Only at a Mötley Crüe after-party would this moment be possible. Without any warning, two breasts flash before my eyes, followed by an ear-piercing shriek. "Vince Neil just signed our boobs!" scream the two women, holding their bras open for anyone at the nightclub to see.
A crowd mobs Vince Neil for autographs and high fives at the Marquee Club. Still flying from the Metro Centre concert, Neil sports a Stetson cowboy hat, chin goatee and leather jacket. On one arm is a blow-dried, peroxide-blonde woman in a leather nurse outfit, as if she had teleported straight from the "Dr. Feelgood" video circa 1989. Word is she ditched her boyfriend to hang out with Neil. Little does she know, as the cameras flash around her, she'll be ditched by Neil when his mandatory appearance at the event is over an hour later. He spends a good 20 minutes signing autographs, celebrity mania at a frenzy point.
"I got my stomach signed by”—Canadian Olympic curler—“Brad Gushue," says one of my more cynical friends. "It was when he was here for the Lord of the Rings thing at Metro Centre. I got the entire team to sign. It was sweet."
"Oh my god!" shrieks one of the Neil-autographed girls. "I'm not showering ever again!"
Or maybe at least until they decide to compete in a wet t-shirt contest judged by none other than the platinum-headed wonder that is the lead singer of Mötley Crüe, one of the most notoriously debaucherous acts in the history of rock 'n roll. Singer of the radio hits "Shout At The Devil," "Smokin' in the Boys Room," "Kickstart My Heart" and "Home Sweet Home," Neil was the poster child of ’80s rock 'n roll excess: boozing, drugging and fucking his way to the top of the charts with his just-as-guilty bandmates Tommy Lee, Nikki Sixx and Mick Mars.
"We need one more girl for the contest!" the MC shouts over the roar of "Feelgood" and whoops of the appreciative crowd that's easily 3:1 men, most in leather or denim jackets. Where the female participants for the contest appear from remains a mystery.
"I studied feminist theory in university," a curious female friend told me over pre-party drinks. "This should be interesting."
The festivities get underway around 12:30am as six women of different shapes and sizes walk onstage. A dozen pitchers of water line a table. The crowd roars as Neil makes his stage entrance.
"Who here was at the show tonight?" he asks. Almost the entire room raises their hands, all voicing their approval for what they've just witnessed.
"You motherfuckers fuckin' rocked," Neil yells to more cheers. "You fuckin' Canadians rocked!"
The beau of the ball takes a seat on a large wooden throne center stage. The opening riff of "Girls, Girls, Girls" kicks off the contest, the first girl grabbing two pitchers. She walks into the spotlight in front of a slobbering testosterone-pumped audience. Lifting the pitchers above her head, she pours the water over her white Hanes t-shirt, shaking her hips at the same time. Vince signals his approval from his throne with a flash of his trademark shit-eating grin.
Each successive girl gets nastier, rubbing themselves seductively, shaking their asses at the front row of spectators. Some of the girls ignore the confines of their see-through shirts, one even neglecting the social penchant for pants. Meanwhile the rabid audience encourages the contestants every step of the way.
"There goes 30 years of feminism down the drain," my mortified friend says after Neil helps the last contestant soak every inch of her outfit, giving her an impromtu chest massage to make sure she leaves with no dry part uncovered.
Once the preliminary round closes, the participants walk across the stage one more time, making their case to the Marquee crowd. More female parts are flashed with little coaxing. The time comes to make a decision. Neil slowly surveys the madness around him, building tension.
"You're all winners, motherfuckers!" Neil concludes. The girls mob him, showering him with kisses and unseen gropes.
One thing makes itself apparent throughout the evening. Regardless of the expanding waistline, the darker than usual coiffure and the aging wrinkles, Vince Neil is still a rock star. He has not changed one bit – through the sex tapes, manslaughter charges and model wives. He's made a living at being the life of the party and he knows how to do it well.
Earlier in the evening, a couple of acquaintances walk up as the two women show-off their autographed tatas. The two university students look at what's going on, and then mischievously look at each other. They promptly disappear into the crowd surrounding Neil. Fifteen minutes later they return, beaming.
"Oh my god!" they shriek. "We just made out with Vince Neil! At the same time!"
Surreal life, indeed.