WMC 2010 Roundup

I was originally supposed to go with BL, the hot, 42 YO Barely Lesbian I had been seeing, but a few weeks prior, she suddenly began dissing trance – the most prominent genre at WMC – stating she was only going because of the dubstep, a still-obscure, downbeat genre that was being featured at a few smaller WMC events for the first time.  Then, only two weeks before WMC, when I got into the specifics of making plans, she sarcastically told me I should take my sugarbaby instead.  While it was an excellent idea, especially considering BL’s new-found disdain for trance, I knew my sugarbaby had her toddler and wouldn’t be available until the Saturday of the more-or-less five-day event starting on a Wednesday, and I had vowed to myself to make it to Thursday’s Juicy Beach party at Nikki Beach for the first time, so I told BL I wanted to go with her, not my sugarbaby, but she was noncommittal.

My friends Tommy and Cheri (real names) were going, but they were staying with another couple, the guy of which was a rockstar in the 70s, and with whom I could not stay again (as I had for one night during WMC ’07 when Tommy and Cheri invited me to sleep in a backyard tent with them).  Also, they were only going Friday night to Sunday, weren’t planning to go out Friday night or Saturday night, and already had tickets to Ultra for all of Saturday, while i was more interested in hitting the clubs.

A chick I had just met in the fitness center of my condo complex was going for a whole week, but she was staying in a house in North Beach with people I did not know, and told me her goal for the week was to meet a rich guy, which I am not.  Also, that guy had to be under 50, which I am almost, and which she appears to be almost, but no matter.

Finally, on the Sunday before WMC, 21 year-old hooker Tori, attempting to fulfill a promise she had made to herself to herself less than two-weeks earlier – to return to Trapeze swingers club every two weeks – asked me to take her again that upcoming Saturday, during WMC.  When I mentioned I was planning to be at WMC, she got excited about the idea of returning, and suggested we combine the trip to Trapeze with WMC, and I told her I’d get back to her about that, giving BL a couple of days to change her mind.  BL didn’t change her mind, or if she did didn’t tell me, and so I told Tori I’d go.  Unfortunately, by then, The Dominatrix who I had introduced to Tori when I introduced Tori to threesomes and who is now Tori’s de facto madame and possible future mother-in-law, was having none of it, telling me they both needed to work and make money.

I then called my sugarbaby, since i figured doing a single-night trip with her was better-than-nothing, and maybe, considering how hot she is, the best option overall.  Unfortunately, she had her son until about 6 PM on Saturday, so the earliest we could possibly get to Miami would be 10, and she then happened to mention she already had plans with another guy for that night (“but it would have been fun, though”).

My alternatives at this point were groveling to BL and risking a return of her wrath, not to mention her dissidence from trance ruining the trip, or going with one or two women that I am not attracted to and don’t know well.  Not liking those options, I didn’t exercise them.

The next day, The Dominatrix called me back.  She’d gotten tipped off that the Tampa cops were going to be doing a sweep of hookers that weekend, and decided that she and Tori would work the weekend in Miami, splitting the cost of the room, and partying with me in between their paid-for sex.  Eventually, The Dominatrix decided to take her 15 YO son Joey, which I didn’t object to since I didn’t know who I’d be able to hang out with while his mother and Tori were fucking, something they expected to do – based upon their lucrative sexcapades Super Bowl weekend -  for much of WMC weekend, as well.  I was skeptical that young clubgoers with game and good drugs would be buying sex as much as the wealthy businessguys that compose most of the Super Bowl’s live audience – and even more skeptical that the girls would pay me for the room, especially after I learned shortly after we left that The Dominatrix didn’t have the promised deposit money (which she had used to pay for her probation) – but I was too happy to have traveling companions so I kept my mouth shut.

The next day, as I earlier reported, The Dominatrix beat up Tori, bloodying her lip and driving her out of their sugardaddy’s house half-naked into the rain, and she eventually took refuge at my crib, soaking wet, bleeding, and not smelling too hot, again leaving me in a quandary as to whether I was going and with who.  The Dominatrix eventually texted me, told me to take Tori, and then changed her mind and decided to go anyway the next morning.  I won’t bore you with all the details of the dispute, but things were very testy for a while.  Nonetheless, by late Friday morning, Juicy Beach 2010 already a memory for others, the four of us were finally on our way.

With that lead-up out of the way – a lead-up that seemed to consume the better part of my WMC experience – here are some of my observations:

Fuckonomics:

The Marketplace:

Its gotten a lot cheaper to buy sex in Miami.  At WMC in ’08, outcall was $200/hour, but with a two-hour minimum:  a total of $400 to get laid.  This year, a clean, well-dressed, passable middle-aged black woman asked me right out on Washington Ave. if she could blow me for $20.

Tori and The Dominatrix were starving – literally.  They came down with no money, and ended up breaking into a can of tuna fish the owner of the condo we rented left behind.  Tori didn’t make a penny, in part because when one guy saw her and realized she had used pictures in her backpage.com ad of a girl who was thinner – and Tori’s a bit of a but-her-face to begin with, even when her lip isn’t swollen and scabbed from being beaten by The Dominatrix – he went ballistic.  He wanted to fuck The Dominatrix instead, but then started suspecting they were both cops and took off.

Tori had run her ad Friday before we left for Miami, and, with the picture of the hot chick on it, the phone she was sharing with The Dominatrix quickly started blowing up.  Unfortunately, however, we arrived too late for her to service downtown Miami businessguys on their way home, and despite re-running the ad, the phone – which kept losing its charge to boot – never ran with nearly the same prolificence.

The Dominatrix had little better luck.  She relied on someone else to place her ad, and it didn’t get posted until 11 on Friday night.  We had a weak, essentially nonexistent, wireless connection in the condo, and her period hit just as we got to Miami.  The next morning she apparently ate something which made her both vomit and have diarrhea.  She finally got a client Saturday evening- not from her ad but by meeting a guy in the club when he pinched Joey’s rear-end who later invited her to a party in his room.  I’m not sure how much she was paid, but all she had for me when she came back from a multi-hour jaunt with Tori in tow was $50, and not much else to show except a box of tropical wines from Miami Winery.  The guys who gave it to her – who claimed to own the company – told her the box of 3 bottles was worth $400, but they are available on this website for less than $35 total.

A big part of the problem was that, within an hour or so of The Dominatrix placing her ad, another 200 ads went up on backpage.  Not only were girls selling it cheap on the streets of South Beach late at night, but gone were the two-hour minimums, replaced by 15-minute “full-service” sessions for $50, while Tori and The Dominatrix were only advertising full-hours for $200.  By the time they starting advertising $100 half-hours, it was too-little, too-late.  They even watched one of their clients get swept-away by hot street girls within 20 feet of the front entrance of our building, and when I returned from the club at 6 AM Sunday morning, two hotties had waylayed three guys right on our corner.  The facts that The Dominatrix has been complaining about not getting dick for weeks (she doesn’t count it as getting it when she gets paid), and that the lack of business meant that she couldn’t go to Trapeze for dick even if she was going to swing on-the-rag anyway, only added insult to injury.

Fuckonometric Principles are Spreading

As for me, one of the great things about freely paying for sex is that I can go to an event like WMC and not really care if I get laid.  Sure, there were plenty of incredibly hot, topless-and-thonged chicks all over South Beach I wanted to bang – and I made some moves – but its not like earlier in my life, when I might have found myself in a Chili’s in Pembroke Pines, eating fajitas with REO Speedwagon playing in the background, trying to get some ‘free” sex at the expense of enjoying WMC.

I was there for the scene.  If I was going fuck, it was going to be on X, and preferably involve multiple chicks, or at least one seriously hot one that was part of that scene.  And until mid-Saturday, I was still holding out hope for the orgy at Trapeze.  When it was clear it wasn’t going to materialize, I set out to plan my Saturday night.

Tommy and Cheri would be at Ultra until around midnight, they didn’t answer my text, and I didn’t expect them to have the stamina or motivation to party-on after that.

While Joey had managed to get into Tantra the night before, when D:Fuse was spinning, I figured the chances of him pulling off a similar caper two nights in a row were slim, and I was determined to see top talent that night, anyway, which would make his entry into the more-crowded clubs even more unlikely. Plus, he had no money, so I would have to pay double.  Nonethless, we cruised Washington Ave. to get a feel for the situation, but IDs were conspicuously being checked outside Mansion, which is only a block from the condo, precluding his getting into David Guetta’s legendary Fuck Me I’m Famous Party even if I wanted to drop $100 each for us which i didn’t.  A couple blocks north, IDs were being scrutinized outside Kascade’s less-expensive, young-pussy-filled show.

I had run into the hypergamous broad from my apartment complex that afternoon on Collins Ave., and, in a highly-inebriated state, she informed me she was going to be at Space in downtown Miami that night, where Paul Van Dyk was headlining an all-star lineup.  I’d long wanted to see PVD at Space, where he has played at least one night every WMC for the past 10 years, and which is about the equivalent of seeing the Dead at The Fillmore, The Ramones at CBGB, or Sinatra at the Desert Inn, but the place is huge, ticket prices were steep ($60 before midnight, $80 before 2, and, as I found out when I arrived after that, then go to $100), I’m not into the chick enough to want to have turned the night into, effectively, our first date, and I didn’t want to be a loner clinging to her crowd, which I had noticed back on Collins included a guy so ripped he made me look subhuman.

My choices dismal, I briefly considered going to Fuck Me I’m Famous alone, especially since parking near Space can be hefty enough to account for the difference in cover charges, but I decided against it.  Not being famous – yet -  I knew I wouldn’t be getting laid, but neither did I want to see all the famous guys around me getting laid by Sexy Bitches, either, while I was alone.  The Dominatrix had seen Tiesto in the crowd the night before – if he was back again, that probably would have been a half-dozen girls gone right there, not to mention dozens of others who’d suddenly consider a guy like me a depressing consolation prize. Besides, I reminded myself why I was there, and while I’d seen PVD just this past November, where I saw him wasn’t Space, and the lineup at Space also included Filo & Peri, Pete Tong, Tocadisco, Cedric Gervais, Yves Larock, and host of others.  I figured if I got to Space fairly late – say just before 2 – it would cost more than if I got there early, but at least I wouldn’t be clinging-on to my apartment complex-mate, or wandering alone as long, either – well worth the $20 tradeoff.

On the way downtown, around 1, I began having second thoughts. As I learned by turning on my radio to Sirius Area 38 which carried the event live, PVD was already spinning, which I assumed meant that by the time I parked the car and made my way up the line, he’d be done and presumably on his way to getting fucked at the Fuck Me I’m Famous party.  I eventually continued downtown, and when I finally found a reasonably-safe parking spot under $20, it was already after 2, and the ticket price had jumped to $100.  I checked out the other acts and prices at the neighboring clubs, and decided I’d take the plunge, anyway.  What’s $100 when it appeared that I was paying at least $350 just for the room?

I was immediately reminded.

No sooner did I reach the end of the line when, right next to me, was a group of 30ish, game-wise, Guyinists.  They had just found out it would cost them $100 each, and the leader did a body-count, figured that between the 7 of them they would be spending $700 just to get in, “and you know what we can do with $700 instead” followed by silent group contemplation of each of them doing two hookers at a time for a half-hour each, all eyes surveying the others.  I’m not sure what they ended up doing – the silence was interrupted when the leader advised the others how many “capsules” they had left and how long the capsules would keep them awake – but I had heard enough, and went two doors down to Pascha’s, where Jonathan Peters and The Martinez Brothers were spinning for only $40.  Or so I thought, since, in typical Miami-club fashion, I was told by the cashier after enduring the line that it was $50 unless one of the door guys had given me some sort of ticket.

I went in, anyway.

I later found out that PVD wasn’t lying when he advertised his peformances at Space as a “marathon” – he’d spun 44 tracks the night before, and was undoubtedly still on the decks until the even wee-er hours of the morning on this the second night, when I assume he was really going all-out.  I should have sprung for the extra $50 – I can’t do a hot chick for that around here, anyway.

Finally, its not just hookers and payahs who are keenly aware of Fuckonomics in Miami – Diesel, which has a large South Beach outpost, has a new marketing campaign centered around the slogan, “SEX SELLS.  Unfortunately, we sell jeans.”

Perhaps Diesel shareholders can take some solace from the fact sex isn’t selling as well in Miami as it used.  Ask Tori and The Dominatrix.  They’d have made more money WMC weekend working minimum wage folding pants at a Levi Strauss outlet.

The Scene:

Fashion:

For years now, Miami has served as a springboard for all manner of sexual depravity – both the good and the bad – as well as accompanying epidermally-generous fashion trends.  This year was no exception.

Besides Diesel jeans, skimpy Victoria’s Secret panties, or at least what looked like Victoria’s Secret panties (and I’ve been buying a lot of Victoria’s Secret panties lately, so I know) were being worn in public at various daytime venues all over South Beach.  Girls – many of them – were showing up at $40 – $75 a head pool parties wearing them,unaccompanied by even so much as a wrap.

The fashion at Pascha’s  – or lack thereof – was a little more disturbing, at least to me.  There were shirtless, ripped guys all over the club, each of which was in the embrace of one hot chick or another.  Even if I still could get into that kind of shape  – and two chicks there harshly reminded me I’m not in that kind of shape now – it doesn’t pay for me to do so given how easy it is for me to get sex just by paying.

On another interesting note, there were an unusual number of  – how can I say this politically correctly so as not too offend the quick-to-hate groups? – Ts in the club, mainly Trans Women, mingling quite comfortably with groups of friends which patently included Gs, probably included Bs, and even appeared to included some of us oft-hated Ss.

Attitude:

Its not just my apartment complex-mate who’s hypergamous.  Miami is probably the national hotbed of the threesome, populated with average girls that would rather lick an alpha guy’s balls while their hotter girlfriend gets to suck the cock, than have a regular guy’s cock and balls to themself- unless the regular guy gives them $50.  On two separate occasions, chicks who weren’t that hot but weren’t getting any alpha attention decided to initiate disingenuously fucking with me, one while in the presence of her truly hot friend and the friend’s boyfriend, and two others hanging out unaccompanied at Pascha’s.

If they only knew they were dealing with someone who Jenny Hendrix once wanted to fuck me. (Ed. note  WMC occurred before I learned that she may have been just as horny at the thought of fucking Ron Jeremy).

It wasn’t just chicks with bloated self-esteem that dissed me – I was dissed by none other than noted swinger’s party promoter Nathan Bliss, who denied Joey and I entry to his “bisexual” chick and swinger-centric clothing-optional pool party.  I wasn’t insulted – even couples can’t necessarily get in, and he targets the under-40 crowd – until Joey approached Bliss without me and asked if he could get in if he brought “his girlfriend” back.  Nathan, apparently not realizing Joey was a minor, agreed, but went out of his way to rudely point out that no matter who I returned with, I wasn’t getting in.

I know I was wearing a lousy outfit that day, but I like to think that Nathan, who has me on his mailing list, had somehow heard through the grapevine about my large schlong that I could be displaying around the pool, or that Jenny Hendrix had once wanted to fuck me, and didn’t want the competition.

Kids:

As I joked at Side Splitters comedy club and reiterated in a recent post, now apparently gone from the cloud after a server crash, I’m not exactly into the idea of having kids anytime soon.  However, after a weekend of hanging out with Joey, I know that if I do have kids anytime soon, I will do so by adopting a teenage juvenile delinquent.  He was my main hang-out partner for WMC, and he was a pleasure – and of course, one great thing about adopting a teenage juvenile delinquent is not only do you never have to change his diapers, but there’s a good chance he’ll end up incarcerated – like his two older brothers – even before he graduates from high school, so its not necessarily even a long-term commitment.  In fact, in Joey’s case, he’s already facing criminal charges.

Not only did Joey get into Tantra, he did it with gusto, drinking, dancing, and grabbing a hot chick’s ass and getting a favorable reaction in response.  He was given a stack of 40 cards to hand out to prospective contestants for the Maxim party’s modeling contest, and in less than a day, went through all of them.  He actually was allowed to do a lap of the Maxim party for free, and ably followed my lead sneaking onto the pool deck at the Gansevoort, from where we watched the proletariat revel in the teeming beach party down below.  I wasn’t too keen on the idea of buying him Four Loko under pressure, after I refused out of respect for his mother to give him coke or ecstasy or buy him cigarettes, but no problems resulted, and he promised to reciprocate by hooking me up with ecstasy, as well as other unmentionables, at high school prices.

More of the Scene:

The New York Post implied that Jeremy Shockey, who is part of the apparently large annual NFL contingent and was also at WMC last time I was there in ’07, fucked Traci Lords at WMC this year.  I know I said wasn’t going to reiterate mainstream gossip, but I lied, just to give you some more WMC flavor.

And on that note, I’ll leave you with what I heard on the radio, but did not see, at WMC this year:  Paul Van Dyk, at Space.

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Tags: escorts, Fuck Me I'm Famous, fuckonomics, hookers, Jeremy Shockey, Miami, Miami Beach, Paul Van Dyk, South Beach, Space, Tantra, Tracy Lords, Winter Music Conference, WMC