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CLITORATAE
REVIEW
The
lesbian circus was in town, and I wanted to check it out. Based on the
quality of enjoyment that I had at a previous girl club, I figured it was
worth the rather hefty £8 (£12 for non-students), and soon we were at
the VooDoo Lounge. My initial reaction was a bit of a letdown -- myself
and my good mate had arrived without a woman, and were told that we
wouldn't be let in until we got. I tried to explain that we were meeting
friends inside, until I realized that everyone was probably using that
line. So after ringing a friend who lived nearby and convincing her to
come early (she wasn't planning on coming along until an hour later), we
went into the club, where we were interrogated again -- they thought we
had just cajoled the girl into saying she was with us. Luckily, the
lovely Miss Dial-Emma was stamping hands and recognized my pleading face.
Thus, everything was okay, and we were finally admitted. Whew.
So the venue is excellent.
Multi-leveled, sectioned off areas, it uses all of its space to fine
advantage. Drinks were mostly £2.80, shots similiarly priced. They
didn't have several mainstay drinks on tap, but their alternates were
excellent. As someone who drinks cider, I'll take Wicked Apple over
Bulmers any night. DJ Karen from the George opened the night in the box,
and she took over the place with nice big beats and solid creeping funk.
DJ David Campbell, although advertised as spinning 'Deep Fried Funk,'
actually was playing some deconstructed club beats, soft techno, and
perhaps some funk, albeit light and slightly crispy as opposed to deep
and fried.
Riiight. Now, the art. The
performances were all brilliantly off kilter. The postered act was the
woman who, through bringing something like a disassembled jackhammer
against a metal-plated crotch, creates torrents of golden sparks. A trio
of artists dressed in vintage clothing covered in gold lame and painted
their faces in the same color, to then move about with carefully studied
and graceful movements. Another two artists, arriving from a red,
smoke-filled wall and dressed in futuristic black and silver outfits,
were armed with tilted expressions and pink feather dusters. The most
over-the-top act would definitely be the fellow who got into the huge
robotic suit ('Transformers' comes to mind) and stilts, and then mangled
his way around the ground floor. There may have been other artists
present that I didn't see.
On the tables, along with the
mood-lighting, were photocopied pamphlets with very detailed drawings and
diagrams of female anatomy. Perhaps more interesting, within were also
step-by-step instructions with directions for vaginal fisting. As a gay
lad with no desire to know *nearly* that much about the labias major and
minor, I must say that this 'erotic literature' was enlightening. There
were also dental dams and other methods of protection. The crowd present
was a good mixture of young and old, looking like a complete
cross-section of the community. I asked about, and there were women there
from Belfast, Cork, Galway, and all sorts of small villages I hadn't
heard of. It looks like the event had received successful national
publicity. I only received one-incident of anti-man hostility, from a
particularly stodgy woman sitting nearby.
The aforementioned literature had
been nicked from my table, so I had asked to see theirs, which they had
finished looking at and set aside. I was informed that the event was, 'a
woman-only space.' Of course I would have no problem with this, if it
were true. I elected not to argue with her, and withdrew, to then hear
the woman's tablemates educating her as to the true nature of the event
(i.e. showcasing queer artists). She later came over and begrudgingly
apologized. Through whispers and overheard conversations, there was talk
that Clitoratae might become a monthly club. If you didn't get a chance
to visit this time, hope that it sticks around.
dave
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