The San Francisco Hookers Ball, a pre-Halloween fundraiser for the sex workers’ rights group COYOTE, was in its fourth year, and this one promised to be huge. Melody had wrangled a spot on the news crew covering it. With ambitions of becoming a TV producer, she planned to coax the cameras toward the most sexsational mass consumption images. But she also wanted to capture the weirder edge of things, which is what she needed me for — to scout out characters and tape interviews that she could splice into the soundtrack during post-production.
I met her outside the Civic Auditorium, where this year’s event, with an expected attendance in the thousands, was being held. The camera crew was busily unloading equipment as the costumed and concupiscent masses surged around them toward the doors. Melody greeted me and handed me a Panasonic cassette recorder.
I followed her and her crew into the Ball. Most of the action was in the main auditorium, where prizes for the hottest costumes would be awarded at midnight. A series of rock, blues and zydeco bands succeeded one another on stage. Revelers in various stages of undress, semi-dress, drag and fetishistic extravagance frolicked, tripping out on the music and their collective naughtiness. There were topless mermaids, bottomless satyrs, naughty nurses, leather nuns, heavy-breathing Darth Vaders, slutty Princess Leias, fishnets, garter belts, condom balloons and occasional full-frontal flashes. Melody diligently directed the cameras toward the scenes with the most telegenic impact. A nubile dancer in see-through rain gear. A group of drag queens chronicling the evolution of Cher. COYOTE founder Margo St. James’s arrival in tap dance regalia with her date, San Francisco police chief William Gaines.
I set off in search of the seamier side of the spectacle. I noticed a partially blocked-off staircase that led to the small conference rooms used by the conventions the Civic Auditorium typically hosted. Someone had doctored the ‘B’ in the sign saying “Breakout Rooms” to read “Freakout Rooms.” Promising, I thought and headed downstairs.
The dimly lit hallway at the bottom led past several doors. The bow chika bow wow of a wah-wah pedal guitar emanated from one of them, along with a chorus of grunts and moans. I decided not to interrupt the proceedings in a quest for interviews. Another room was labeled “Queen for a Day.” Peeking in, I witnessed a gaggle of drag artists applying make-up, false nails and eyelashes to an eager group of normies, transforming them into the divas of their dreams. But there was already plenty of drag for Melody’s crew upstairs, so I went on in search of something more exotic.
A peculiar light issued from under the last door in the hall. I cautiously opened it, slid inside and found myself in a blacklit chamber illuminated by dayglo astrology posters. Each one pictured a different zodiac sign and associated sexual position. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the room was populated by several men in what at first appeared to be yoga poses. Some were on all fours, others in plank position, yet others in a modified bridge pose, feet and hands planted on the floor lifting their torsos face-up into a V-shaped configuration. A statuesque woman, in a figure-hugging thigh-split, midi-length gown stepped forward. All cascading red hair, curves and inner smolder, she looked like a reincarnation of Rita Hayworth’s Gilda.
“I am the Empress Katarina Diamond Jesse de Crécy,” she proclaimed, “and this is my human furniture showroom.”
“Wow!” I stammered, gobsmacked. “Can I interview you?”
“Yes, darling, but first let me show you around. Look at this gorgeous sofa” — she pointed to one of the men on all fours. “Or how about this comfy recliner?” — she gestured toward a V-shaped gentleman whose posture did indeed resemble a bucket seat. “Each of them was once my lover, now they are my furniture.”
She led me to a spot where two men squatted side-by-side in the modified-bridge bucket-seat position, forming a roomy armchair between them.
“My throne,” she said, seating herself in such a way that the cheeks of her voluptuous ass were divided evenly between their laps. The men wore only G-strings and appeared to be developing erections, which she ignored.
“Pull up a chair,” she smirked. One of the men on all fours scooted up behind me, and I sat down on his back. Before I could hit the record button and ask my first question, she launched into a monologue.
“I am the granddaughter of Diamond Jesse Hayward, madam of Gilded Age San Francisco’s finest parlor house, and her consort, Grand Duke Boris of the Imperial Russian Court. Grandma Jesse was the daughter of Claudette de Crécy, sister of Odette, an old-school courtesan whose social climb, recounted by Proust, was achieved through the agency of men, a path Claudette abjured, escaping to New Orleans and a new world of harlotry where she could be her own boss.”
I was fiddling with the buttons on the recorder, which refused to engage. She paid no heed, continuing her soliloquy.
“Jesse brought the family franchise here, where it is shared by all her progeny. We are wild, wanton, always in demand, always in command!”
I finally got the record button to stick and was about to ask a question when she once again preempted me. “I believe it is traditional for a reporter to pay for an interview?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well then, here is how you shall pay for my time.”
She lifted the hem of her gown, revealing an exquisite pair of fin de siècle high-button, mid-calf boots. Their heels curved like a treble clef, and the leather fit the ankle tight as a corset.
“These treasures make my feet so tired, and my favorite footstool is off in Hollywood closing a deal.” She started unbuttoning the right boot. “So, tonight you will perform his duties and massage my feet!”
A beautifully manicured pinkish foot snaked from her open boot and into my crotch, rubbing it seductively for a few startling moments. Then she withdrew it and dangled it in front of me.
“Get to work, Clark Kent.”
Luckily, I had read up on shiatsu and reflexology while trying to impress Wendy with the breadth of my New Age mastery. I knew the pressure points on the foot that were supposed to connect directly to the female genitalia, in particular the clitoris. One was on the sole at the intersection of the fleshy pad beneath the big toe and the more sinewy one beneath the smaller four. The other was in the hollow below the ankle bone. Using both hands, I pressed a thumb deeply into each of these spots, moving it in undulating circles, while massaging the opposite side of the foot and ankle with the rest of my fingers. I heard a sharp intake of breath from above me. Good, I thought, I’m doing this right and proceeded to play a fugue upon her meridians, complete with counterpoint and repeating rhythmic figures. I could sense the energy rising up her calves and thighs.
Suddenly she pulled her foot away. “You brazen little imp! I told you to massage my feet, not my pussy!”
I stammered some apologies, moved my fingers away from the offending pressure points and endeavored to massage only the most chaste parts of her feet. Unfortunately, I had done too good a job of awakening her chi. No matter where I touched her foot, the erogenous acupoints sucked up the sensation and sent it hurtling toward her clit. She was breathing increasingly heavily. She started screaming at me.
“How dare you arouse me?! I decide when to get wet!”
She stuck her foot back in her unbuttoned boot, raised herself to her full imperious height, and cried out to her subjects, “Get him, boys! He has offended your Empress!”
Immediately, the human sofas, tables and recliners jumped up, resumed their natural postures and came at me. I grabbed the cassette recorder and ran out of the room, the furniture-men hot on my tail. I ducked into the orgy room.
The bow chika bow wow soundtrack was still going strong, as were the couples, thruples and assorted group gropes. I dove into a love pile just as the Empress’s men entered the room. They searched for me but soon gave up trying to pry apart the sticky polycules. Meanwhile, someone in the love pile grabbed my dick through my jeans and started stroking. What the fuck? I thought, unzipping. Might as well let someone else do the work for a change.
