The Hellfire Club - R.I.P.

For a few minutes every Wednesday when the e-version of The Village Voice hits my inbox, I get to be a New Yorker again. The Voice serves as my personal time machine that returns the vibrations of the subway platform to the soles of my feet, wafts the stench of urine from concrete corners, and walks me to work through the World Trade Center concourse once more.

If The Voice takes me back in time, Michael Musto’s column transports me to the best of New York’s depravity—a weekly if momentary departure from my sadly wholesome Wisconsin experience. Musto is a flamingly gay and wickedly funny writer who delights in reviewing events and people who don’t show up under the Family Values banner. He even returns emails. God love’im.

In today’s column, he briefly mentioned “the late, lamented Hellfire Club”. Whaddya mean?! Late? Lamented? OMG! One more piece of my NY history gone with the WTC?

My relationship with—or education from—the Hellfire Club was brief but memorable. I had recently moved to NY, and was so excited to be in Gotham, working for a major Wall Street firm no less. I was dating a commodities trader whose tastes turned out to be… er… shall we say “eclectic”. I have always been a bit on the straight and narrow—more through happenstance and accidents of birth than through conscious choice. So when we entered this dark, cave-like place called Hellfire Club, and I started observing a world that you just don’t find in the Texas Panhandle, it was a total E-Ticket ride.

We sashayed through the club and watched the various convolutions for the furtherance of my sexual education and edification. There was the naked lady doing contortionist acts worthy of Cirque du Soleil. And the guy chained to a cross using one hand to poke himself with nails and the other to execute onanistic sexual acts. There were many more, but those were two of the more memorable. Around each of the “performers” were throngs of voyeurs. I suppose that would include us, although we didn’t seem to get quite as much dynamic pleasure from the act of observing as others apparently were. With our prosaic attire—Jack in his suit and I in a dress that was undoubtedly short but not provocative by Hellfire standards—we might as well have worn a sign saying, “Nope. Don’t come here often.”

The best word to describe my Hellfire foray is "hilarious". I know, I know, that is not the word normally accompanying Homer-esque sexual experiences. But everything there seemed contrived and like most of the habitués were working so hard for what can usually be achieved with a little tweak or buzz or nibble. The funniest aspects were the odd juxtapositions we encountered after making the circuit of this sexual Disneyland and going to the bar. A tough-looking woman in full dominatrix attire—black leather corset, exposed breasts, and Goth make-up—approached to take our order. As she opened her mouth, a voice better suited to Minnie Mouse than Xena Warrior Bitch inquired if we wanted juice or soda. Despite every manner of sexual perversity going on around us, juice and soda were apparently the hedonistic drinks of choice. What, no Kool Aid?

Once our refreshing beverages were served, Jack and I indulged in a bit of making out. Hardly that. No groping, no gasping. Just a bit of embrace and innocent kissing. Suddenly we noticed that we were surrounded by a phalanx of folks formerly engrossed by Cross Dude, Contortionist Chick, and... well, you know... what you'd think were far more interesting venues than a fully-clothed, white hetero couple sitting there kissing. But the naked S&M stuff had apparently become old hat compared to this novelty of a couple in boring middle-American apparel doing the unthinkable, if not unimaginable—kissing. Amazing how any pendulum will seek its extremes, but I guess in a sex bar, G-rated becomes the kink.

And now I'm reading that the Hellfire Club is gone. I emailed Michael to get the dirt. Where is it? What tragedy befell it? His response:“Like all the other sex and/or s/m clubs, it was turned into a trendy, overpriced restaurant!”So New York.
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Joke from this morning’s “La Dolce Musto” column: "Why does Kobe Bryant always cry after sex? It's the Mace."