They call me a porn star now. As we're leaving, I realize that if anyone knows the ins and out of Tonic, it must be Coffee. I am sure she'll reveal something steamy, sexy or smutty. What's the dirtiest thing she's ever seen here? Coffee inspects her perfectly manicured orange sherbet nails and shakes her head in disgust.
Strobe lights illuminate an eclectic mash of sexy, slim-hipped disco devotees, walking-art fashionistas and prominent Detroit and international DJs. From the likes of this dance floor, you'd never guess that there's a guy upstairs strapped in a straitjacket getting shocked. Flags from various leather clubs hang proudly from the second floor. Bobby Orlando is playing, and it's dark inside. First things first, I venture upstairs to find what I think is the ladies' room.
Instead, I set eyes on a man being tied to a post. He sports merely a black thong, combat boots, sweat socks and a huge boner. The men around him have their choice of hardware with which to tantalize and torture him: The pool table is covered with spiked roller tools, metal collars, handcuffs and loads of leather straps, whips and chains, as well as scissors that, before my very eyes, slice a penny in half. Meet the Detroit Bondage Club.
The Eagle is Detroit's premier lair for leather lads, and it is here that DBC gives monthly bondage demonstrations on the fourth Sunday of each month. They're ideal for folks who are intimidated by the DBC's private parties The DBC's dungeon comes to life once a month, when 10 to 20 gay men gather in Dave and his lover Julio's converted basement to engage in what Dave calls "play sessions" or "play parties.
The "bottoms" or "slaves" are mostly masked in black leather blindfolds and facial harnesses. Anyone see People Under the Stairs? In one impressive series of photos, hot wax is being peeled off a man's back. It looks like skin, it looks excruciating, and, Dave, it looks very Silence of the Lambs. The man in the wax photos appears as the slave in countless others, and I recognize him as the gentleman tied to the post tonight at the Eagle.
At this point, passers-by are whipping him with leather straps. When later released but only temporarily , he's introduced to me as "dave the Slave" not to be confused with Dave Hill; I'm told the small "d" denotes his slave status. The Slave shows a small smile. Every week, we hold Tupperware parties. Imagine your shrink suspended from a dungeon ceiling, his balls roped in a harness.
At the bar below, the dance party crowd is kickin' with no concern for the acts upstairs. On Sundays, the first floor strays from the leather-daddy crowd with an unprecedented preservation of rare disco music, an event separate from the DBC. Here, some of Detroit's and the world's most dedicated DJs throw down seamless tracks of Euro, Italian and classic disco played nowhere else in the city, and at few other clubs in the country. Levon Millroff and friends are in full force celebrating his 26th birthday tonight and as usual, these artists and stylists exhibit a hodgepodge of head-turning outfits that are at once whimsically carnival-like and colorfully provocative.
Out as tranny burnouts one night, suited space-age the next, look for them in wigs and wings. Gussied up tonight in a foxy policewoman-esque getup, Amanda describes her own style as "comic book villain. A fashion designer and makeup wizard he works for MAC Cosmetics , everything about artist Justin Ruppel is gorgeously exaggerated.
Decked out in carat gold teeth, an armful of bangles, enormous gold high-heel earrings and long blond hair, Justin towers overhead in larger-than-life glam. He's 6 feet, 4 inches tall. While stroking his platinum locks, Justin tells me he draws inspiration from the early '80's New York drag scene, sideshows, carnivals, and anything subculture.
Justin doesn't describe himself as a cross-dresser, but says when he finds a hot dress, "Regardless of what gender it was intended for I'll work the shit outta that outfit and not give a fuck. A vibrant young hairdresser-designer with a passion for sewing, the birthday boy himself strives each week to create outfits for his and his friends' weekend romps through Detroit.
Levon, a self-described "sponge of the fashion world," tells me his creations are experimental, nontraditional, and more recently, highlight a greater emphasis on cultural pieces. Tonight Levon's snuggled in a handmade silver cocoon cape. He opted not to wear the new shoes he made to match; they were coated in rhinestones and might not have survived the night's events.
Levon has just returned from L. DJ Bodydecker will tell you the Eagle is his favorite place to play records because "It's OK to feed into those guilty pleasures here. A small crowd has gathered and Dave Hill seems pleased with the turnout. The Slave still boasts an enormous boner, which he rests on the pool table like a tired limb. Inspired by a young onlooker's interest in nipple stimulation, Julio embarks on an unabashed demonstration on dave the Slave. It culminates in him massaging a vibrating tool over metal clips that hang from the other man's nipples.
The Slave's eyes close, his head lolls around, his body pulses. Julio cups a hand over the Slave's masked mouth as he moans, inducing an arresting dichotomy of pleasure and pain.
All the while, the onlooker cocks his head and stares intently as if observing creatures in an aquarium. I watch this guy mesmerized by the Slave and pull Dave Hill aside. We also kidnap them," he jokes. Visit the Detroit Bondage Club at detroitbondageclub. Woodward Avenue, Saturday at midnight: The SUV of frat boys bonging beers out of their sunroof surely signals summer's arrival, while the black dudes climbing out of their SUV windows to hit on girls is a testimony to Detroit flavor.
Together we crawl for more than an hour from Mack to Jefferson and at one point get sardined in a triple-bus gridlock for five full traffic light changes.
The whole experience is exacerbated by subwoofers and crotch-rockets, as well as hordes of Tigers fans and country-music junkies. When I finally arrive at Detroit's PlanB nightclub, I have high expectations of clubgoers who've made the pilgrimage here, not to mention the doormen's scrupulous selection process.
Yet I'm cautioned by Ernesto Mirjamc, the sexy, well-dressed Croatian standing outside. I instantly give Ernesto credit for being one of few men who's not wearing a half-open short-sleeve button-down shirt. Ernesto has already had enough of his "first and last night" and PlanB. He nods in the direction of the convertible sports cars barricading the club's entrance and sighs, "These people watch too much MTV. Everyone in there lives with their moms. Inside, PlanB brings back memories of dances in my high school gym.
The air hangs damp with sweat and bad cologne, baseball capped guys huddle in groups, and the nondescript dance floor could be a basketball court by day.
Girls with long hair, low tops, and loads of makeup move tiredly to pulsing lights and techno. I anticipate a migraine. Are girls into this? I wonder, and set out to investigate. I spot a lascivious lass standing alone in the corner, but before I can pull out a pen, she passes out face-first on the floor in front of me. A bouncer appears. He escorts her out. His casual expression suggests routine procedure.
The next three girls I approach refuse to comment, and a fourth makes an elaborate gagging impression when I inquire about the men. Understandably then, busty PlanB regular Angela DiSimone has gotten herself into trouble with some boys here by feeding them a fake name and number. Angela, are you aware that a "rejection hotline" number exists for times like these?
She runs into these men the weekend after, and tells me she usually spends most of the night avoiding them, and others. Sounds like a blast, Angela; I can see why you come here every week. Earlier tonight, I'd wondered if the club's name references the morning-after pill, which teenagers apparently refer to as "plan B. Blair Pover, looking smug behind his shades, tells me he plays it cool with the club chicks. I'm soon graced with an account of a different sort of freak incident as I approach a security guy on my way to the bar upstairs.
Turns out, bouncer Shann Childress has a comical tale: "I once saw the flower guy jump in the air from one speaker to the next. Man jumped into the air like James Brown. You know that John Travolta pose? He did that. When he likes a song that come on, he dance. He's an older guy, but he act like he's twenty. Spinning around, like James Brown Shann squints to survey the crowd on the dance floor below, and after a moment, points out a goofy-looking little man with a sea of roses in arm.
I finally corner this character near the basement dance floor. He is Sirdy, Detroit's very own self-proclaimed "Master of Motown. Jones, codelldetroitfictions. April, PM 2. Join Date May Posts Never paid a cover at the Aorta, but I mostly went there to play foosball. I know Bookies had a cover charge for The Police. April, AM 3. Join Date Mar Posts 2, Usually, they wouldn't charge if you were there before 8 or 9 pm.
April, AM 4. Join Date Mar Posts 1, Remember those monthly paper calendars Bookie's gave out? Might say on one of those if you can find one. April, AM 5. Moaf's recollection matches up with mine. A drink minimum [[usually two was also common. The bars did not track the drinks. You were served the minimum number and charged for them on your first order. I did not mind paying the cover, but the drink minimum bothered me. April, AM 6. Cover charges were always tied to the quality of the entertainment.
Clubs with Good bands and DJs could get away with charging cover. Crappy Places with a bad cover band couldn't.
And lets not forget the blatantly sexist policy of all, women get in free and men pay cover. Typically used in college bars. April, AM 7. Latest Sports. Best Of. Local Radars. First Forecast October 25, Today Rain continues for most of the day, temps in the low 50s.
First Forecast October 24, Overnight Steady temps and steady rain, with a possible rumble of thunder. Then the Wolverines used a strong finish to seal a matchup of undefeated rivals. CBS From a dining establishment known for its brunch plates to a beauty salon that specializes in skin care treatments. Wondering where to go in the Metro Detroit area after you have finished class for the day?
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