By Jacob Katel
By Karli Evans
By Jose D. Duran
By Pablo Chacon Alvarez
By Kat Bein
By Abel Folgar
By Laurie Charles
It's a little after midnight, but nothing pokes the eye as out of the ordinary yet. The monthly installment of Michael Veneziano's Skin Party looks to be a regular hang for the A list so revered and courted in clubland. Bottles and models, so to speak. Gathered for the standard evening of champagne fodder.
"I'm telling you this starts cracking in a minute," Jesse S assures me. "Just wait. Stand close to the guy over there." He points to Jesse Thoreson of Mind's Eye Images, who is doing some body painting in one of the corners. But hell, there's nothing truly fascinating here, either. No crazy kink to spark the perverted mind. There is a crowd of beautiful lookers -- sharply dressed men and tightly fitted women sort of hiking their skirts up, but women lifting their dresses to have butterflies painted on their asses doesn't jump out and hold a nightlife veteran's attention for too long. Skirt-hoisting happens at any nightclub in South Beach with the right mix of liquor and coaxing. Clubbed is ready for some techno-grinding hedonism. Can we have bottles of that brought to our table, with some cranberry juice and OJ?
Lily Zinardi, restaurateur from Bolero, just next door, echoes Mr. Swinger. "It gets crazy as the night goes on," she promises. "Last month was pretty wild. You'll see." Well, whatever, you-all. Nothing so far has shown up on the Wild Richter Scale.
Skin is the monthly party at the Living Room South Beach that bills itself as for "sexually adventurous women" and the men who appreciate them. Yeah, but what man besides Jerry Falwell wouldn't appreciate a party like that? Maybe Boy George, but he probably binds his weenie up to look more "real" in his caftans and schmattes . . .
Along with the team of Fritz Romeus (World Event Management),Buzzy Sklar, and David Wynn (both Ego Trip magazine), Veneziano has created a concept party that would be every man's fantasy, but NO UNESCORTED MALES ARE ALLOWED. Sorry guys, Skin isn't a party where you can go to cruise on single babes. Its creators say that would go against everything Skin stands for. There are enough pickup scenes where men can harangue and harass women. None of that is allowed here. Dedicated strictly to couples and single women, Skin has been taking place for a little over a year and a half and has been housed by many different venues including Red Square, Rain, the now-defunct People's Lounge, and even right next door at W6. But where is the "skin," Michael?
Wait. What's that over there? Looks like two women dancing together. Okay, still not really on. This is Miami Beach, man. Girls dance with girls all the time. But hey, wait a minute! Did that woman's hand just disappear into that other woman's crotch like some sort of magic trick? Now we are talking!
The party is about to go from slow simmer to overflowing stew. The music and alcohol are finally kicking in. What was once a considerably normal outing has turned into a scene cut directly from Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut. Now there's something going on!
Just like that, these hot Latinas start sucking tongue like they are drowning. Their tops come down. The music pumps. And their vignette is being duplicated every way you look . . .
Try and picture a place where young, hot, and sexy li'l nymphas of all races come together to release their inhibitions, getting down and going wild. Think of the scene from Bram Stoker's Dracula where those hot she-devils were seducing Keanu Reeves's character, Jonathan Harker. Kissing each other, caressing, dancing, touching -- and that's putting it mildly. All of this racy activity unfolds without a hint of testosterone to interfere. Cinematic girl-on-girl action jumps from your favorite Vivid Pictures video release to the real deal. Frontal nudity is customary, but not required. Breasts galore, high heels, short skirts, low-cut blouses, see-through tops. Basically all the fixings for a wild night on the town. The atmosphere is classy and sexy. This is what you picture the Playboy mansion to be like on any given night. (Or maybe what it used to be like.)
In the blink of an idea the dance floor has transformed into a veritable orgy. Women have peeled off their clothes and are getting to know each other in much more intimate ways. There are only smiles and happy hot bodies as women urgently grind their flesh together to the beat of the music. No dildoes, that Clubbed saw, anyway.
In the main room, DJ Gus is working hard, serving up a sexy and sinful smorgasbord of songs. Our body painter, Jesse Thoreson, has the enviable chore of instructing our free-spirited and now-nude party girls on how to position their bare breasts under the light so that he can do his magic. They come like pilgrims to a Promised Land of eroticism and step into his spotlight. One by one they move up, eager to show what they have, disrobing in a flash, like lewd Miss America hopefuls. Silky dresses drop to the floor while Jesse smiles approvingly and begins working on their masterpieces.