I’ve always dreamed of going to the ball dressed as a Disney princess. However, my childhood fantasies of happy endings never included latex. I guess I should’ve been more specific.
The 13th-annual Fetish & Fantasy Halloween Ball was this past Saturday night at the Las Vegas Sport Center, and my biggest fear was of being abducted in the parking lot. What I needed was a man to be my prince, my protector. But how could I convince a guy to fork over the money for a ticket on such short notice? Quite easily, it turned out. (Seems the promise of a sexy costume is very motivating.)
- More Fetish and Fantasy
- Justice unmasked at Fetish and Fantasy Halloween Ball (10/27/08)
This story would be a lot more poetic if I had an Alice in Wonderland costume. You know, the whole metaphor of an innocent setting out down the rabbit hole of a fetish ball. Blame it on the worst financial crisis of our lives. This year, I couldn’t afford to buy a new costume. Instead, I dug last year’s Snow White out of a bag in a box in my closet. Please excuse the wrinkles.
Then I found my metaphor on the costume’s yellow miniskirt (why is it shorter just around the crotch?): a red appliqué apple sewn on the skirt. Snow White’s apple. The forbidden fruit was sewn right on my miniskirt. Sin. Temptation. Indulgence. Fetish and fantasy, you know. So I took the costume thing as a sign that I wasn’t supposed to view this experience from the perspective of a wide-eyed child, but of someone a little older. Someone who can enjoy the delights I would encounter at the ball. I was excited.
Finally, it was time to go to the ball. My prince picked me up in his coach, er, car. And we were off.
In any other city (well, maybe not Amsterdam), I would have been blown away by this party. But here, it just seemed a little redundant. Like the time I visited “mini Europe,” when I already was in Europe. Pay to see less. But to me, the question wasn’t whether this was a fun and crazy and let-loose party. It was. The question was, do you want to spend $90 to attend a fantasy-themed party when you’re already in a town built on make-believe? Why jump out of the fire and into the frying pan?
My first impression of the event was that it was like a junior-high dance, but with exotic costumes and a cash bar. A black angel was climbing the rock wall, and I met enough Snow Whites to fill a chorus line: Latina Snow White, blond Snow White, muscle-bound Snow White—and me.
I think what was disappointing was that the partygoers seemed too wholesome. This wasn’t visitor’s day for some strange and exotic cult. This was your neighbors dressed up in costumes. Perhaps there just weren’t enough dark corners ...
Just when I was complaining to my notebook about how this wasn’t a “real” fetish ball, scribbling about how the iniquity seemed only to be on the surface and not any deeper than a band of latex, my prince said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get punished.”
“Not without me you’re not,” I said, following him to the demo torture chamber, which was set up in a corner of the dance floor. Not until I could hear the purple sting of a whip over the noise of the DJ did I realize what I was in for.
“Do you need a dwarf, Snow White?” asked a Sarah Palin in her proverbial $150,000 fishnets and red corset.
“I do,” I said, thinking it was a joke. This Palin was way too tall to shop in the petite section, much less be a member of a magical race of little people. “But what are you going to do? ‘Cut’ my taxes?”
“You betcha,” replied our VP candidate as she pointed me to the back of the line.