The Painted Penis and the Séance

My girlfriend Chris and I are on one of our vacations. We are exploring the state of Florida. After meeting each other at the Tampa airport – I flew in from California and she flew in from Virginia – and staying the night with my brother Jim who lives in Tampa, we began our road trip. From Tampa we’ve driven down the west coast, visiting Anna Maria Island, Fort Myers, Sanibel Island, Naples, and Everglades National Park. We have finally reached our most southern destination, Key West.

Though we didn’t know it when we were planning our trip, we have arrived in Key West just in time to witness all the mischief of the island’s annual Fantasy Fest. Think Mardi Gras. Tons of costumes, lots of drinking, few inhibitions. And then there’s Chris and me: no costumes, a little drinking, very uptight and self-conscious.

—   —   —

Always eager to try new things, I’ve signed us up to participate in a séance tonight. There is no one dead that I particularly want to talk to, I just want to go to a séance. Chris, I think, being an attorney and by nature very skeptical, is only going because I’ve already purchased the tickets.

We leave our hotel and drive into town. We arrive with over an hour to kill before our séance. Not enough time to sneak in a dinner – we’ll wait until after the séance. What to do, what to do…

Some drinks are in order.

We walk to the address of the séance, so we’ll know how to get there after we have our cocktails. The house is pretty easy to find. We cross the street. The roads are closed to all but pedestrian traffic and there are a lot of people milling along the sidewalks and on the main road. Within seconds, several disembodied hands begin punching flyers at us. We grab a few and walk past all the hands.

We stop to take a peek at the flyers. They’re all promoting drink specials at different bars. We want to stay close to where the séance is going to be held. There’s a building we just passed that sits on the corner, right across the street from our final destination. The building actually has three bars, one on each floor of the building.

The building’s rooftop bar sounds good. Buy one drink, get one free. Decision made, we walk back to the corner building and begin our climb. If there are elevators, they have hidden them from the public.

We reach the top. The space looks like someone’s backyard patio. A tall, white, cement-block wall surrounds the large square of cement. There are four or five lounge chairs lined up along the fence to our left. There is no other seating. In the furthest corner on the right, there is a light deflector and a spotlight – what looks to be a mini portrait studio? Strange. To our immediate right is the bar, flanked from one end to the other with men standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

Chris and I would like to sit and watch the crazies that surround us but because the bar doesn’t have any proper seating, that’s out. We see the bar serves its drinks in little plastic cups. Because we’re both super thirsty, we decide that we’ll each buy ourselves two drinks. The bar is so crowded, almost impenetrable, so we attack it from two different directions.

It seems like forever, but I eventually make eye contact with the bartender and order two Tom Collins. As I wait for my drinks, I look at the signage hanging on the wall behind the bar. That’s weird. There’s a large, official-looking sign that reads, “Sexual intercourse in this establishment is strictly prohibited.” Really? They thought it necessary to post a sign? Do a lot of people try to have sex here? Why would anyone want to have sex here?

I get and pay for my drinks before Chris so I stand awkwardly by myself, with my two drinks and no table on which to place them. I try not to stare but everyone looks so strange. First of all, am I wrong or are Chris and I the only women up here? I’m dressed in shorts and a shirt and looking a little preppy. I stand out like a sore thumb among all these tattoos, piercings and neon-colored hairdos. The clothes on these strange men is beyond what I consider normal too. I’m growing increasingly uncomfortable.

An eternity passes, but finally Chris, a plastic cup in each hand, joins me. Now there are two straight, stiff, awkward and, dare I say normal-looking girls standing in the middle of this rooftop bar. Both of us afraid to look around us, lest we gawk.

Something’s wrong with Chris. Her face looks, I don’t know…spooked, I guess.

“Oh, my God!” She gasps.

“What?”

“Don’t look right now but there’s a guy standing at the bar with a red bandana,” she begins.

“Okay…”

“He tapped me on the shoulder after I ordered my drinks and said, ‘Look,’ as he pointed down. I looked and his penis was hanging out of his fly and it was painted red, white and blue!” Chris takes a big gulp from one of her drinks.

I laugh and change my position a bit so I can see the guy. He looks like a scary biker dude except instead of wearing leather chaps, he’s wearing really short cut-off jeans. He’s tall and barrel-chested. This guy paints his dick? Or maybe he commissioned someone to paint it for him? What the hell? At any rate, this bizarre man has tucked his wiener away — before I’ve had a chance to critique his artwork.

Not for the first time tonight, here, in this bar, I think: We don’t belong here.

We agree to choke down our drinks as fast as we can, but we can’t stop ourselves from looking from one astonishing character to another. And then, at the same time, we both see it.

In one of the lounge chairs, previously unoccupied, are a man and woman. The woman – at least we think it’s a woman – is sitting atop the man – at least we think it’s a man – who is lying on his back. The woman is making elaborate, sexual gyrations. Clearly, this couple has not read the sign behind the bar! Sex is prohibited, people! Though Chris and I are not voyeurs, our eyes seem to be. It is hard not to look.

Good God!

Chris and I do our best to finish our drinks as quickly as we can so we can escape this madness. We start down the stairs, still holding our unfinished drinks. We’ll throw the half-filled cups out as we exit the building. And, like two bats out of hell, we fly the hell out of this madhouse and into the night.

(To be continued.)