Halloween is a very San Francisco holiday. People love dressing up and going crazy; a wild vibe takes over the clubs and bars of every neighborhood, spilling out onto the streets. This Halloween is no exception. It’s an unusually warm night, and Mission Street is crowded with people dressed in the cheap costumes you buy at Halloween superstores- the ones that come in the plastic bag with the photo in the front, showing you how great you are going to look. You and I know, those photos are a lie. The costumes never fit properly. You have to seriously accessorize to get one of those things to work.

I stand inside the gate of Mission Control watching the parade of bad costumes walk past- sexy nurse, sexy witch. Unlike the guests of Kinky Salon, this is one time of year normal people have permission to dress slutty- we get to do it all year round. I’m enjoying the cool air and chatting with the door guy. I feel for him sitting down at the bottom of the stairs all night, and I always try to go and spend a few minutes with him, just to make sure he feels appreciated. We are playing a game, trying to spot the Kinky Salon people through the crowd on Mission Street.

“Zombie showgirls, across the street” He says pointing toward the group of women getting out of a taxi.

“Oh, you’re good” I say, as they zip across the road, tottering in our direction on their high heeled shoes, feathers flying. Soon their green faces are smiling at us through the gate, and I usher them up the stairs. We are left in a wake of glitter and the scent of peach body lotion. The door guy puts up his hand for a high five and I reciprocate. I had seen a couple across the road watch as the showgirls were ushered inside, and predictable as clockwork, within a minute they’re standing at the gate full of curiosity.

“Hi,” they say, with a tone that says “we’re cool.”

“What are you here for?” Asks the door guy.

“Errr, the party?” They reply, sounding a little confused.

“Wrong answer, I’m afraid,” he responds, his voice full of authority.

“Oh, come on,” they try to persuade him, but I know it won’t work.

“Private party, I can’t let you in I’m afraid.” he says, bluntly.

“How do you know we’re not invited?” Asks the woman, in a flirty tone.

“I can tell because you aren’t dressed right, and you don’t know what you’re here for,” he replies courteously, but with a slightly sarcastic tone. The guy starts to get defensive.

“Dude, you’re turning us away for not being dressed right? These are $500 jeans!” The door guy looks at me, his eyebrow cocked in amusement and I try not to laugh.

“How much your jeans cost is not relevant, Sir. It’s a private party.”

He makes one last attempt to maintain his credibility in front of his date by yelling “You’re a fucking asshole!” before stumbling away from the gate and disappearing back into the bar across the street.

I go back upstairs to find that the party is packed. The previous week had been spent transforming Mission Control with spooky decor, and the lobby is covered in spiderwebs and skeletons glowing eerily in the blacklight. It’s so packed I can barely make it up the stairs.

I push my way through the crowd, yelling  “PEOPLE JAM! Can we please clear the lobby. Move along. The rest of the space is much more fun. Why are you all hanging out here? Clear this area please.”

People shuffle in different directions, trying to find a spot where they aren’t in the way. They push their way down the hallway and onto the dancefloor until there is breathing space in the lobby again.

“Holy crap it’s a busy night!” I say to nobody in particular.

Halloween isn’t like a regular Kinky Salon. For one night every year we ditch the classic formula, and do something a bit different. We put performers in every room, acting out scenes for an ongoing show which lasts for about two hours. It’s a crazy amount of work, but it’s worth it. This evening we have a total of thirty performers. Zombie strippers, vampires, and cannibals, plus tour guides to show people around.

As I stand at the top of the stairs wondering which direction to go in, the music transitions from Disney’s Haunted Mansion theme to loud surf guitar music and the energy ramps with it. I join a tour which is leaving the lobby- I want to experience the show too, and by this time in the night I’m not really needed for anything unless there’s an emergency.

“Welcome to Kinky Salon’s Triple X Haunted Funhouse,” the tour guide’s voice booms over the crowd, “If you please follow me I can reveal to you the horrors that lie within.” He is tall and handsome, wearing an impeccably presented top hat and tailcoat. “The site where this building now stands was once a cemetery, and some say the bodies were never removed. The lost souls walk these halls for eternity.” He gestures toward a doorway and we all shuffle through. The room has a plastic sheet creating a ‘quarantine’ area down one side. There are biohazard posters everywhere and a man in white protective overalls is standing guard. Behind the plastic you can see scantily clad figures swaying back and forth, pawing at the sheet, leaving bloody hand prints. “Here we have the zombie quarantine,” the tour guide announces in his commanding voice. “This room was once a strip club, but it became infected by the radioactive waste from a meteorite which landed nearby. It wasn’t long before all the dancers were infected, their lust for human flesh was so great. Luckily, the authorities moved in and created this quarantine, so you are all completely safe.” One of the zombies reaches out from behind the plastic and makes a loud ‘uuuuuuhhhhhhh’ sound. The girl closest to her squeaks in alarm, then laughs.

“Are you sure this quarantine will hold?” I ask, feigning a dramatic tone.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He replies, “This is the latest technology and we have been assured that it’s totally safe here.” He shakes the plastic to demonstrate.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” the zombies respond in unison.
“Please don’t touch that, Sir” the guard says in a stern voice, “stay back for your own safety.”

We all giggle as we are led out of the room, but our path is blocked by clowns. One is seven feet tall, and built like a football player- he leers at us as we try to pass. Running around him at a lower level is a tiny clown, no more that five feet tall, giggling and shaking a rattle in people’s faces.

“EEEEEAAAAAIIII!” squeals one of the group, “I hate clowns!”

The tall clown stands over her staring coldly into her eyes, daring her to cross him. The rest of us squeeze by screaming and leave her there to face the clowns alone.

In the next room we are ushered in and the door closes behind us. A fabric wall separates us from the scene. “Ladies and gentlemen, here the greatest horror of all is also the greatest beauty. I give you Dracula’s Brides,” he switches on a light on the other side of the fabric, and the shapes of three women become visible. They crawl
on top of each other, making moaning sounds. Naked from the waist up, their faces and breasts are covered in blood. They lift their heads to bear fangs, and bite at each other. “Trapped for eternity, these ladies of the night are destined to live without satisfaction, if you can call it a life, for they claw and bite at each others breasts, but their veins run dry. Forever wanting, forever yearning, for the taste of…”

“Coooooock” moans one of the vampires, finishing off the tour guides sentence for him. The room descends into laughter, even the vampires can’t keep their cool.

“I was going to say blood,” says the tour guide.

The next room is the dungeon. Tied up in a brutal looking contraption is a man in a latex gimp suit, complete with a zippered mouth in his full face mask. A dominatrix towers over him in eight inch heels, using a vicious looking crop to administer stinging blows to his nipples- the only part of his body which is exposed. He flinches with each impact.

“The pain slut,” announces the tour guide, “who knows why he must endure such tortures. Encased in his latex tomb, the only way he knows he is alive is through the brutal administrations of his loving Mistress.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” the gimp manages to say in a muffled voice before his zipper is closed.

Suddenly, red lights start flashing and zombie strippers pour out of the quarantine, and terrorize their way through the crowd. The guard tries in vain to beat them back into the quarantine, but the zombies overtake him, pull him to the ground and tear off his protective suit. Blood flies in the air splattering some guests, causing screams of laughter, and within a few moments the guard stands up, taking on the appropriate zombie stance and muttering “uuuuuhhhhhhhhh,” as he joins the zombies on their quest for human flesh. We hurry through, laughing and screaming in our escape.

The tour guide leads us to a room and we are welcomed by a crazed looking doctor. “Velcome” he says in a creepy accent. A beautiful nurse in a very tight, very short uniform steps by his side, smiling menacingly through her ruby red lips. In front of them is a woman on an operating table, looking terrified and shaking her head back and forth. The doctor speaks in a hysterical tone about his pioneering work in the field of genital re engineering, while the nurse rubs his chest and speaks encouraging words into his ear.

“Yes, Doctor, you’re so clever, so brave, so brilliant.” They both have unconvincing Eastern European accents. The patient on the gurney looks at us in terror andsilently words the phrase “Help me” as the Doctor continues his monologue. Sex toys are brought out and used to demonstrate the groundbreaking operation he is about to perform, but the whole thing degenerates, as the doctor holds the sex toys aloft, dry humping the nurse against the table, and laughing maniacally.

We scurry out of the room just in time to witness a virgin sacrifice. We squeeze through the crowds and take our place as the scene unfolds. Like a camp reenactment of a scene from King Kong- a Witch Doctor in an elaborate costume constructed from bones, feathers and fur pelts- his huge head dress towering above the crowd, stands on the stage holding the victim by her throat, while the validity of her status as ‘virgin’ is debated by the crowd.

“She’s not a virgin, I saw her in the back room earlier this evening!” someone yells. The audience laugh and jeer in approval. The ‘virgin’ struggles in the grip of the witchdoctor, wide eyed with camp distress, pleading with the audience to help her, scantily clad in an innocent looking white slip.

“KILL HER ANYWAY!” yells a voice from the back of the room.

“Feast on her blood!” screams another.

The Witch Doctor doesn’t need any more encouragement. His helpers tear her scant white dress from her body and suddenly she is naked and screaming. He lifts his ceremonial knife and slowly plunges it into her heart, fake blood squirting in all directions. She screams one last, blood curdling scream, and then gives a little cough as blood drips in rivers out of the side of her mouth. The Witch Doctor holds her upright and his helper steps forward with a goblet, filling it with her blood. The goblet is then handed to the crowd, and they are invited to “drink of the sacrifice that we may be reborn.” The helpers start to chant and the goblet is passed around the audience, each of us getting our chance to drink. I knew it was pomegranate juice with cornstarch- it was dark, thick and very realistic looking- I had made the concoction earlier that day and placed it behind the curtain so that it could be reached for at just the right moment. Some people sniff at the glass suspiciously before taking a tiny sip, others pour the contents into their mouths without hesitation, letting it drip down their chins and smiling bloodstained smiles.

For a minute, the low reverent chanting fills the air while the goblet makes its rounds. I can see Scott through the crowd, beaming a huge grin as big as my own. I step towards him and he puts his hand around my waist and gives me a loving squeeze. He takes the mic and speaks with a reverent tone. “Happy Samhain everyone, I know you’re all a bunch of tree hugging Pagans,” the crowd cheers, and the goblet is passed up to Scott. He holds it out high above his head, and pauses for a moment. “To the dead.” He whispers, and takes a long draw from the glass, letting the sticky liquid pour down his neck. I signal to the DJ to start playing, and lick the blood off his chin as the music starts.