Emma Carmichael went undercover for Deadspin to the Gathering of the Juggalos:
Sex at the Gathering, I quickly learn, is inherently linked to the festival’s flourishing drug commerce in part because so many hookups seem to be fueled by the goods, and in part because so much of the sex is used as a rival hustle.
For the most part, the supply meets the Juggalos’ demands, and most are not overly particular about what’s on display. If the public display of titties is inherently offensive to you, then there is no hope for you at the Gathering. But there is also a very basic egalitarianism to the practice there. The Juggalos do not care if the boobs are lopsided or saggy or small or fake; they only care that they are there.
In mid-afternoon, a possibly pregnant, definitely semi-conscious Juggalette stops in her tracks after considering a request and then slowly, methodically, lifts up her shirt. She’s forgotten, though, that she has two shirts on, plus a bikini top. So she slowly, methodically, lifts up her other shirt, and then each cup of her bikini, from which she slowly removes her breasts, one after the other. None of the men jeer. Perhaps they are all very stoned. “Yeah!” they say, hoisting Busch Light cans into the air. “All right!” She smiles sheepishly and continues on her way without bothering to cover herself. The entire exchange takes about 60 seconds.