The Gate Crasher: Sodom and Gomorrha

The Gate Crasher explores the underbelly of a nightclub named Grelle Forelle (crude cod) overlooking the Vienna canal

An upside-down cross hung over the dance floor as I stepped into the Sodom and Gomorrha party at the disco Grelle Forelle on the Danube Canal. This was the first time I’d ever jumped the line. It may have been due to gate-crashing-cojones, or just the drinks I’d already consumed, but who cares? I was in.

After browsing its Facebook page, the photos of sex-toys, leather, and innumerable unprintables made it look as if this would be a party worth crashing. Besides, I’d crashed a gay party before. I knew what I was doing.

I opened another button of my shirt and handed my coat in at the Garderobe as a large woman dressed as a bumblebee brushed past me. One of my companions flashed me a smile and shrugged. Very promising.

At the bar, an incontrovertibly drunk girl bumped into me and we clinked glasses, as she mumbled an introduction and held out her hand. It certainly wasn’t a handshake, so, not wanting to pass up the küss die Hand protocol, I obliged, planting a kiss just above her knuckles. She furrowed her brow, retracted her hand, and wiped it on her dress. I slumped as she sauntered off. “Gotta work on that,” I thought, and moved on in search of more intellectual diversion.

A small group had congregated in the sitting room outside, so I plopped myself down. “…naw, man, Flex is where it’s at,” grumbled a guy from under his headphones. Given my own extensive field experience, I was about to interject when a distinguished looking man in his late 60s in a white, six-button suit leaned over to the girl a few seats down and whispered, “You took my seat,” seductively into her ear.

She looked up at him with a puzzled expression, and to my astonishment, Six Buttons kissed her copiously on the lips. She got up casually and sidled off.

Now this was a guy I could learn from. I shifted closer, but caught the overhanging lamp firmly with my head. Conversation died and everyone glared at me with utter disdain; the shadows shifted as the light swung back and forth, articulating my already uneasy presence.

“Uh, sorry,” I said sheepishly. No sympathy of course. I nursed my bruise and wandered back to the dance floor. Thus far it had been slow going. I was gatecrashing, and I needed to find something worthy of the name. You know, like action.

Then somehow, while grinding an attractive young Pixie Cut on the dance floor, I found myself in an engaging conversation. It was surprisingly unpretentious, at S&G, and just being an interesting-looking guy, it seemed, made it easy to meet someone.

I excused myself and moved on to a mysterious black door, couples were entering and exiting. I reached for the handle, when something didn’t seem quite right. I put my ear to the door and as a telltale thumping penetrated the pounding of dubstep. Definitely geschlossene Gesellschaft.

Next door, a sizeable group had congregated in the women’s bathroom, which tonight was unusually un-private. The novelty was appealing, so I injected myself, without interference, into the group.

The verdict: This week’s party was “lame,” and not nearly “like it used to be”.

I honed back in to a young man in a camelhair overcoat still droning on about his career as a filmmaker – the third filmmaker that evening with a ground-breaking project just about to get off the ground, and like everyone else, in love with Woody Allen.

Drained, I looked down at my nearly empty glass and rubbed the cigarette burns on my neck, both the result of turbulence on the dance floor. It was 4:30 and the place was already clearing out. Collecting my coat, I handed Pixie Cut her card (as her girlfriend scowled) and stepped out into the falling snow. I wasn’t expecting a callback.

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