Photographer Eric Kroll’s P.O.V. is wholesome, sensual and fun. He’s master storyteller who loves girls in girdles and bras. Kroll’s art can turn you on while he makes you laugh. The opening party for his exhibit at Neikrug Gallery was totally dada..

Eric Kroll is the most heterosexual man I know. So it was no surprise that an exhibit of his photography was a homage to women. Beautiful women of all ages graced the walls and strolled through the Neikrug Gallery. It was a bevy of feminine pulchritude. Some of the shyer men just stared, eyes wide, mouths agape, at the living, breathing, curvy-fleshed vixens wrapped in tight dresses who are the signature and provide inspiration for Eric Kroll’s work.

“I don’t know how I developed my love for women in fetish clothing,” says Eric. “but it probably has something to do with my mother having been a glamorous shoe model in the ’30s. My dad as a very young man went off to New York and returned with a suitcase full of the newest in synthetic fabrics-among them rubbers and plastics. He later became a very famous textile designer. This was my background.”

Eric is a real good friend of mine and I wanted to celebrate this show with him. What better way than to decorate myself in clothing that I knew would definitely get his juices flowing. My dress fit me like I’d worn it in the bathtub and let it shrink. My tightly laced corset squeezed my waist and the displaced flesh shot straight up and popped into my breasts. I wasn’t the only woman to think this way. We all turned ourselves into slinky black valentines to Eric. The only one not dressed in black was Mrs. Kroll. Eric’s gorgeous wife Lynka glittered in gold lame. her blonde curls piled high on her head. She was, as Eric proudly described, “the queen bee.”

The title of the show was “American Absurd,” which refers to the Kroll point of view: totally wholesome, totally sensual, totally fun. Whether he is commenting on traditional home life as in “Family Bonding.” which shows Eric, Lynka and baby all linked by a rope: or, making a statement on sex, as in the photograph of short, pudgy Eric holding hands with bodybuilder Thomas Williams (aka Joe Simmons), both of them nude with Thomas’ big dick dwarfing Eric’s more popular-sized penis, Eric Kroll’s photos lovingly satirize common stereotypes.

“Absurd” was definitely the operative word here. The party was fun right from the get-go. Too often a gallery opening is a boring event filled with snobby noses in the air. At the Kroll show, noses and eyes were generally tit-level. Sure, everyone admired the photographs, about as well as you can in a room that is wall to wall people. There was an incredible amount of work, 74 images on the walls and eleven in bins. But it’s tough to be aloof when you’re standing next to a shirtless man with enough metal hanging from his chest to open up a hardware store, or when you are confronted by a photograph that possesses that very rare power to turn you on and make you laugh at the same time, like Eric and Lynka’s “Devil In The Blue Dress Attends A Weenie Roast,” or model Susan Smith, ass in the air, naked on a tricycle.

Plus, Eric created some extra treats. “A lot of people contributed their talents and ideas to this show,” he tells me. “For years I’ve been videotaping my photo sessions, in particular the sexual ones, and I wanted to find a way to show off the videos,” Eric’s sexy pal, photographer Whitney Ward, came up with the peep show idea. Eric remembered he’d photographed an old peep show parlor in Chicago in 1964. He took the photographs to his friend Ron Kurash, a special effects designer. Using new wood, with the photos to guide him, Ron created totally distressed, old-fashion peep machines, complete with cigarette burns and cum stains. Eager art lovers waited their turns for a peep. Fortunately, there were two machines to service the enthusiastic voyeurs.

What began as a one-man show turned into a happening in which the audience was part of the performance. From the Neikrug Gallery the scene moved to a town house in the East 60s, where, according to Eric’s invitations, there would be a Dada party in the spirit of Kroll’s heros Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray, I strolled the few blocks with Thomas Williams, We walked behind my friend Viqui and watched her ass wriggle in her first experience of wearing a dress made of shiny black vinyl, designed by the Fabulous Antoinette of Versatile Fashions. It was a night to be daring. It was a night to be Da da.

I am still amazed that the next events took place in the space of only two hours. Thomas and I entered and immediately saw film director Barbet Schroeder whom I’d made a special point of inviting, I knew he appreciated Eric’s images of women and would enjoy the spirit of the party. So there I was, surrounded by the two most attractive men I know (besides Eric). Thomas let himself be distracted by a video that Eric had assembled on the day before the opening. It showed Lynka as a young majorette, twirling her baton in front of her parents’ house. This old film clip was coupled with photos of Lynka nude on the couple’s numerous vacations, Eric had titled it simply, “My Wife Lynka,”

“I’ve always documented my family life,” he told me, “I photographed my girlfriends before I had a family,”

The real Lynka was the perfect golden hostess, smiling graciously, enjoying the party, completely at ease with the other models and with her own naked images on display.

“None of this happens without Lynka,” says Eric, “She is a constant collaborator, A lot of the ideas have been hers. She’d just strip down and we’d do them…There are a lot of women in my life, a lot of models, but Lynka has the knack for stepping forward at the last minute for the knockout shot,”

Meanwhile, I had to go to the bathroom and, of course, there was a quite a line, especially since the party included a fashion show and people were changing in the toilets. Barbet gallantly offered to wait on the line in my place. I was free to keep my legs crossed and spend a few last minutes with Thomas before he had to leave to pose as a fireman. And then it was showtime .

Eric had arranged quite a lineup. The first performer was Thomas Tuthill, an opera singer, whom Eric knew because each morning they took their kids to the same bus stop. Tuthill’s sensational aria from La Boheme was followed by Laurel Casey singing the theme from Rawhide, the TV show that introduced Clint Eastwood to America. She kept those doggies rollin’—Rawhide! Laurel wore a leopard print bra that transformed her tits into antennae. She launched into an encore but forgot the words. No matter, Ms.Casey’s performance was mainly about her bra.

Brassieres abounded. Eric Kroll and Char Rao designed a bra homage to illustrator Eric Stanton, another Kroll hero. Stanton created the fabulous “Ladyprinckers,” a high-heeled race of she-males. The “Stanton Bra” looked like a slinky gone berserk. Lili Fascinella combined the bra with a red rubber skirt from Slimwear of America and sashayed with the aplomb of a woman dressed in a Dior gown.

I scored a leather and mesh “Bat Bra” designed by a cute little boy type with the non committal name of “l.D.” The Bat Bra helped to contain my breasts which spilled out each time my dancing partner Antony rubbed up against me. The matching panties were decorated with vampire’s teeth over the crotch, my very own vagina dentata. Antony had no fear of my pussy teeth when he pulled his cock out of his pants in a playful pose. Yes, the spirit was definitely carefree.

Jennifer Blowdryer treated guests to a reading of her piece, “Why White People Are Quaint.” Jennifer could read the phone book and draw a crowd. She always sounds like she’d much rather be home in bed polishing her toenails, and you want to be right there with her. She complains so seductively.

When dressed in casual clothes Danny The Wonder Pony fairly faded into the woodwork,but once he saddled up, the women found his macho attraction irresistible. My dear Annie Sprinkle another of Kroll’s favorite models, performed her now classic “Bosom Tap Dance.” To the souvenir booklets that Eric had whipped up on the morning of the show, she added her “tit-prints.” Instead of an autograph, she inked up her bouncing bazoombas and planted them on the page, leaving a lasting impression.

I saw a man standing alone in a corner, leaning against the wall. He stared wide-eyed at the bras, the breasts, the batons…When our eyes connected, he joined our circle of conversation.

“So what is your connection to this party?” I asked him. He is learning Italian. The townhouse is also the home of an Italian school, and class just ended for the evening.

“My classmates and I heard some noise, so we decided to investigate, and we were invited to join the party.” The poor fellow appeared to be in a daze I asked him to describe the party in Italian, but he said it defied description.

Antony and I had a conference in the bathroom. He took his dick out of his pants and while I peed, he showed me how to move his foreskin up and down. I’m not exactly a stranger to foreskin, but I pretended that he was showing me something new. Then I decided to try an experiment.

“Have you ever had your foreskin blown up like a balloon?” I asked. This was something my dear friend Dino D’Macho used to tell me about before he went to heaven. I had never actually tried it and neither had Antony, but he was game. I held the tip of his foreskin and pressed it to my lips as if it were a balloon…”Boing!!!” He blew right up around my mouth like a frog. I screeched and jumped. It all happened so fast. It scared me. What a blowjob! Antony and I spent a little more time in the bathroom, while I perfected the technique. This was turning out to be quite a party. Marcel Duchamp, the dadaist who once put a urinal on display, would have been proud.

We re-entered the room in time for the catfight/fashion show choreographed by model Susan Smith. What better way to remove sexy clothes then to have two gorgeous women tearing them from each other s bodies. That was how Eric, Susan and Mary Milan of Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill decided to display the pvc (polyvinylchloride) fashions of Lust Productions. The winner was Susan Smith by a TKO in a somewhat abbreviated match.

Antony and I were among the last to leave. Out on the sidewalk, we encountered Whitney Ward and a tall fellow named Ashley whose name I remembered because it’s the same as my pussycat. Whitney leaned against the garden wall while Ashley knelt to massage her feet. We wore practically the same killer patent-leather stilettos. “Let’s watch,” said Antony. I suggested that we watch actively rather than passively. Eric and Lynka made their exit and discovered Whitney and I having our tootsies massaged by the men.

A week later, Eric comes to my place for lunch. We go to his favorite Cuban-Chinese place. I try to tell him that the last time Viqui ate there she found a cat whisker in the food, but he’s so excited he doesn’t hear me. (Oh well, maybe the cat was

just strolling near the wok, not floating in it). He wants to make sure I give credit to all of the friends who helped produce the show. This is our chance to savor the evening once more. I tell him that Antony wound up carrying me off for coffee, piggyback style. We laughed so hard that night, belly laughs just like children. But that was the spirit of Eric’s show. It was terribly sexy, good clean fun.

I ask Eric a few last questions. “What sorts of things inspire you in your everyday environment? Do you, for instance, watch women on these cable exercise programs and get turned on?”

He wrinkles his nose, like he’s just found that cat whisker in his chow mein.

“No, no, no. That does nothing for me. Right now I’m involved with a mattress I found on the street. It has that stark quality [photographer] Irving Klaw appreciated. It’s threadbare with lots of wires hanging. I like those wires. I like all of the so-called mistakes. I don’t like the perfect package. Who ever fucked in a clean room?”

Another photographer might have taken the mattress and found two people to fuck on it, but not Eric Kroll .

“I took the mattress, put it up against the wall, dressed the model in only a pink tutu, fastened her to the mattress and had her go through the six ballet positions. Then I moved a blue chair that I also found on the street into the photo and sat there, studying her, literally putting myself in the photo. I’m not the greatest physical specimen and I love that about me. Everyone is photographable: everyone has something wonderful about them. I don’t want stereotypes.”