In case you didn’t know, our landlord is DJ Tiesto, and our landlord performed at LIV the disco @ the Fontainebleau last night, actually this morning.
“I go on at 1 am,” he e-mailed, “till whenever…”
So we took a mega nap, woke at 11 and got done up. I knew the drill, after 8 months of Miami I’ve learned that Saturday night on the beach means a dress that ends at the crotch and stiletto’s that can skewer a rat without anyone noticing it stuck in the arch of the heel. I complied, included ample make-up but went without my implants and the mandatory ironed blond hair. Would I get in? I was on the list. On the VIP, Tiesto guest, A-list.
Still, the big black bouncer made me feel like shit as in the minority revenge dish best served cold, like really stone cold….
“Stay there”, he barked as I moved forward, an inch past some imaginary line. “But, but..” He ignored me as I repeated Tiesto and my name in one sentence an embarrassing amount of times, while several younger, tight skirted, ironed blondes squeezed past, pressing their hard, high and large tits against me as if to say ” if you aint got these you ain’t goin’nowhere, bitch.”
But I got in. Eventually. So did husband. We got in. So there.
And it felt great. I’d taken half a Vicodin (what else are they good for) so everything was perfect.
“Ultimate 21st century kitsch”, husband said, “I love it.”
“Me too,” I said, looking around the space; chandeliers the size of UFO’s, almost naked waitresses balancing bottles of champagne decorated with sparklers, a flashlight, like a small dildo clenched between their lips to light their path, the monotonous beat pounding my chest and confusing my own heartbeat in an exhilarating kinda way.
The space filled up. Blah looking guys in shirts worn open over their jeans, and thousands of girls in tiny dresses, all dresses. Not skirts and tops, not shorts, not leggings. But dresses. Whilst high I imagined doing a collection of dresses called LIV and selling them at the Fontainebleau store. Even with a hangover, the next day, this seems like a good idea. Like where do they get all those sexy dresses? Tight. Low cut. Sleeveless, strappy, strapless, hugging, clinging stretching with lots of bling, jewels, chains, buckles and sequins, in every color.
To get noticed in this sea of sexy the pro-dancers wore nothing. What else could they do? They wore bondage that passed for more than plain nudity and girated and pulsated on their small pedestals as if to show the other bitches who was hottest.
Like, mirror mirror on the wall who’s the gyratest of them all?
So finally Tiesto appeared on the stage. Unassuming, not tall, not short, not gorgeous, not ugly. Just a blond guy from Holland in a striped Gap Tee and a smile that tried to please . The crowd went nuts. The beat amped up. Men holding poster board with giant letters pushed by. Girls hopped on the spot, like jumping beans, encased in their dresses.
T I E S T O ….
I let go. I stopped watching and analyzing and judging, I just grooved. The music in tune with some ancient rhythm in my DNA I too hopped and gyrated and danced on the spot, mesmerized by the light show, happy on scotch and chemicals, Tiesto took me off somewhere other than my mundaine mind.
Then, towards the end of his first set, as the naked dancers left the stage a happy guy leapt in their place. He was a great dancer too, only heavily clad in a cool skinny suit and pork pie hat. The crowd cheered him on as he danced his heart out. Until. A large, a large pumped up security guy pounced him, slammed him to the ground, stepped on him and dragged him off the stage so fast that the whole thing seemed surreal. Now I was paying attention again and I noticed the cordoned off areas around me and people begging bouncers to be let in, as if here and there were two different experiences, like a better parallel Tiesto universe awaited on the other side of the black security tape.
I noticed Alastair shouting at the guard who’d dragged off the happy dancer, “What did you get him arrested for? Having a good time in a disco?”
I tried to hang in my careless groovy state as I loitered up the stairs behind the stage, but a guard grabbed my arm and pushed me along,
“You cant stop here here,” he said. “Why not?” I was still oblivious. “Its a rule,” he shouted. “Like Homeland Security?”I screamed back.
“Fuck this fascist shit,” Alastair said. “lets go home.”
So home we went and wondered what was up with the controlling “BlackWater” patrol at a Miami Tiesto disco bash…