The Vortex press release read, “Those choosing to participate in the foam party will check their clothing in our check room.” I’d heard about foam parties from a friend who lives in South Beach, where they’re all the rage: a bunch of guys on a dance floor in their skivvies get all hot and bothered, then–whoosh!–a ton of foam cascades from above, engulfing the writhing group in a sea of lubricant.
We got to Vortex at 10 PM. It was pretty empty. I bought a round of drinks, and we walked around scoping the place out. The metal dance floor had been transformed into a massive arena enclosed by four-foot walls and lined with plastic. In the corner was a huge, 360-gallon vat of water that looked like a giant cottage-cheese container. An enormous tube snaked out of its side, up the back wall of the stage, and into an industrial-size fan that was suspended from the ceiling. Ah, modern technology. Where would debauchery be without it?
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People were turning to look. “Shut up, Eric,” I said.
Eric was so happy he couldn’t stay put, and we kept moving through the crowd. A big blast of foam shot out of the thing every so often–a refractory period of about five minutes–and we were close to it the next time it erupted. It dumped right on my head.
We found Rudy downstairs talking with a small group of friends. “How was it?” they asked.
“I can’t. I was laid up for a week. That’s a metal floor in there. It’s treacherous.”
