat.

We had been listening to Herb Alpert And The Tijuana Brass, but the house-lights dimmed and the music took on a more full-bodied flavor. Armatage slid onto the small stage wearing an ivory suit and a highly flammable, deep-purple, Pythagorean shirt… gold chains, grey hair and buck teeth. He adjusted himself lasciviously and after drawing the audience’s attention to a bulging inseam explained that “This ride seats two.” I decided to tune-out, but Natalie commandeered my notes and wrote the word “important” with an arrow pointing to the phrase “hot-tub literary group.”

Of course it was important… very important. In retrospect, I’d say it was one of the most divinely important instances in human history. The words “hot-tub literary group” were like auditory ambrosia, sung into mortal ears as if by fairies bringing sweet dreams to damned and restless souls. They were mythic, a combination of Aristotle, Mark Twain and Justin Bieber. Not since Krishna delivered the Bhagavad Gita, or Lincoln gave his Gettysburg Address, had a more singularly important concept ever been recorded… I just didn’t give a rat’s ass.

Still, according to Armatage, the hot-tub literary group was how he met Christine Anne, the first act.

She was one of the Seattle based performance artists, a red-head who’s worked with Morbid Curiositease and La Petite Mort. She wore red & black stockings, a clown nose and a 16th century rough. Her act was abbreviated in Amaratge’s notes (which I later stole) simply as “clown chair” but that didn’t begin to do it justice. What Mr. Spanks called “clown chair” I’d describe as a whirlwind of ginger-tinted flesh. Needless to say it involved a chair… Christine twisted & twined her way through it, climbed over it and contorted under it. At every awkward angle she’d pause to remove an article of clothing, then she’d stare into the faceless mass, pick a set of arbitrary eyes and give them a flirtatious glance. She gave one to me, and I was beginning to rethink the logic behind my traffic-cone.

But I remembered the sign… “press.” I wasn’t there just to rub elbows with insectoid chefs, or to let myself think for an instant that Christine’s glance meant anything other than good showmanship. I had a story to write and knew that story wouldn’t end with me getting laid, because the great irony behind any burlesque act, no matter how inviting, is that it has nothing to do with it sex. The basis is love.

Love is a rare thing in the 21st century, one of the many things we’ve misplaced between multi-tasks. Luckily the next act wasn’t from this century. She was an 80 pound figment of a depraved imagination calling herself Chatty The Mime. I had read about her on the Freaksheaux To Geaux website, described as “a clown in mime’s clothing.” Under normal circumstances I might’ve been preoccupied by her delightfully tiny hiney, delicately wrapped in bold black & white stripes, but the circumstances were abnormal and I was there as an observer. My obligation toward posterity had to out-weigh my proclivity toward posteriors.

I observed that thus far every character on and off stage was a translocated being, unstuck in time and out of place, save for some weird museum where hallucinations are preserved in wax. I’m a fan of the hallucinatory experience offered by live performance and recall a time when the idea was to present an act that might be from the future… but the future is here and its promises remain unfulfilled. For most performers the only creative direction left is backward, the direction of fond memories and even fonder fantasies. Chatty was conjuring a time prior to the assassination of love by sex, removing every article of clothing but a her Sam Spade fedora. She wasn’t the only nostalgic in the basement. Arron was a steampunk, Mr. Spanks was a reject from the disco era, and the next stripteaser was about to do an homage to the traveling sideshows that kept our country distracted during the economic crisis of the 1930’s.

Armatage was trying to introduce Mistress Kali, the first and only female member of the ensemble who wasn’t a read-head. I love of red-heads and felt gifted with such a fine, fiery menagerie of them. I was trying to say so to Natalie, but my twelve-dollar rum & coke was working its mojo and I guess my voice was too loud, because Armatage overheard me and admonished me for talking over him. “Sorry” I said, pointing to the press-flag. “I’m just taking notes.” He understood and let me off with a warning. I also understood and decided to shut my mouth, it was time to pay attention.

Mistress Kali was a matronly woman. She looked like the raven-haired Madam of an undead bordello, corseted in black sequins and enticing tassels. She was voluptuous and carnal, but the lure of such a beguiling woman can’t be summarized in her measurements. Kali’s hypnotic appeal was the secret superpower of every member of the fairer sex, the ability to endure… not only did she strip to win her audiences approval, but she did so on a bed of nails.

It was a terrific metaphor, depicting every woman’s endeavors through life and relationships. The pangs of child-birth are nothing compared to the spanking a woman takes in the name of love, and Kali’s willingness to endure was immaculate. She was in love with her audience and we loved her. She’d strike a sultry pose and remove a glove, change positions and let loose a pair of satin panties, all while being poked & prodded by relentless steel-spikes. It was masochistic and I wondered what Sabina Spielrein would’ve thought.

But thought takes time and time wasn’t a luxury I had. After skewering herself in a Freudian finale, Kali yielded to Armatage, who all but ordered the mistress’ admirers out of their seats and back to the bar to purchase more outrageously expensive drinks. It was intermission and as a dedicated alcoholic I considered it my duty to imbibe, but another duty was calling me, or at least texting me from the mundane world outside The Grotto. It was my friend Hector, over an hour late and somehow surprised that the show was not only half over, but also sold-out.

I found Hector and consoled him with a hug… then I pressed my luck and hugged his girlfriend. I felt like hugging. I felt like negotiating with Mistress Kali for some alone-time with Cristine Anne and Chatty, but I knew that would put the parallax view on any hope I had of an objective article, so I settled for more kummerspeck.

Hector is like Marge Simpson in drag, he’s all man, but notoriously pensive. He was uptight about the show before arriving and especially apprehensive about arriving late. I reminded him of the power of the press, and insisted that he and his girlfriend join Arron, Natalie and I back in the press-box. He debased his way into a ticket and apologized for being late by ordering a round of drinks for the table. “Double rum & coke!” I insisted. He probably ordered me a quadruple… Hector knows my tastes and brought it to me in a pint-glass, but even a double-double couldn’t prepare me for the libidinous spectacle next on the Heart-On lineup.

The intermission was over and a new mission was mandated by our host. Armatage had hung a heart-shaped pinata over the crowd and was conscripting volunteers to give it forty whacks with a with noodle (in the most, urbane-dictionary definition of the phrase). A young lady with short green-hair was selected from the audience, blindfolded, and handed a two foot long, double-ended dildo… one foot for each end. She gave it her best, but she was very young and had probably never handled anything that big before. A slap-happy man was chosen and he split the honey-pot like a pro, splashing a sweet release of sugar coated goodies onto the crowd: edible panties, gummy-roofies, and sensual suckers for the orally fixated. I pocketed a gluten-free condom. You never know.

And I didn’t know what to make of what I saw next… But I knew where it was from, Kashyyyk, the Wookieeplanet.

A shaggy-armed man in a Chewbacca mask began licking his fingers for traction, turning over a set of cue-cards. Each card was an English translation of Wookiee-speak, the more eloquent of the romance languages. Chewbacca was pining for his lost love… Jesus? I couldn’t read the cue-cards. I took a gulp of double-double to help me focus. Jesse? Maybe. The next act was Jesse Belle Jones. Jesse doesn’t shave her arm-pits and would make a fitting ex-companion for any tree-dweller. “Jesse where are you?!?” Chewbacca wrote. “Jessie I miss you!” “WOHhooOoOhWwohHOOoOoH!!!”

No unattached person could witness that forsaken moan without being moved to tears. Several of the more sensitive audience members were forced to excuse themselves in search of a private place to cry. Jesse had done Chewbacca wrong.

But she was willing to make up for it. For no additional charge, some lucky audience member would receive a lap-dance from Jesse, a name I recognized from Sinner Saint Burlesque. She was local. She was a giant, not at all wide but roughly six-feet tall and even taller in heels. She entered the spotlight with roses in her hair, like an Amazon version of Frida Kahlo. Someone actually screamed “Mommie” and I couldn’t blame them. Jesse Belle Jones was the fantasy made flesh of every little boy who wanted to be tied up in Wonder Woman’s golden-lasso.

A group of enthused alcoholics were chanting a name over & over and at the behest of his friends, a bald man named David took a seat center stage, dwarfed by the Goliath goddess. He looked straight into her eyes and she wrapped her long legs around him. The music started and Jesse’s legs went to work, writhing around David like a pair of charmed snakes. As a reporter it’s my job to convey the facts, but the fact is I can only guess what was going through David’s mind, or Jesse’s. For a brief moment the two of them were linked in a relationship that was as much exhibitionist as it was intimate.

The best relationship (no matter how naughty) is all about intimacy. That’s also the essence of Burlesque. It’s not about sex, it’s a variety show with a little more spice, allowing a cozy connection between audience and performer… because without the apprehension of intercourse most adults couldn’t connect. We’ve lost the innocence of intimacy. What we really want is love and love-making is just a means to an end, it gives us permission to cuddle afterward.

No one walked into The Grotto that night thinking that they’d walk out with a loose woman under their arm, but we didn’t leave empty handed. For a few precious hours it was OK for us to let our guard down: to be flirtatious, to indulge in fantasy, to find love on a bed of nails. It wasn’t a massacre, but it was all heart and the memory would last a life time…