Herra*C. Photo by Gerry Visco
Club kids are a dime a dozen. A fuchsia-colored wig, some glitter, a pre-made costume from Ricky’s—that’s no club kid, that’s a mall rat slumming it. Herra*C is different. Partying since he was a tween from the Bronx, he faked IDed his way into the Tunnel and Twilo in their heyday. Now he’s a party promoter paid to go and get his freak on.
This past weekend was his twenty-something birthday and he was celebrating it at the F Word at Santos Party House, hosted by Michael Formika Jones. This evening was dedicated to the Folsom Street Party East pre-pride festival and part of the proceeds were going to gay, lesbian and transgender rights groups “S-E-X and Free Booze 10-MIDNIGHT!!! What more can a NASTY QUEER ask for from a Saturday NITE?!?! FREE Spankings to all the naughty bois and dykes...” were a few of the offerings of the night. Let’s not forget Josh the hunky aerialist and a bevy of sultry go-go boys clad in some clingy BVDs.
I’ve been taking pictures of Herra*C for three years at various parties, Goth, gay and mixed. He’s always dressed like he’s ready to launch into outer space or brave the Apocalypse, whether it’s the red, patent leather six-inch heeled platform boots, outrageously ornate clown face make-up, torn neon green fishnets, plastic pink tiara or the Medusa-like plastic dreads trailing down his back. Beauty is all in the details and Herra*C knows it well. Apart from his look, he’s a no attitude queen—always cheerful, relatively sober, ready to pose with abandon and hardly a snob. We’re not talking Michael Alig here. That’s old school. This is the new breed of club kids, darling.
“Come to the F Word for my party, it’s gonna be sick! I’ll have bottle service all night for my friends,” he told me, his pale blue eyes staring into mine. His email invitation later was ominous: WARNING: THIS SHIT WILL FUCK YOU UP. But of course, the night was mellow. OK, my camera didn’t work for the first half hour, Herra*C arrived after 1:30 a.m. and the bottle service was immediately gobbled up by his club kid posse. Then there was the go-go boy who posed for me eagerly by spreading his ass cheeks. My escort for the night has the face of a Botticelli angel, with pale cerulean orbs lined in black, causing him to be attacked by muscle boys in leather, but that wasn’t so bad.
Worse was my usual gossip-mongering and unfortunate tendency to dish the dirt. I love taking breaks from the deafening club noise by standing out front, taking photos in the better lighting. Playing with my new video camera, I mock interviewed one bystander, a dark-haired hottie. “My website’s fulltimefriend.com. I’m a party promoter,” he said. “My name’s James Coppola.” Uh oh. It was too late—I’d already dissed anyone and everyone in the club world. They shall remain nameless, but Coppola knows ‘em all. My Italian grandmother’s dying words were “keep-a your mouth shut!” but I’m a bad listener.
“Come to Cool Jerk, my Monday night party at Sin-Sin,” Coppola cajoled me on camera. I’ve always been too cool for school and I’m definitely a jerk so I might as well.
