Sex Tent

by Kris Hall

Dialing into Sex Tent is not unlike dialing into a poem. Their sound evokes other-worldly feelings despite the evidence that it comes from this earth. 

Sex Tent is a bass player and saxophonist from Forks, WA. A Brother and sister duo: Edward and Bella Candy. They’re supposedly distant relatives of the late great comedic actor John Candy. Named after fucking Twilight. Rumors of incest but I think it’s a gimmick. It’s a joke to them. It would have to be. They lean into it hard. One aspect of their performance is they set up a small tent on stage which they invite couples to make out in during their sets. Dildos slapping the bass, lube spraying the audience. It’s horny camp.

I’ve seen them 11 times. My partner Rash and I have done more than swap spit in that tent. Tonight is no exception. 

Sex Tent is releasing a new album called Sascrotch and this is the video they’re shooting for it. There’s roughly sixty of us in the parking lot of Rialto Beach. Everything’s so stripped away from modern times. Just trees and mist. It feels like the ’80s with Bella putting her whole body into the sax; it reminds me of that scene from The Lost Boys.

There’s a straight up orgy spilling out of the tent. Sweaty limbs and faces. I’m just waiting for the whole thing to get shut down. Rash is feral, squeezing my ass, biting my neck. 

“Let’s rush the tent. Give me your ass.” I think, okay, as long as I get in the video I’m down for anything. 

I take Rash by the hand and push through the crowd. Bella is topless, covering her privates with a Sasquatch mask made into a bikini bottom. She rips her lips from the saxophone and grabs a rando from the audience by the back of the head and shoves his face right into her crotch. Smashing his face against the teeth-bearing Sasquatch. She gives me a wink as I walk past her, humping. Edward is nodding his head and wiggling his hips. 

We push through the fusion of naked bodies and enter the tent where it’s barely breathable and so, so hot. I’m instantly sweating. Instantly regretting this decision. I begin to feel a wave of claustrophobia, anxiety and insecurity wash over me as I realize I’m most likely the oldest person in the tent. I come to realize the fusion of bodies is literally that: a blob of legs, arms, faces, and genitalia. It’s impossible to tell who is topping who. A face melded into one of the thighs screams for help. I recognize the face as Freddy’s, the drummer of Tiny Dumpsters.

What’s happening, I ask.

He tells me we’re not shooting a music video, that we are the music video. The living image of the director’s vision. 

I can’t find Rash. I shout for his name with no response.

Freddy tells me he’s been absorbed by the blob, that if I want to speak to him I can talk to into his exposed ear on one of the protruding shoulders. 

The blob is sliming towards me, trying to claim me. I crawl out of the tent just as it’s about to flop on top of me. I scream in hysterics at an audience of glitched out people. Both Bella and Edward frozen in mid performance. 

The sky is static and cracked like an iPad screen. 

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. I’ve been so happy lately. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. Not during pride month. 

Kris Hall (aka Barracuda Guarisco; C.C. Hannett) is the author of several collections of poetry and hybrid works published by Spuyten Duyvil, Vegetarian Alcoholic, Really Serious Literature, Feral Dove Books, Voice Lux, Alien Buddha, and Chat Rooms. Widely published in journals, online, and in print, they have also been nominated for Best Microfiction and The Elgin Award. Their latest book, EMBARRASSED BY EVERYTHING EXCEPT FOR WHEN I PUT IT INTO POETRY (Be About It Press), is forthcoming. They currently reside in Everett, WA.