Allow me to sing the praises of the king-size bed and the liberation of fantasy. My beloved kohlrabi and I recently spent a weekend geeking it at a science fiction convention (yes, that was me in the black Spandex bodysuit and gold lame jacket with tails) and we learned that for maximum sleeping and rumpy-bumpy pleasure theres just nothing like a king-size bed. They go on for miles! That much room inspires inspiration for creativity and endurance. We could have fit another couple on that bed (plus another two on the brocade, padded bench at the foot of the bed) and still have had room for more. Hail to the king, baby.
Although we fell in love with the hotel bed and the quiet privacy of our room, we did venture out periodically. After all, part of the joy of a sci-fi convention is seeing and being seen. That and going home with a bag full of soaps, shampoos, and hand lotions from your hotel bathroom, of course.
I was raised on the fantasies of science fiction and Catholicism; a weird combination of pleasure and pain, discipline and wild abandon, patent leather Mary Janes and Latex space suits with built-in spike heeled boots, virginity and big-boobed space girls fucking their way across the universe. A sci-fi convention blends these two discordant aspects of my spiritual and sexual upbringing with the temporary insanity of sleep deprivation, alcohol and sugary/salty/greasy snacks masquerading as meals. Every Con weekend is a fever dream of relaxed inhibitions as fans of the genre stay awake for days, singing filk songs in a tribal circle, watching favorite movies (including hours of Japanese anime complete with occasional tentacle sex, transgenderism, and biomechanical dismemberment), and dressing up in costumes that rival the best attended Fetish Night. Lushly fleshed women overflow corsets, sleekly slim vamps squeak through hallways in purple, black, and red vinyl, latex and leather, long-haired men parade in opulent vests, dresses, wizards robes and Klingon garb; you pass people on slave chains and mysterious creatures of unknown gender with tiny dragons pinned to their shoulders. For a brief time everyone, no matter how socially outcast, can summon their latent (or blatant) creativity and sexuality and celebrate their minds and bodies.
It's a liberating weekend where no one looks at you like you're crazy if youre nearly velcroed to the wall for support while drinking homemade liqueurs, wearing a Gor-bunny bikini, and conversationally comparing the amount of gut splatter you can get with a nail gun to that obtained with a wacky fish blower. It's a blessed weekend when girls with glasses get just as many passes as those with bionic boobs and boys whose noses are usually buried in books get to see more female flesh in the raw, up close and personal, than they will for the rest of the year.
I love Con dances. It is on the dance floor that the greatest collection of fetishwear, body shapes, sexual preferences and fantasies can be found. Its always a delight to have some freshly legal boy or girl offer themselves up for an evening of fleshly delights; whether I take them up on their offer or not. I wish that more dance clubs were like Con dances; great social equalizers where anyone is free to dance, to seduce, to befriend and beguile. I often sit in the shadows, stir a drink and watch the social ugly ducklings turn into beautiful, self-confident swans for a magic weekend. For a brief time anyone can be a seductive vampire, a green-skinned dancing girl, a gas-mask and latex wearing enigma. For a brief time the world is a king-size bed with room for everyone. Hail to the king, baby.