By Rhea + Brit
“You need to go to this party, I won’t be here…you need to go and do something about it,” C had said while we sat in her store drinking negronis…or was it wine spritzers. B and I had been trying to do a sober March because of either one destructive bender that had started the night of my birthday, or just out of sheer curiosity. Probably both. Sitting at Loveless, E watched us map out which day we’d start, cutting days down from 30 to 25 to eventually 16 days of no alcohol.
“I remember you both going, 'Oh no, we have this event!' and then again, 'But we have this!” E told us at Loveless the other day. We were using B’s Google Calendar, which meticulously had every important event we had to go to. There was just too much to do, too much to dance to, too much spinning, too much of much. We love much!
Regardless, we had been waiting for this day. Clawing. Aching.
N and I got to Foxxes Den around 11 p.m., grabbed $20 worth of Pussy Dollars and ran in. I had spent most of the night tucking the bills around my body; a few were in my bra, some were tucked in my shorts, and possibly a couple were tucked in my periwinkle tights.
**FYI, it’s called Pussy Coin, however Brit and I kept saying Pussy Dollar. For accuracy, but also in reference to our own memory, we thought it was best to mention that. We will continue to say "dollar" even though it was "coin."
“Oh! You’re on theme!” someone had told me. “What do you mean?” I replied. The theme was business, or perhaps sensually assertive office-core? Even though all the promotions screamed it at me on Instagram, I wasn't aware. Regardless, my round year business casual attire came in handy for once. Imagine five bills tucked in a short-sleeved pantsuit. Micro laissez-faire.
Foxxes Den was laid out like a miniature version of its downstairs sister, almost as though it were fictional. Black marbling and bartenders that would appear out of thin air if you mentioned the word “tequila.” Suddenly, like a cunt punt right to the fucking face, I heard a chanting sound that made my head snap to the stage.
“Tony! Tony! Tony!” No fucking way. On stage, T stood in a white tank that eventually was ripped off his chest to the sound of Tony Tony from Hit Piece. E looked at me, making straight eye contact with my wide eyes. Of. Fucking. Course.
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At the top of the booths, I watched as T created an atmosphere of 80s machismo, but it was a reinvention of it. Non-toxic hyper masculine form of expression that almost gave the word a new meaning. Some form of excellence that had us captured for the entirety of his performance. I heard somewhere through some grapevine that T would introduce himself that night as Tony Price.
Boushay. Harley. Saint. Raven. Wind spun around the whole night. I watched Raven bring D onto the stage as I stood at that top booth again, curving, pulling, stretching.
Another snap, it was an hour or so later, and like a silver beacon came S. It was a crackle through the pleasures, or perhaps a snap created by a swoosh. It doesn't matter, what matters is that all my Pussy Dollars were gone. S’s presence felt as if gossamer that captured rain could be worn. I could pinpoint this part of time because in the corner of my eye I saw a blonde head, and even a slight giggle, that told me B was here.
Brit’s POV
I started the night off at a friend's birthday party for a quick pre and a piece of chocolate cake. I came unprepared as per usual and stole wine off the table with Jeremy, which was shockingly shitty tasting and turned out to be non-alcoholic. We left the house at a hard 11 p.m. and considered Ubering because it was cold and I was wearing little heels and underwear instead of pants and in a complaining-y mood, but we did some bumps and walked so we could save $9.
When we got to the club, we hurricained the bottle-of-something we brought with us around the corner and walked past the men that I could only assume were going to the party on the first floor of the strip club. The men were staring up the stairs a bit too hard, but then again, we were in their house. I was already a bit more jacked up than usual because all night I was running about an hour and a half behind schedule, but I was met with relief when I realized I didn’t miss OMG.BLOG’s set or S’s dance and settled down with a Modelo in the bathroom line.
Once sorted, I started squeezing through the crowd so I could situate myself near the front. Usually a spot reserved for those who get to parties early, but I know people who do that and ride their coattails. The event had the warm feel of a house party with the horniness of the scene from anora when she’s shaking ass on the carpet of the Russian kid’s condo to Brooke Candy (sorry but this was in march and we weren’t quite tired of mikey madison’s face yet, maybe that’s just me)
I shut up once the next dance started and watched a pomegranate elegantly roll over the white mesh bodysuit encasing S. For one second, I worried about it staining, but forgot about those concerns as I watched what their body did with it. The red lights and writhing performers were making me want to mash my tongue on someone’s teeth. For about twenty minutes, I didn’t even talk to anyone; I only thought about the spit that was being left behind on the poles. Every dancer seemed to meld into the next, creating beautiful cascades of pecs and arms and mouths and incense (?) and excitement that I couldn’t take my eyes off. It takes a lot for me to lay roots on the dancefloor because I get overstimulated and am addicted to running my mouth, but all those legs swinging around together were a little bit magic, I think.
Sexy songs bounced off the velour booths (at least I think they were velour, I actually didn't sit on them as there were piles of bodies occupying the shadow-y nooks. I did wish to join the dog piles, but in reality, hags get second dibs on the dark spots, respectfully. OMG.BLOG and Rose Hips -- two veterans of the field who’s CV’s boast everything I like: horny chuggers and lots of pop - played expertly around the performances. I thought there was a possibility that they put a microchip in their hearts that communicated from the decks directly to the pleasers clacking on stage. That would explain to me what made the scene so cinematic, but probably they are just skilled in their chosen craft.
I bounced up and down to a Britney edit and watched OMG.BLOG expertly swing his ass back and forth to the beat as he transitioned to something jersey-esque while kissing a new joiner on the lips- so talented. After his set, I hugged my friend and he excitedly pointed to one of the organizers, who is a little famous in her own right- “ look, her thong is made out of hair. Isn’t she a genius?” It was braided and blonde and struck a chord between Xena Warrior Princess and maybe Goldie Locks, and I could only agree that we were in the presence of a mastermind. The outfits were particularly good on the dancers and also in the crowd and butt-cheeks were unofficially the official uniform.
When the dancers were done, I went into the carousel of stalls and doled out keys while listening to excited voices gush about the embroidered handkerchiefs (I actually did get there too late to get one of those) and the branded matchbooks (that too).
Saw R for the first time that night. Very rarely is our party orbit so far from each other, but I think we were both too hyper. We shouted over the sea of voices around us about how different this party felt and how “we never get to see shit like this”. She told me about the puppet whose dick was hanging out who was apparently very nice to her. I wanted to talk to him too, but I was a bit blown out and needed to go smoke.
Walking out I had about fifteen dollars of pussy cash stuck to my shoes and thought about how much I love my life.
It wasn’t just the dancing. I’d find myself tagging along with B and I, rushing to the stalls, crashing into familiar faces and those I’d heard B gush about over a drink. At some point, N and I found ourselves in the bathroom, swapping clothes and DIYing her outfit in the stalls. You’d get drawn into a conversation, see S floating around with a tray in his denim shorts, or get sucked back into the booths where you’d meet Mister D.
“There is a life-size puppet coming towards us,” N said. With his penis out and a two piece grey suit gracefully draped over himself, Mister D sat next to us with a welcoming hello. I think about Mister D a lot. We talked about personhood and the idea of self as his penis laid in his lap. It was therapy for both Mister D and both of us, I suppose! I hope Mister D realizes how much he means to us, and the many kisses he received.
And then, I got flogged. Not by Mister D, but by someone. Can’t seem to place it.
I saw D, one of the organizers, standing by the bar in what I can only describe as golden. D and I had met several months back, while I was removing the glue off her extensions at work, back when my acrylics were multipurpose. I remember A telling me after she left something along the lines of “she’s incredible.” She’s a star sort of vibe. D was dressed in golden blonde braided hair styled as underwear with a long ponytail on her head to match.
“I know you!” I remember her saying. Meeting D closed the loop in my mind about what this event was meant to be. It was the dizziness you get from smiling too hard, the overly giddy feeling when you’re overly excited.
It was beyond a playground of fun; it was exciting that something new and actually unique was being created in Toronto. Or, if not unique, it was revisiting a part of dancing that I had never experienced in my life. Or rather, inviting me into a world I don’t usually find myself in; dancing as performance and dancing as release.
“This is the one party you shouldn’t have missed,” B said to me a few days later. “Where the fuck were half of our fucking friends!?”
Now, it’s Friday. Months later, we’ll find ourselves back at Foxxes Den… clown-themed this time. Oh, and by the way, you can buy those embroidered handkerchiefs. I suggest you do.
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