There must be something wrong with us. To party so closely, so sweatily, without personal protective equipment in the middle of a pandemic? No face masks. No face shields. No papers needed to be shown to any bio-tech gestapos. We knew the risks. We knew the transmissibility. We saw all the latest science, conspiracies, government lip services and disaster porn. But still, we did the dubious and dangerous thing and decided it was worth the risk to reunite and see friends we missed for over a year. This next comparison might be a little extreme, maybe even tasteless but bear with me, the point is solid–at the height of the 80’s AIDs epidemic, when Anthony Fauci was as much a media personality as he is now, did gay men stop having sex altogether? Some probably did. Some definitely didn’t. Like it or not, the choice of love over fear is similar today. If anything, this experience should make people more empathetic to those who suffered the last epidemic. Celebration, fun, night-life, partying, socializing in general–to many people these things are as essential as actual love-making and no one is going to deny them their right to do so, not the state, not their friends, nobody. It makes the case for behavior being part of identity, whether it be sex or socializing, without the act, some people just aren’t the same. Go another year without seeing anyone and see exactly what you become. Lethal Amount’s Sex Cells was the perfect party to snap us out of being the bores we became during quarantine. So all night long, we partied up and down the Globe, swapping and transmitting all sorts of bacteria parties that raged even harder than we did.
This was the Night of 1,000 Madonnas, a celebration of a pop icon who’s physical appearance was crumbling hand in hand with Western Civilization itself. Equal parts beauty and cringe throughout her career, the queen was the perfect subject to spoof and pay homage to in drag. There were so many eras to choose from, Lace Gloves, Pearl Necklace, blue denim Cowgirl, the Hung Up pink thigh-high socks, and my favorite–Erotica, the Madonna in nude, the most underground of her musical efforts.
The evening’s first performance drew every wet eye away from their friends and lovers to the stage were Panterah, the black latex Succubus singer of Fee Lion, materialized out of pure shadow with spikes protruding from her back like some kind of smoking hot cenobite from the Clive Barker horrorverse. Her moves and songs were slow, sultry, sexy and dangerous. She crept through the Globe like a dark mist climbing up to the balcony and climaxing her performance like an angel that sinned itself human.
A burlesque performance by Tito Bonito followed with ass tassles abound. The audience was giddy seeing this much humor and sexappeal packed into such a confident strut. Then the ladies of Exposure Drag took the stage to pay homage to every era of Madonna, culminating in an epic rendition of “Like a Prayer” where a rain of pink bubbles exalted the audience.
After such a long quarantine, I almost forgot fun could be so well produced and that promoters could put in such effort just to make a crowd smile and let loose. Anyone that would make a fuss against such a gathering must have never experienced this kind of thrill for themselves.
Words by: Robert Shepyer
Photos by: Paula Jean