Fish Hooks and First Timers

I learned something this weekend. A few things actually. Starting with how I am a girl. And whether I like to admit it, I have girl moments.

On Saturday, after a day of lounging around, my boyfriend and a few friends decided to venture out to Lenny’s in Atlanta. I’d heard it was fun, but apparently, I wasn’t prepared.

I am a plain Jane. I’ll admit that. But I love to see different strokes in different arenas. The freaks, the geeks, the gays, the rednecks, I get off seeing how they all congregate. It’s healthy.

I knew when we pulled up I’d get my fair share of it all. Some guys were setting off fireworks in the parking lot while a DJ blasted some techno on the other end. Skateboarders were rolling around the lot, occasionally olleying on a makeshift ramp they’d built out of scrap wood.

We hadn’t even walked in yet. And I thought it was awesome.

A freakishly tall black man dressed head-to-toe in leather greeted me at the door. He had a Mohawk and a bull ring in his nose, which naturally captivated me. I felt a little out of place, but I was fine with it. So we ventured into the band room to check out the punk playing on stage.

An Asian chick with a fan flashing her tits danced on the platform while a guy banged away on his electric guitar. There were mohawks and black leather dresses, combat boots, a little S&M attire, a few dreads and … wait, what was that?

I glanced over at my roomie, who was standing in the corner, just in time to see her boyfriend jerk her away from a guy with a pink mohawk. She was dangerously close to getting jabbed by a fish hook sticking out of his back.

There was blood dripping off of it, and for a split second, I thought maybe it was two separate pieces stuck to him with some sort of costume glue. I thought, “No way in hell that’s what it appears to be.”

It’s called body suspension, my boyfriend explained. And yes, it’s real. He had seen it on the Discovery Channel.

Wikipedia defines it as “hanging the human body from (or partially from) hooks pierced through the flesh in various places around the body.” But to me, it was much more complex.

I have never, never in my life, been almost brought to tears by a group of people, an act, a “recreation,” anything that was said or felt by someone other than me. I am a naturally open-minded person, very accepting, wiling to hear others’ opinions and understand them before I pass (or don’t pass) judgment. But this was different. It felt wrong, perverted, dangerous, evil. Everything all rolled into one.

And then it started. My girl moment. I looked to my right, saw someone hanging from the ceiling with four strategically placed fish hooks in her back, and almost felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Not too long after, I looked at my boyfriend and told him I was leaving. “I have to get out of here. I don’t care how.”

He followed me outside, patiently, while I proceeded to attack him for not freaking out with me. Did he think this was normal? That this was something worthy of tolerance? What was wrong with these people? They were destroying their bodies, one of the greatest gifts we have.

It was bad. And I immediately knew I was wrong.

He explained that it wasn’t something he would do or encourage, by any means, but these were people, and who was he to say what they were doing was wrong? I needed to stop. They weren’t bothering me. And most of them look just like I do during the week anyway.

He was right. And I realized at that moment I was being one of the people I disrespect. I despise. I was being intolerant and judgmental. I was being a bitch.

I hadn’t seen that side of myself. And I didn’t like it when I did. So instead of hailing down a cab and leaving, I walked back to the porch outside the bar (the only area free of ceiling contraptions) and did what I intended to do. I enjoyed his company, had a few drinks and people watched.

This morning, after a night of fish hook dreams, I decided to research body suspension. Apparently, it’s a way to achieve euphoria, some sort of spiritual experience for some people. The hooks are temporary. Usually only worn for one night or two. And they can be placed in the chest or the back.

It’s weird, that’s for sure. I would never do it. Nor do I care to ever see it again. But, ironically, it taught me a little something about myself.

I can’t choose what or who to be tolerant of. I’m either accepting or I’m not. I’m either open-minded or closed like a locked door.

I choose to be open. Even if fish hooks don’t suit my black high heels.