Sunday, 27 January 2013

“Poor is the man whose pleasures depend on the permission of another.”

Madonna sings that line in her seminal song and video for Justify My Love.    Not only does she sing the lyric but it shows up in print in the final frame of the video.  Why?

I’ve got to hand it to Madonna.  While she seems like a tough person who would chew me up for breakfast, she took quite a risk with Justify My Love and then with her album Erotica and her coffee-table book Sex.  She was an established star who dared to alienate, well, everybody, with her in-your-face bold sexual fantasies.  From what I’ve heard, she was so raked over the coals for it that she apparently said that it was the single time in her storied career when she thought she should just throw in the towel and get out of the limelight.  Note that it was a woman, not a man, who had the balls to showcase sex and fantasy do this degree in the mainstream.  Go onto Youtube and type in the words “Madonna Erotica uncensored”, and you will see the uncensored video to the song Erotica.  She holds nothing back.  Lesbians lick her tits.  She gets ridden like a horse in leather by a totally hot guy that I think I’ve seen in gay porn.  She pours hot wax onto one leather dude and flogs another (or was that a woman?).  She goes full tilt into BDSM.  And at times in the video, she is funny and irreverent, revealing that erotica can be hot and also humorous and finally, fun.

I recently re-posted a video of myself getting kinky on Xtube.  I had posted it some time ago, and in a panic one day, I took it down.  I had every fear in the book about the video falling into the wrong hands, especially into the hands of those I work with at my office job.  I did not have Madonna’s balls.  Then shortly after, I started this blog, hardly putting any time into marketing it.   I had many “friends” on Xtube, and began mailing each one individually about my blog.  It was laborious, but I did get some readership from it.  But in my heart of hearts, I knew that having  a good video on Xtube would do the marketing for me.  A friend told me that my fears were irrational and OCDish, and whether he is right or not, I reached out for divine providence and re-posted the video.

The video is a five minute take on a five hour edging session.  In those five minutes, you get to see me grooving to Rob Zombie playing in the background.  I piss in the vid, drink it, spray piss from a spray bottle all over my face and pits and hair, drink some saved cum, pour what’s left on my face and say my favorite word over and over – “FUCK!” – while jacking the meat.   After I posted the video, readership of the blog went up.

I had prayed for divine providence because by posting the video and having the blog, I was making a commitment to it all.  I was willing to risk my livelihood, if, heaven forbid, it came to that.  Why?  I wanted to combat hypocrisy around sex for my greater good, to share this with my brothers, so that we might come to learn what Alan Gregg meant when he said:

“The history of medicine proves that in so far as man seeks to know himself and face his whole nature, he has become free from the bewildered fear, despondent shame, or arrant hypocrisy.  As long as sex is dealt with in the current confusion of ignorance and sophistication, denial and indulgence, suppression and stimulation, punishment and exploitation, secrecy and display, it will be associated with a duplicity and indecency that lead neither to intellectual honesty nor human dignity.” (Preface to Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, Kinsey et al., v.)

Kinsey wrote that in 1948, and sadly, it still rings true.  Sex is everywhere – in marketing, in films, in music – and yet we supposedly shouldn’t be too obsessed with it.  Porn is watched by millions, yet we know next to nothing of the truth of the lives of the performers, except what the film companies and the religious right tell us.  Men of the cloth condemn homosexuality while secretly having gay sex while high on meth.  Of course, when found out, they recant and go to rehab, while their stoic wife grins and bears it.  We rarely really talk about sex rationally and openly.  We fear it too much and pay lip service to its celebration.

Alanis Morissette frighteningly sings a line in one of her songs that goes “You will learn to lose everything.”  That line ricocheted in my head as I uploaded my video onto Xtube.  But I also knew that I needed to amputate what wasn’t working for me, and what wasn’t working for me was silence.  I had to trust that providence would provide me with a path.  As scared as I was, I wondered what joys might be in store if I followed my truth.  If I believed in the importance of this kind of frank dialogue, I had to put my money where my mouth was.  

Many of you found this blog by way of the video.  I did not ask anyone’s permission to post it but my own.  I like having that video up there.  Now you, My Friend, know what it took to upload it.

Thursday, 17 January 2013


“One last drink, please.”  Last words on deathbed, Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel (1849-1911, American distiller and founder of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey Distillery).

The orgy was BYOB.  And so, at home, I located three empty Gatorade bottles and filled them with Jack Daniels and coke, my absolute favorite drink.  I put them in my back sack, along with the other things one should always bring to an orgy: condoms, lube, poppers, some water, a tab of Viagra, and tic tacs to be oh so fresh.

The orgy was invite only.  I’d been to one of them before, the month previous.  It had been held at a bathhouse in the Village, where they had cordoned off a section for the orgy invites.  But tonight, for the first time, the organizers had found a space in a warehouse for the party.

I showed up at 11:30 PM and was greeted by Dominic, one of the organizers, who gave me a kiss and to whom I paid the $20 entrance fee.  Dominic, a bearded leather dude in his thirties, had flogged me at the previous orgy – something I’d never before experienced.  He promised to give me some new experiences tonight and pointed me in the direction of the coat racks.  To my surprise, just left of Dominic, were two men from a local safe-sex organization, standing at a table filled with safe-sex brochures and lots of condoms and lube.  They were there to answer any questions we might have about how to play safe and I thought, This is damn well organized.

At the coat racks, I hung up my winter coat and started to undress.  This orgy had a strict dress code: leather, rubber, jocks or you could be completely naked (“No deodorants or cologne please!”).  Tonight I would be wearing a leather jock, a leather ballcap, army boots and my black rubber wristband that sported two yellow stripes indicating my penchant for watersports.

I grabbed the first of the three bottles I’d brought of Jack and coke and headed into the main area.  It was tricked out with BDSM equipment I don’t even know the names for.  The room was dimly lit with a red sleazy glow, and a blue strobe light flashed psychedelic patterns along the far wall.  A cage was set to the right.  The room was already populated with about eight men, and we each found a spot to pose and preen, to eye each other and sip from the drinks we’d all brought.

I stayed that night for three hours.  The room only filled to about a maximum of twenty men, and I regret to inform you that I didn’t really feel attracted to most of them.  In attendance was a slave owned by the organizers.  He wore a sign that said if we wanted to play with him, we needed permission from the organizers.  Dominic’s partner, Cory, gave me this permission.  I approached the slave and...we talked.  I have a distinct need to know that my sex partner is attracted to me in order to have fun, and I felt that if I played with the slave, he would be doing it out of duty rather than pleasure.  In hindsight, perhaps that’s the key:  perhaps his duty was his pleasure.  But instead, I interviewed him about what it meant to be a slave, what his life was like.  Our conversation intrigued me, though I wonder if he questioned who let this leather-wearing Barbara Walters into the party.

By the second Jack and coke, I was sufficiently inebriated enough to doff my leather jock and enjoy the sensation of simply walking around naked, save for the leather ball cap and boots.  I watched men get fisted and fucked.  I dipped my toe in the water by letting my hands caress men as they caressed me.  But it was Dominic who came through for me in the end.  At my third Jack and coke, Dominic found me and led me to a separate room where he tied my stiff cock and balls up with a soft, forty-foot long rope.  Once it was completely tied, he pulled fast on the rope and it quickly unravelled, which set my cock bouncing and vibrating.  The sensation was one of pleasure and pain.  The slave joined the room and Dominic slipped on a condom and began to fuck him, while I sat on the floor licking the slave’s balls (his cock was locked up in a chastity device).  After a moment, I stood and the slave took my cock in his mouth.  Dominic pulled out of the slave, took off the condom, and made me suck him off.  With his cock in my mouth, he let go a stream of piss.  Like a champ, I devoured every single drop.

I left soon after.  I had to walk home, as the subway had stopped running by that point, but I didn’t live so far – just the equivalent of three subway stops.  When I reached home though, did I go to bed?  No sir, I did not.  I poured another Jack and coke.

At the orgy, I’d taken half a Viagra, just for insurance against nerves getting the better of me.  I’d also brought my trusty pill bottle filled with a week’s worth of cum, in case I had a notion to play with it at the orgy.  But that didn’t happen.  So now at home, I decided to continue the party alone, downed the second half of the Viagra and started to edge, pouring the cum over my face and pits and cock.

How many drinks did I consume before I finally hit the bed?  I don’t know, but I do know that in the wee hours of the morning, I was lying in a wet spot.  Evidently, I’d pissed the bed.  Tragic?  Not so much.  I have a cover for the mattress for piss play anyway.  I had been having erotic dreams, and only half awake, my hard dick made its presence known.  I lazily rolled onto my stomach, pressing my cock into the wet sheets.

But this is the turning point.  When you wake up soaked in your own piss after a bacchanalian night of revelry, you have to decide whether to feel shameful about it, or to feel that you’ve simply had quite a wild night.  I chose the latter and fell back to sleep.

When I awoke at three in the afternoon, I was hung over, but not of the headache variety.  I was rather still drunk.  And more to the point, I was intensely horny.  I got up and put on the kettle for some coffee to bring me back to the sober Jason that had to return phone calls and iron his work clothes for the week.  But while waiting for the water to boil, wearing only my underwear, I pressed my cock against the edge of the kitchen counter and I knew that my ironing would have to wait.

I was in a delicious booze haze and my cock wanted my full attention.  Now I was the slave, and rubbing my cock felt like an emergency.  I checked the fridge – all out of cola.  But I had lots of Jack.  Jumping in the shower, I rushed to ready myself to go out into the world for a brief, alcohol-dazed moment.  I ran – not walked, ran – to the grocery store kitty corner to my apartment block and bought cola and ran back to my apartment where I hastily poured a drink, shed my clothes, lit a cigarette, turned on some heavy metal, and positioned myself in front of the mirror.  I had everything I needed to edge, and I readied myself for that first, cataclysmic grab of my crotch.  In a hypnotic state, I rubbed my hand around my crotch over and over and over again, watching this in the mirror, in a state of religious ecstasy.  It was a communion with the earth, with my cock, my brain, my cock, the universe, my cock, my male brothers, my cock, my soul, my cock, my infinity.  Hyperbole, you ask?  If only.   I thought of the events at the orgy and it was as if the memory of the night was more powerful to me than the actual experience of it.

I eventually lost my erection, changed the sheets on my bed and fell into a twelve hour sleep.  Awaking for work the next morning, I felt still a little out of it, but not too bad.  Once again, while waiting for water to boil, I pressed my crotch against the kitchen counter and thought to myself “What a weekend.”

But a lost weekend?  Or did I find something?  What I experienced on that weekend was not a regular event that occurs every week.  Even still, I had to start asking questions (as is my wont).  Am I an alcoholic?  I only drink when my cock is involved.  If I go out to dinner with friends, I have no desire for a drink, since it’s a social occasion and not a cock occasion. 

But alcohol is part of every jack off, every sex experience.  So is alcohol just a tool I use to support my sex addiction?  Sex addiction is too large a subject to discuss in this essay.  I will come back to that another time.  The bottom line is that booze fuels my sexuality.  Why is it that when watching porn sober, it all seems fairly ridiculous.  When sober, I see the performers and wonder if they are happy and safe, whether they are only in it for the money or whether they get any pleasure from performing.  When drinking, it’s all hot and horny.

Years ago, I had sex with a man who was a recovering alcoholic.  He welcomed me to drink until I was hammered, as he put it.  I asked him if he missed drinking during sex and he said that sober sex was so much better.  I’m still not sure if I understand how that could be.  Is it that you can be fully present in a way you aren’t when drinking?  Are you more apt when sober to feel a truer connection to your partner?  Does alcohol give one the impression of loosening you up when really it shuts something down?

Most of the topics for this blog occur to me when I’m having a drink and masturbating.  The little booklet I write my ideas down in is stained with lube, my pens all sticky.  But I always write these essays sober.  Sober now as I write, I wonder if I’m peering into the rabbit hole by letting alcohol be such a steadfast part of my sexual behavior.  Or have I already fallen in?  Addiction, to sex, to alcohol, are topics to discuss later.  For now I leave you with this...

Jack Daniel never married, never had children.  And so I wonder – was he an earlier incarnation of a man like me?

Saturday, 12 January 2013

When Horniness Attacks!

Horniness loves to yank your chain and right when you’re busy doing the daily errands that sometimes simply can’t wait.  Walking the busy downtown streets, with things to do and people to see, my horniness threatened to overtake me and I had serious visions of myself losing my mind in broad daylight.  I wanted to yell at men passing by “Hey buddy, want a blowjob!?  Blowjobs!  Blowjobs!  Get your blowjobs here!”  The grizzled homeless men on the street appealed to me – I figured they probably hadn’t had a decent blowjob in ages and they’re men too!  I began to fetishize their unruly, unkempt beards.  I was out of control.   I felt like George Michael on speed.

Passing a lamppost, I noticed a sign taped to it that read “TOPS WANTED!”  Oh goody, I thought, a sign meant just for me!  Out there, somewhere, was a bottom desperately wanting to be serviced.  Rounding the lamppost a little more and I realized the sign read “LAPTOPS WANTED!” and I was heartbroken.  And so onward I trudged to the department store.

At the department store, I waited in line at customer service to make a minute payment on an outrageously high credit card bill.  Waiting in line, I noticed advertisements for a men’s line of clothing called TOPMAN.  What joy, what bliss!  A clothing line aimed at men like me!  But peering closer at the clothing itself, I realized that I wouldn’t be wearing that style of clothing until I was safely ensconced in Happy Day nursing home.  I somberly made my laughable credit card payment and forged on to the grocery store.

While in line to pay for my groceries, I noticed that the blonde, bearded guy in front of me with the army ball cap was a guy I had hooked up with when I first moved to this city’s Gay Village.  And I also remembered that’d I’d disappointingly cum almost the minute I’d entered him.  In shame, I prayed that the sex gods would keep him from turning to notice me.  (Dear Reader, you think I make this shit up, but these are the things that happen when you live in the Village.  I would not be having this problem if I lived in Ohio – or would I?).

Carting the two bags of groceries home, something poked my leg.  It was the English cucumber I’d purchased, and it stood erect in my grocery bag, aching for release.  It was only when I got to my building and in the elevator that I noticed the other end of the cucumber had broken through the plastic bag, pleading to penetrate something.  Oh Cucumber, I and me both.

This is Horniness...

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Berlin Leather Sex Party

Note to reader:  I’m in my late thirties now, but the tale below of an orgy in Berlin took place when I was just twenty-eight years old.  I wrote this long before I started my blog, and I hear the voice of a young man who is still trying to reconcile his sluthood,  all with a wide-eyed wonder.    Over the years, I’ve both changed and not changed, to varying degrees.  But at the core remains a wonder about the mystery of it all.

Sitting on the bed in my Berlin hotel, I read the ad again and again.  Holding the local gay magazine in my hands, I could already feel the butterflies swarming in my stomach.  The notice was detailing the when and where of a huge, annual gay leather sex party.  That night, in a non-descript warehouse in what was formerly East Berlin, men from Berlin and around the world would collide to revel in leather and sex and music.  The leather dress code was strict.  There would be backrooms galore, but also a bar and a dance floor with a top international DJ in attendance.  And I knew that, like me, men all over the city were starting to prepare for a bacchanalian night.  Were they as excited and nervous as I?

Raised to be a religious saint, to be the best little boy in the world,  I found myself at age twenty-eight ready to shuck all that off and glory in my sexuality in the biggest way possible, at a sex party.  But did revelling in my awakened sexuality like this necessarily revoke my best-little-boy-in-the-world status?  Why did I instinctively feel that I was doing something bad?  Because, rather, what I hoped to find at this party was nothing less than beauty and transcendence.  I wanted to worship at the altar of another sort.  Would I find God from a new angle, or would I find a false idol?

The ritual of getting ready begins early, hours before the event.  You have to shave what needs to be shaved, trim your beard, brush your teeth extra well, douche, and shower.  No cologne, no deodorant – smelling like a man is scent enough.  I put my contacts in so that I could find the man of my dreams at any distance.  Was I really naive enough to believe I’d meet the man of my dreams at a sex party?  Would I even connect with anybody?  I dressed, and looked at myself in the mirror.  Decked out in a harness, a black leather cock ring under an old, white jock strap, sporting chaps and army boots, I felt confident.  My muscles looked good to me and I thought “yeah, you got it”.  Turn a little to the left, though, and I begin to think my stomach doesn’t look tight enough.  All it takes is the wrong angle in the mirror, and I’m filled with doubts about my looks.  I believed that if I just looked and acted the part, I would be given the keys to the kingdom, wanted by many.  I was betting on nothing less than rapture, and yet I had no clear vision of how that rapture would be achieved.  What I did know (still do know) is that most of life is drudgery and political correctness.  That night, I wanted to free myself and go to a primal place with like-minded men.  Release – physical, mental and even spiritual – is what I prayed to the sex gods for.

It was time to go.  I had to wear jeans and a t-shirt and a coat to get myself there respectably, but the ad said we could check all our civilian clothes at the coat check.  I wouldn’t have any pockets, so I tied my hotel room key to the laces of my boot and shoved a couple of condoms in my socks.  Getting on the subway, I began to feel a bit criminal as I watched so-called regular people getting on with their workaday lives.  Could they smell the anticipation of sex on me?  With a small map in hand, I got off the train into the dark April night at what I thought was the right stop.  And I got immediately lost.  My directions seemed to be leading me to a deserted train terminal.  There were warehouses, yes, but no people in sight.  I walked past warehouse after warehouse, getting deeper into no-man’s land and feared I’d never find the locale.   I almost felt relieved, as if I couldn’t stand the anticipation and would almost have preferred to turn back.  But then I saw something miraculous – a cab.  The light on its roof was like a beacon and I followed it with heavy footsteps.  In spite of my trepidation, I began to rejoice as I noticed an unmarked door guarded by a bouncer.  I approached him, and without even a hello, he opened the door and let me in.

The entrance where we had to pay the cover charge was surprisingly well lit, making me momentarily self conscious, as if lights were antithetical to a night of debauchery.  But I was undeniably relieved to have made it.  Just getting to that point of being inside the door felt like a major accomplishment.  After paying the cover charge, I entered the coat check area, and I encountered a roomful of German men stripping off their jeans and shirts.  They all looked gorgeous to me.  My sex drive was at full tilt, made stronger by knowing that theirs probably was too. I tried to act natural, as if I go to sex parties all the time, and began to take off my jeans and shirt.  A few of the men around me were talking to each other, but for the most part, there was a hushed silence, as if in the foyer of a church.  I checked my clothes and my jacket and stuffed the coat check tag in my boot.  I needed a beer badly, to calm my nerves, and I could hear the faint sound of trance music playing in another part of the building. 

Heading down a long ramp, the music became louder when, at the turn of a corner, a cavernous space opened up and the music hit my ears with its full fury.  Strobe lights flashed on a dance floor already filled halfway with men in their leather regalia dancing together.  I didn’t know these men, didn’t even speak their language, but I recognized them as my brothers and smiled.  I felt that I was seeing my own kind in its most natural, primal habitat.  The bar was to my left and I grabbed a beer.  Taking a good long swallow, I decided to set off on a tour of this large, two story building.  I headed upstairs first.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I entered a maze of corridors, which finally lead to a large room with another bar.  But this is where I see sex for the first time.  There were two podiums, each with impossibly gorgeous men standing on them.  Each man was naked, save for their footwear, and each was sporting a huge erection.  And in front of each was a line up of men.  Each man in the line up was waiting to have a brief chance to suck off these gods on the podiums.  Who was craving what the most?  Was it the men in line craving to have a piece of the unattainable beauty on the podiums, or was it the two gods, revelling in the fact that men were lined up for them?  I stood with my beer, watching, my cock stiffening, in awe, but I knew I could not participate.  I did not feel that I was attractive enough to ever be one of those guys on the podiums, and my ego wouldn’t allow me to stand in a line for a piece of heaven that could never truly be mine.

Believe it or not, it hit me then for the first time since preparing for this night to think of the health ramifications of a warehouse full of men having sex.  I’d brought condoms for fucking, but there were other health threats all the same.  And so I mentally set limits for myself.  I wouldn’t swallow and I’d fuck with a condom, as per my norm.  This was what I could live with.  And so, with another swig of my beer, I headed past the men on the podiums with their line ups, and explored deeper.

I found another large room, this one filled with cots, and it was stuffed to the rafters with men, shoulder to shoulder, nearly all with their cocks out.  Each cot had men fucking on them, with groups of men watching them.  I immersed myself in the crowd, and we were so scrunched together that we were almost inhibited from playing with each other.  It was here, with men just like myself, that I drew up my courage to release my straining cock from its jock strap, and it didn’t feel frightening.  Instead, I was free and unencumbered.  As we men moved around each other, we were so close together that our cocks brushed up against each other, and we nodded and smiled and cruised.  I didn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed.  Rather, an ancient part of my brain knew how to do this, and I did it.  There was a respectful silence in the room that was telling.  I wound my way near a wall where a hot, dark-haired, leather vested guy was standing.  We communicated solely with our eyes, and the way he approvingly looked me up and down gave me the invitation to touch him – not difficult, since we were forced nearly chest to chest by the push of the crowd.  I sensed he was a safe place to start – his aura seemed gentle.  Without making a conscious decision, I slid down to my knees.  He took hold of my head and gently pushed his dick into my mouth, and I was home.  That is what I came here for and the process of losing myself to the moment began.  I blew him, while cognizant of the mass of men moving around me.  Knowing that I was being watched was an enormous, new excitement.  Again, no knee-jerk religious shame – instead, I felt that my sexuality was taking its rightful place.  I jerked his spit-slicked cock ever faster and he unleashed his jizz onto my face and shoulder, and I looked up to see him smiling in relief.  I stood and we spoke for the first time.  Having come, he was ready to go home already and thanked me for getting him off.  With that, he disappeared into the crowd.  I felt a pride in having his come on me, and walked through the crowd to the acknowledging smiles from other men.  It was time for another beer.  I headed to the bar, and inwardly thought how unbelievable it was that I was ordering a drink from a bartender while come dripped down my face and chest.  The bartender didn’t even bat an eye.

I headed back downstairs to see the dance floor now full of sweating men gyrating to the music.  That encounter upstairs made me feel that I had been accepted and I was unleashed now, ready to explore further.  I looked up to the second floor walkway and saw a guy pissing into a makeshift urinal.  Urinals were located everywhere, with tubes carrying the piss to who knows where.  A watersport- lover’s delight.

On this main floor, there was a room, again filled with men, but also filled with gymnastic equipment.  I parked myself, beer in hand, by a pummel horse, and was approached by the guy next to me.  Our eyes said “go further” and he did, touching my bare ass.  My jock gave him full access, and I pushed myself back against his hand to indicate my willingness.  He pulled a condom out and put in on, while I positioned myself over the pummel horse where he entered me.  As he fucked me, another guy wandered in front of the pummel horse, and we made eye contact.  He aimed his already hard dick towards my mouth, and I greedily took it, congratulating myself on getting both holes filled at once.  But the fucking became so intense that I couldn’t properly service the guy in front of me, and graciously, he seemed to know it and pulled away.  I was still being pounded, and pounded back the beer in my hand.  I’d gone to a primal place, where being fucked in public felt completely and totally right.  It was a fantasy come true, and a transgression of polite society.  When the guy fucking me came, he pulled out and I turned around.  He was very attractive, and very sweaty.  We kissed and he smiled and asked if I wanted to join him at the bar for another drink.  I said yes and followed him.

We got new beers and turned to each other, but there was little in the way of conversation.  What do you say to a stranger who has just fucked you?  Do you ask his name?  Do you ask “Come here often”?  I was thrilled that he spoke English, but I had no training for talk at a sex party.  So if I came here to connect with men of my ilk, had I failed?  Was this guy who fucked me a person or just a human dildo?  Was I still so bound by a silent shame for being so sexually adventurous that it was now impossible for me to go from sex to talking?  As a mass, we men were tearing off the constraints of society, revelling in our sexuality, bound through sex like a tribe, kind and giving.  But talking one on one with this man in front of me, I felt shy, this conversation feeling more intimate than his fucking me did.  Adam and Eve recognized their nakedness after eating the apple – I began to understand why.  I wanted to end the feeling of dissonance in my head and left the bar to return to the anonymous -  and oddly, therefore emotionally safe - sex of the backrooms.

A final backroom – darker than the others, and in this one, smoking was evidently allowed.  Feeling my way through this dark space, I came face to face with a muscular man with a hairy chest.  He was deliciously sweaty, as we all were. These many years later, I remember only the archetype he represented – forties daddy with rugged good looks.  Predictably, I got on my knees to worship him.  It magically ended as it magically began, with neither of us coming, and I moved on through the room, my eyes now adjusted to the dark.  And I came upon something I never expected to see.

In the very centre of the dark space was a large chair, a chair with a huge, rounded back, as if the seat had been placed inside a ball cut in half.  Inside that large chair sat a woman, the only woman I had seen all night.  Dressed in full leather, her hair was cut into a short, shiny black bob.  Reclining in the chair and slowly smoking, she watched the roomful of men having sex around her.  She was our queen, watching the serfs at play.  Neither appearing excited nor bored, she simply appeared watchful.  Not smiling, but protecting the room with her presence.  Who was she?, I wondered.  How did she get this seemingly revered position, in this mega-chair, in this backroom?

A bell in my head went off, and I knew it was time to leave.  I had lived it, experienced it, and anything more would be anticlimactic.  Back at the coat check area, where other men had apparently made the same decision to leave, I gathered my clothes and redressed.  To my chagrin, I discovered that I had lost my hotel room key, somewhere in those backrooms.  I exited out the door, and the cold Spring wind hit my sweaty face.  It was a shock to enter the real world, after hours spent in a dark space that felt as safe as a womb.  Noticing a glimpse of sunlight on the horizon, I headed back to the hotel where I paid seven euros for a new room key.  Getting into the shower, I reluctantly washed the night off, a night in which I had had no past, no future, but only the present.  A night in which I had shared the sweat of my brothers, immersed in a tribal reverie where immense energy had been exchanged between us.  And now, fresh and clean, I headed to the window before going to bed, to see the sun rising in the east.  I had felt desired, I had enjoyed my own cravings.  My religious-based shame had not impinged on the night.  Instead a new worry was born: why had it been so hard to talk to a man who had just fucked me?  Did I lack an ability to connect, or was it simply that the connection I sought was sexual and not emotional.  Was that a problem?  Or was I ultimately a lone wolf, happy to come back to my hotel alone, to be with myself. Maybe it was not whether I had connected with any one person there tonight.  It was rather I had connected to a place within that was a mystery to myself.  I had no idea whether I was a devil or a saint, whether I had experienced sexual freedom, or had been enslaved by my sexuality.  But as I looked out the window, I said a silent thank you to Berlin, for the mystery of it all, on this morning clear and bright.