Sure, I expected air to be “humped” at the Air Sex Championship but I didn’t expect air to be “violated.” Basically, Mother Nature and her fondness nature element were literally raped on stage in a two-round competition in front of a large group of rowdy and encouraging spectators. I was personally appalled by all the inappropriate touching, grinding, licking, fellatio-ing, and sodomizing of air by humans that took place Wednesday night at The Independent in San Francisco.
Certainly, there was consensual sex between human and air, but at particular points in the evening I do believe the line was crossed–and the eager crowd screamed for more.
“The Humpty Dance” is on rotation with the music mix. This is going to be either really funny or really depressing. The club is filled with pre-Air Sex Championship tension. Participants look more nervous than someone waiting to sing a Journey song on a karaoke night. Some contestants limber up, partaking in vigorous stretching regiments beforehand in their quest for air sex gold. Others contestants limber up by downing shots of Jager. The winner of tonight’s event will move on to Austin, Texas, for the World Air Sex Finals. (I hope that perennial event is hosted by Ryan Seacrest hopped up on a three-day cough syrup binge.)
I ask one of the judges: “What are the rules of the competition?”
“You can’t take your dick out,” she stresses. More information provided: “You can’t have sex with another person.” Confusion on my part. I question: “What if the contestant is a girl and doesn’t have a dick?”
“You can’t get your vag out,” she emphasizes, then mimes around the forbidden off-limits area. “Nothing below here.”
“Tonight a legend will be made!” proclaims the bearded MC to a throng of pumped up supporters who want their air sex down and dirty. He continues to pimp the crowd: “This is the most important sporting event—ever!” He emphasizes that this competition is bigger than the Super Bowl and World Series wrapped up in one exclusive extravaganza.
More rules: “Air hump until you cum or until the judges tell you to stop.”
“Come up close—don’t be afraid to get pretend ejaculate on you!” With that, our gracious host, mentor and hero demonstrates his own brand of air sex proclivities as the crowd screams like a bachelorette party on triple the daily allowance of Jell-O shots. He gives the air a rambunctious tongue-lashing as hands and fingers contort in all directions.
Clearly our friendly MC displays how to get into the “I don’t give a fuck what others think” zone.
The Gladiators and Lady Gladiators contestants step up to the “I don’t give a fuck” zone. Each creates their own blend of air copulating magic. The first warrior combined air humping with acrobatics. In the post-air-coital interview he reveals that it was an imaginary air midget who he was fornicating with—thus all the twirling done through the air. “While you were air-fucking your phone fell out,” the mischievous master of ceremonies informs contestant number one. “I texted pictures of you to your whole family.”
“Who is ready for some man-on-air action?” beckons air sex contestant, Queer the Air.
“Eat it! Eat it!” screams an enthusiastic audience member as a contestant simply going by the name “The Hoffman” simulates going to town on the punanny. “Eat it! Eat it!”
The bespectacled contestant chows down like it was a Sunday bargain buffet. Yes, hello ladies. Seriously, I close my eyes and I could swear this is a bachelorette party.
Sometimes art imitates the sad monotony of life.
Our first all-female air sex team effort of the night (“Fucking in Silicon Valley”) treats us to a simulation of what bumping uglies would be like in South Bay.
Wretchedly it involves the lifting of one leg fire-hydrant-style or simply lying like a sack of clams, bored, flat on your back. Oh, those crazy software programmers with their large paychecks and their complete imaginary dull bedroom antics.
“You’re the second contestant out of 288 air sex acts that put a condom on during air sex,” the judge tells air sex contestant, Crème Brulee, who looks fabulous in his goose boa gown. True, safe sex should be practiced whether the act is with humans or air. Besides, no one wants air babies or air AIDS.
Crème Brulee scores extra points (and makes this reporter queasy) with simulated ATM action. It makes me almost want to air vomit.
Following the strict rules of no simulated sex with other humans, the air sex act team Santa’s Little Humper looked like they were doing the humpty-hump with either a pair of scary ghosts or auditioneers for the musical Cats. Through their antics, I wasn’t entirely clear which gender either of them were having simulated air sex with. Let’s hope air animals and the air deceased weren’t involved and/or harmed.
Air sex is all about bonding. Like a World War II band of brothers, the collective Internet Love formed from a group of complete strangers in the audience who were caught up in the onstage, gyrating mayhem. Their air sex piece posed the 2010 question: What is it like to have cyber sex when your wifi suddenly goes down?
The ringer arrives. While most of the last-minute contestants looked like air sex deer-caught-in-air-sex-headlights, Lady Cock-A-Lot jumped from the audience and wowed the crowd with her fake fellatio prowess as she gobbled down a huge air Johnson like she was a Pilgrim at the first Thanksgiving. Clad in tight spandex pants, Lady C simulated what she does best, proving to be the Wayne Gretzky of air sex competitors.
In the end only one Gladiator or Lady Gladiator is able to walk away as tonight’s Air Sex Champion. Tension mounts. Who will it be: Lady C, Crème Brulee, the guy who humped an air midget…..
And Lady Cock-A-Lot walks away with the crown. USA! USA! USA!
Defeated finalist, Crème Brulee, is left with egg on his face. Well actually it was fake blood from his simulated air cunnilingus act in a showboat-y attempt to win tonight’s crown.
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