Consider the Butt
François Boucher, L’Odalisque Brune (cropped), 1743
The elevator doors opened onto a loft-like space throbbing with music. Organizers in T-shirts that read ASK ME ABOUT MY BUTTHOLE were setting up booths by the entrance, helping a strange panoply of performers prepare for the evening. A woman wearing all-but-invisible underwear sat on a perch while a companion covered her naked flesh with yellow paint. Another woman organized a kissing booth, dressed in a flesh-colored bodysuit and a pillowy hat shaped like a butt that covered her entire face. Her face cheeks became butt cheeks, her nose became an anus—she was a human butt.
The room was of a kind common in New York, where the walls are thick with layers of white paint applied slapdash over decades. It was the sort of room that could work for a wedding, or an art gallery, or, if someone nailed together some drywall partitions, a chiropractor’s office—a blank canvas that could become anything. On that sweaty evening in August, the room was transformed into an event called Butt-Con.
In the materials circulated by the PR company promoting the five-hour ordeal, Butt-Con was described as a “‘holey’ experience for the like-behinded.” The website’s splash page featured a large color photo of a peach with an oversize bead of sweat rolling down its curve. It listed panels on colonics, cake sitting, and butt plugs. One speaker would teach the audience how to produce the perfect poop. A panel featuring fitness gurus would discuss how
