Nov 6-7, 1986 at Barnsdall Park Theater
as part of "Dances from the Men's Room"
the 7th Annual Los Angeles Choreographer's Showcase,
presented by Kinetikos Dance Foundation

With John Goss, Alan Pulner, Matias Viegener and Dana Gorbea-Leon.

Photographs by Erika Suderburg and Steven Baratz.

"This performance work examines the roots of masculine risk-taking behaviors.
The text combines the futuristic wish-lists of the U.S. Military
with un-safe gay sex fantasy to reveal disturbing, erotic commonalities.
The performance uses natural movement, stereotyped gestures, poetic juxtaposition,
and provocative text to open a 'window of vulnerability' into the industry of risk."

"...an excercise in profanity and homosexual excess."
-- Gillian Rees, Los Angeles Herald Examiner

a note about the text: Brian Gyson's cut-up technique was employed
to splice together a news article detailing advances in military fighter pilot technology
written in almost pornographic prose, with un-safe sexual fantasy letters
written to a gay magazine in the midst of the AIDS crisis.

[underscored text is a Darth Vader-like voice pitch-shifted down an octive] Never fear, security buffs, because fear is what attracts you. When the fields of fear and pleasure overlap, you may get caught with your pants down. And should you choose to penetrate one of these "red-threat envelopes" your chances of survival become somewhat limited. [Narrator] I met Risk at the local baths a couple of months ago and we've been dating frequently ever since. Our first meeting was the hottest, wettest, wildest sex I have ever experienced and the pictures we took look just like animations in the latest arcade simulations. But they're real. They even scare me sometimes. We were both cruising the halls, 90 degrees horizontally and 60 degrees vertically, along with dozens of other "red-threat" studs. Our sites locked and that was it! Picture the cockpit of a stealth invader. The sky is dead black, visibility zero, and you're the driver! "Red Hazard" warnings flash all over your wrap-around terry-cloth towel. When he brushed against me, I looked around to make sure no one else was in the area of contention. I asked him if he liked doing it or if he just liked to watch. His voice was deep, sexy and startlingly real: If guys can get the same charge watching synthesized images, fiddling with holographic dudes, feeling the same magnetic rush through their fingertips, then what's the destinction between look and touch? The sensations involved become identical. I moaned with pleasure at the sound of this and showed him my equipment. He flashed his room code at me. I want to smell you and kiss you. Everything that shoots out of your beautiful rod. Would you like that? [scream] I want to smell 90 percent of the knobs and switches in the cockpits of tomorrow. Does that turn you on? [applause] I want to neutralize your language down to video game simplicity. Would you like that? [scream] I want to smell the ozone at Mach-1 plus and kiss you in the cockpit. Does that turn you on? [applause] Climb up onto the table and let's have a look [screams] Risk put me on my back and began to kiss me and lick me and sniff me. In I went and in Risk went. We were inside each other. I pushed my tongue into Risk's territory as far as it would go. We rimmed for a long time, until our tongues were sore. Then we French-kissed again right after rimming. We licked each other's lips and tongues, then he sucked on my ears, my throat wound, my tits, and right into my armpits. The ceiling closed out as he raised my ankles up. "Give it to me," I screamed, "I want it!" And I did. Risk's big face laughed at me fom inside his flight helmet. I spat on the fogged visor and drew the spittle into a skull. He sniffed my fingers. We licked them together. Turns you on, doesn't it? Swirling at the tip of his cock, look into his internal plumbing. Change your focus for a rear-view perspective or choose the horizontal display which includes your own status. He comes equipped with electromagnetic sensors to reproduce lifelike feelings of pleasure. I wanted all of this terrific guy. We explored our crotches, the flickering liquid-crystal litanies of alpha-numeric sequences, the constantly changing symptoms and exponentially spiraling numbers that symbolized its human victims. I even swallowed any loose hairs that came off. I couldn't get enough of it, sucking it, slurping it, to get it all. Then we were ready for the great climax. We had each other's piss and sweat and blood and taste of balls and assholes. It was cream-time now! Time to spin us all senseless, imaginations blazing in the magestic arc of ejection seats rocketing our bodies harder and harder. I felt Risk's mouth against me. The burnt-metal aroma was fantastic! I inhaled him deeply, his lungs collapsing, the bulkhead buckling like a paper bag. We were wildly cocksucking, the heady scent of death magnified to olfactoral infinity as we sucked nearer to the ultimate thrill. We were now really inside each other, so deep that my cock was in line with a thousand coordinates, all superimposing on a single, random target, shaking and sweating to beat Hell. I saw what Risk was doing and did the same. He groaned and so did I. We shot together. We sucked each other dry and kept sucking until we were breathless. We fell dead, still in each other. I phoned Risk the next day. "I'm ready," I said, "to do it all again." Preparatory Materials From National Geographic