Tools
Place: Contour (807 First Ave)
Time: 3:20 a.m.
Stranger Personals
The crowd at Contour is diverse and well behaved--impressive given the late hour and the packed state of the dance floor. Shortly after our arrival the spotlight is grabbed by an attractive, dexterous woman twirling eight flaming batons, clad only in a brief swatch of silvery fabric. Surprisingly, her performance seems to attract more women than men--my first tip that this is a sexually ambiguous, but overtly aroused, crowd. Unlike rock clubs, nobody seems to bother with discretion--public displays of uncontrollable horniness are pretty much everywhere. Making her way through the bumping and grinding masses, my photographer is abruptly grabbed by a lascivious female dancer who attempts to pull her into a pelvic-pulsing routine. Despite the stylings of a DJ called "Speed Bump," the bathrooms appear drug-free (or maybe I just can't hear the snorting over the throbbing trance soundtrack), and are filled with lip-glossed girls debating the merits of their potential hook-ups. "I think that guy is a total sex bomb, but I'm not sure why," muses one patron, while another consults a girlfriend on her success in concealing an emerging zit. I return to the bar for another $2 bottle of water, jostling past a pair of rock-hard breast implants and grab a seat at a wobbly table where I can admire the tiny, denim-skirted ass of the drag queen in front of me, steadily tapping her red suede boot and coyly attracting attention from a pack of confused Eastside suits along the wall. Welcome to the big city, boys. HANNAH LEVIN
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