CarnalNation

photo: sleekimages.net

My first encounter with the Hells Angels was when I was 17 years old and headed to the beach with some of my high school friends in southern California. Somehow I made a few wrong turns and couldn’t quite find my way to the PCH. As a small argument broke out in the car, the low rumble of motorcycle engines came from behind me. A quick glance at the insignia on the riders’ leathers revealed that they were the notorious One-Percenters. I realized that the best possible source of road information coming up behind me, so I rolled down my window and asked if they could point me in the direction of Highway One. These gentlemen did more than that; they gave us a full escort before taking off to enjoy the freedom of the open road on a sunny day.

Since that afternoon I’ve admired the sound, the sleek design, and the raw power of a motorcycle. I love the danger they represent, and I have incredible respect for the people that ride them so well that it can be difficult to discern between the flesh and the chrome. When I was finally able to get up on the back of one for the first time, it felt like I was talking to a handsome stranger I had admired from afar for a very long time. I always find it very much like a love affair to ride: the same muscles I use to wrap around someone in bed keep me planted in the seat while the rest of my body is exposed. It’s exhilarating and sexy to feel so alive while simultaneously being a breath away from dying.

When I was asked to perform for the Hells Angels at one of their parties, I didn’t even have to think twice. Of course, I wanted to be fantasy fodder for the Red and Whites. It was a fair exchange for every time I had ever lusted after the outlaw bikers. It didn’t matter that it was a last-minute request; it didn’t matter that I was going to be doing a photo shoot the next day; it didn’t matter that some people might think it was a little dangerous. This was the kind of thing I had only dreamt of doing. Now it would finally be a reality for me.

You know you’re at a big party when you can’t find parking for blocks; cops are everywhere; and there is a helicopter circling overhead providing a free light show. The streets were full of big sexy bikes parked on the curbs and filling up lawns. Nothing will ever make me feel more like a rock star than walking up to a doorman of the club house and having someone say, “They’re cool, let ‘em in.” Despite the huge crowd spilling out into the street, it was clear that the heart of the party was happening inside. A live band played the very best of classic rock, and one room was entirely dedicated to a massive steel cage with dancers swimming in a sea of dollar bills. This was the same cage I was going to be well acquainted with for the rest of the night.

Despite having some common items in our respective wardrobes, this wasn’t a fetish crowd. Many of the things that are totally commonplace in my personal life and standard performance set just weren’t going to work quite as well. Face slapping, for instance, was decidedly a limit for everyone for