It’s Monday now, and really I haven’t been home since Saturday morning, which is maybe not indicative of an average SiWiC but there was enough gossip and scandal in the last 48 hours to satisfy anyone who likes to live vicariously through the lives of others. But today, having had a really fucking rough twenty-four hours, which I’m sure I will look back on when I am senile and not remember at all, I’m not sure how amusing I can be.
So, we dragged our sorry asses into the studio at 10am for ballet. At least everyone else did. I was asleep. I can’t remember what I did Friday night, but I’m sure it was entertaining for someone, the result being I woke up late, slobbered and drooled into my coffee, then floated to Wasserworks on my private yacht to do a whole lot of nothing. Or so I thought. Someone decided to cut some parts and add new ones, confusing the dancers and depriving me of my leisure time. We were all looking a bit sorry, and rectified this by doing a solidly average matinee. Nothing went wrong, the cues were all fine, everyone was competent, and well, if someone had a bazooka or a suitcase of napalm it’d have livened things up I’m sure.
Off to the park next door for hours of sleeping or desperately trying to seduce in an extremely casual and nonchalant manner whoever had been chosen for the final night’s piece of action. I slept and ate ice-cream, which is just how fucking casual and nonchalant I am when keeping my attentions divided among three … no, four … beautiful dancers. Yes, I was a whore, no I did not get laid. And the ice-cream was frozen solid.
As for the final show, noone got dismembered by flying shoes, but in no particular order Zurich was shocked and mildly titillated by the following occurances: One extended, full-on tongue-pashing kiss between a the coach and a choreograper, one gently swaying erection from a dancer well taped to a chair, a finale that turned into an orgy the beer runnning out before the party started…
The erection. Which was always Martin’s and Tom’s goal in the Marilyn Manson/Pulp Fiction gimp scene, and finally it wasn’t just slightly swollen, but popping up and swaying from side-to-side like haut-couture performance art. We were all impressed with Tom’s professionalism, and if any one thing defines this year’s SiWiC, it’s Tom gaffered to a chair with a boner.
The kiss. Nigel had promised to embarrass me during the last performance since earlier in the week. After introducing us and even getting our names more or less correct, he pulled me up again asked me to get on my knees, did the same, then shoved his tongue and several teeth into my mouth while tossling my unwashed hair. No, it wasn’t embarrasing, but I was expecting a job offer.
People died, had sex, took their clothes off, shook their legs, said, “thith ith my space”, danced a bit more, lights went on and off, sound came and went, people clapped a bit, beer arrived and was drunk, we all sat outside, said too many goodbyes as dancer after dancer fled the scene, and when it was obvious it was time to leave, we all schlepped off to Labrynth.
Where e-ed up, steroid-pumped muscle queens with stick-on tatoos and fake tans checked each other out to god-awful bangin techno and tried to simultaneously dance, clap, and go “woooo!!!!”. Tried and failed. We ate chocolate, Willem bounced off the cushions and walls, and ran around like a kid on red cordial, then around 430 am decided to go for a swim. Naked, drunk, stoned, and jumping into the cool, deep river as the sky shifted from black to pale blue along the horizon.
It’s over. Two weeks of finely uncontrolled mayhem, I had a blast.
