Yes, Fat Chicks!

Photo by Rebecca SchoenkopfMonica wore chic black punctuated with glittery blue butterfly wings on her back like she was a Club Rubber stripper. A pretty brunette with the cleavage of five strong women, she was maybe pushing 23. She was also maybe pushing 250.

There were hundreds more like Monica at the Lion's Den in Costa Mesa Saturday night for Butterfly Lounge, as the BBW and the men who love them literally shook the dance floor to Prince's Kiss,” though if I were the DJ, I would just have spun Sir Mix-A-Lot's brilliantly feminist and womyn-affirming “Baby Got Back” on a continuous loop. Monica had braved the freeways from West Covina to attend and be adored; despite the fact that everyone in this Big Mac Nation is getting steadily fatter, Big Beautiful Women still have to trek long ways to mix with folk who won't stare in insulting, open-mouthed dismay at their massive, jiggly love.

There was a lot of ripe flesh at the club best known for hosting Latin drag revues. Some of that flesh might have been better covered—backless tops are generally only flattering on the lucky miss who has had a passel of taut sorority sisters at the ready to shame the brownies from her hand. But who am I to play fashion cop? Judging by the huge number of men lurking at the bar, some of whom were supersized themselves while others were shirtless and rock-hard, there are plenty out there looking for a woman with a little more of her to love. You can't push four bills without a little back flab.

The most surprising part of the Rablaisian sexiness all around us was how very young most of the women were. They were certainly active enough on the dance floor (Monica, in fact, was plying the age-old trick of boogieing girl-on-girl, the better to drive the men wild with unspent lust). If they're applying even a shred of that energy the rest of their day, how did they have time to get so fat?

An awkward young man bumming cigarettes outside said he likes to go to BBW events because “They don't think, 'I'm all cute,' so they'll dance with you. Everybody's real friendly.” This is a milder version of some cruel hawks who swoop in for shamed, secretive fatty sex with these pretty women and their eager-for-affirmation egos. For a harrowing look at a truly dangerous facet of the subculture—those men known as feeders, who love BBW so much, they'll fatten one up until she literally dies—check out Dan Savage's Skipping Towards Gomorrah from Dutton. In the chapter dealing with gluttony (Gomorrah is about the Seven Deadlies and how to make the most of them), Savage meets BBW who shun known feeders but who tell him some women are so terribly lonely they'll eagerly accept feeders as lovers even though these men are murderers whose weapon is whipped cream.

If you are not a murderer, please go to Butterfly Lounge Saturday night. There are juicy, sexy ladies, with slits cut to the farthest reaches of the upper thigh, who are dancing their meaty selves all over like they're nymphs escaped from Bedlam. It's a love thing.

* * *

Tall drink of water Cher Greenleafand I popped back into Santa Ana's Ye Olde ShipSaturday night to see how many of you, my faithful readers, took to heart my admonition to become slave to the sound of Pete “The Treat” Dawson. Shame! Shame on you all!

What, you think I'm up here just to hear myself talk? Well, I am! But aside from that, I am here to tell you what to do and where to go, and you and your deaf ears are embarrassing me with your noncompliance. Now, next Saturday, before you hit the Butterfly Lounge, go to Ye Olde Ship and request from the old man “House of New Orleans—the Dirty Version.” I have spoken.

I was so excited about the Orange County Design Council shindig at The Lab I arrived an hour and a half early. Either that or everybody else in the world got an e-mail with the time change. Luckily, Costa Mesa flneur Aloysious Dougherty III was coffeeing at the Gypsy Den, and as I joined him for a long, meandering chat that made little-to-no sense, I nodded and smiled anyway. I've got a lot of practice at that, dating a Republican and all. When the fashiony thing started, I was pleased to see my bizarro pal DJ Kato (he's the cat with the Einsteinhair and the Hitler mustache) spinning old-school pop and R&B. Kato can always be counted upon. Most of the folk hanging out were a slightly younger generation of those peeps known loosely as the Costa Mesa 500. These “rich,” “young” “people” all know one another from high school, and usually their parents buy them houses, and they have really good design or web jobs. Plus, they've all dated one another like they're Melrose Place, a fact evidenced by my girlfriend who was accosted by the sight of the guy she'd broken up with the night before, his ex-girlfriend, and her other ex-boyfriend's ex-wife. We made like Snagglepuss—exit, stage right, even!—but not before spotting Billy Zoom's manager, Mike Rouse, lurking about and Paul Frank schwagman Austin Brown yapping handsomely about his latest trip to Japan—most likely alongside Willand Jada. By the time we left, nobody had bid on even one of the silent auction's designer outfits (actually what looked like thrift-shop gear spray painted with punkness), which started with a modest minimum bid of a hundred clams, but the food was outstanding and the drinks were free.

We hit Memphis and were immediately swept into the welcoming embrace of Dave “The Chairman” Mau, who keeps bar for the Costa Mesa 500, whose stylish patronage made the place what it is today. Mau mixed us a Capputini, which sounded a little twee but was in fact chilled espresso, banana liqueur (usually a disturbing libation, but here fabutastic), Kahlua and vanilla Stoli, rimmed with sugar that tasted not so much like sugar as it tasted like Pixie Stix. If you could kill me with Capputinis, I'd take that plunge. I am in love.


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