All words: Travis Andrews — All photos: Rachel Eisley

I don’t know what I expect. I don’t know what anyone expects really, and it’s becoming clearer every moment that they don’t either. This is the Air Sex Championships, which is exactly what it sounds like. A bearded comedian named Chris Trew takes the stage to announce the evening’s itinerary. Three comedians, including himself, will take the stage for a little stand-up in a segment called Foreplay. Then, volunteers from the crowd will performs sexual acts with invisible partners while the comedians judge. They will also have stage names of their own choosing. This is exactly as funny as it sounds, which, in retrospect, is not very.

For the sake of everyone involved, we’ll just skip over the Foreplay section. The funniest joke told during that period receives a total of zero laughs: “I like my women like I like my coffee: silent. Oh wait, I mean Asian with big tits. That’s a great cup of coffee.” At some point, True makes a joke about TMI standing for “too much insects” (not “too many insects”) instead of “too much information,” and I’m not following at all.

Onto the air sex itself.

Observation: This should be a sit-down show. I’m not a short guy — 5’11’ — and I can barely see a thing, and I’m having trouble figuring out what’s going on up there. It’s pretty obvious that everyone else here is too, as the packed room ($10 bucks a head) is starting to clear out. After three contestants, the place is half-empty. Or half-full, I guess not. After four years of touring with the Air Sex Championships, I’m not sure what the comedians have come to expect.

There are two rules: 1) All orgasms have to be simulated. 2) Always be fucking or being fucked by one visible person or object.

Of the contests, some are into it and some are drunk. The drunks ones might be funnier, such as Willie D, who takes the stage will clearly very little foreknowledge of what he is supposed to do/what he will do. He kind of dances around for a while, and for some reason pours the remainder of a PBR tall boy on his head.

Another, stage name of Uncle Slam, has apparently shown up with tear-away clothing, and when he cums, he does so with a bottle filled with confetti that explodes out over the crowd. A true winner, and he’s happy to stand up there and be critiqued, unlike Willie D, who offers a lot of blackout drunk “Fuck you, you fuckin’ …” to the judges.

Everyone takes their shirts off, girls and guys included, but the crowd things quickly anyway. Honestly, the biggest problem is probably no one being able to see: the Hotel is good for loud rock shows that involve fist-pumping and beer-drinking. It’s not quite as good for stage shows.

Anyway, you can only watch people hump air for so long.