So here’s the thing about showing up to the D.C. leg of the Air Sex World Championship alone: it’s awkward. Like, hanging out alone at the back of an indie rock concert by yourself awkward, but with the added fear that everyone around you will think you’re some kind of pervert. To be fair, all of those people also took time out of their day to both appreciate and participate in a night of onstage “faux-fucking,” so getting past the initial discomfort isn’t too tough. At the very least, you can do what I did—sidle up to the bar and order yourself as many sixteen ounce PBRs as it takes you to loosen up.
For the uninitiated, the Air Sex World Championship is a traveling competition styled after the more conventional Air Guitar World Championship, but with invisible instruments replaced by invisible sex partners.
I made quick work of my first few drinks while the event’s MC/air-pimp Chris Trew urged the crowd to participate. I took this as a bad sign. What am I about to see, I thought. A bunch of half-assed impromptu acts? That isn’t what I signed up for. But as I cruised for the door, a voice in the crowd said something that restored my faith in the integrity of the competition: “Do I have time to run next door and grab a smoke machine?”
Oh man. It … is … on.
The man with the smoke machine was Auto Erotic. A big man in a velvet zebra-striped suit, Auto Erotic was last year’s runner-up and the only returning contestant. He was clearly going to be a force on stage. The rest of the contestants were harder to pick out—most were just casually dressed folks looking to go a little nuts. But when I overheard one group discussing their plan of attack (something involving a sign language interpreter), I strode over to get some inside information. When I disclosed that I was a reporter for the Voice, however, my new exhibitionist friend clammed up.
“I teach at Georgetown,” he told me, reluctantly, his gaze dropping to the floor. Clearly, I had stumbled upon something here that I was clearly never meant to see—a Georgetown professor planning to pantomime penetration for a crowd of cheering freaks.
Then, in as a gesture of half-sympathy and half-solidarity, I did the unthinkable. I volunteered.
Now, as much as I’m all for mindless entertainment in the form of no-holds-barred pseudo-sex, I was not going to pass up an excellent opportunity to educate the crowd about the dangers of certain sexual practices. So I opted to take the stage as “The Ninja Master,” to perform what I felt would be a touching tribute to the final moments of David Carradine’s life, that simultaneously highlighted the dangers of autoerotic asphyxiation. For my musical accompaniment, I requested the saddest song the D.J. had—“Lightening Crashes,” by Live.
My reception was … mixed. While there was some laughter (most of it nervous, as I hung limp and sticky from my invisible noose for a few seconds too long), others offered constructive criticism. “That was so bad I wanted to kill myself!” one man yelled. But I believe my message got across: always have a spotter, folks.
The rest of the performers tended to be more conventional—or as conventional as one can be in the Air Sex World Championships. “The Love Guru” gave an appropriately tantric performance, while the business casual-clad “Busty St. Claire” deftly illustrated some multi-partner coitus that one judge called “a boning potpurri.” The only other act to join me in the darker side of things was Auto Erotic, who broke out the fog machine as he stimulated two disembodied legs (props he also provided).
“I was a doctor…” he exclaimed, a bit defeated, to a confused crowd. But come on man, that’s just fucked up.
And the Georgetown professor? When it came time for him to take the stage, he was nowhere to be found.
