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.




  1. Somehow I fell into the sex-party circuit after moving to a large southern city. I had not intended to ever get involved with mass sex, but through meeting the right, perhaps wrong, people, I was indeed on the circuit.

    It started easy enough. I met a guy who was into my fetish: watersports. I had no idea I was meeting a guy who spent his free time arranging sex parties, maintaining contact lists, throwing sex parties of all sorts, and finding new converts for these groups.

    I eased in gradually, from small piss parties, to jack-off groups, to full-fledged 100-men sex parties held in people's basements, dungeons, or garages. I could not read an ad about a sex party held in a warehouse and just show up. I would be too intimidated for that. In my case, by starting with small groups, when I got to the big time throwdowns, I knew enough of the guys that I was comfortablw.

    A couple of these parties stand out as moments of realization and enlightenment. My first party to have an "anything goes" rule was held in the home of a guy who was well-known in the city. His pictures were on TV ads regularly; he was seen in newspaper ads, and he was a fixture at local nudist club gatherings. The lower level of this house was partly basement, part play room, and mostly dungeon. My religious beliefs were left not at the door, but back at home. I went to enjoy myself, watch, participate, and provide. I did not drink that night, although I did participate in some pot-smoking. There was no aura of tribal manhood there, no strobe lights, no trance music...just men having sex. Glory holes, a St. Andrews cross, wooden pallets with shackles, tubs of lube, and, surprisingly, no attitude. Men I wouldn't have thought would look at me twice in a bar were readily accessible, and encouraged my hand to do whatever it pleased with them. I realized that I had a talent that was appreciated by a lot of the men there. I had turned pissing into an art form, and somehow that night, I was in full exhibitionistic glory. At these events, we all have our strong points. Mine may not be giving a good blow job, nor fucking the daylights out of a guy up in a sling. It isn't getting fisted, or slowly working my fist up an ass. Mine was almost endless boner pissing. I leftrather proud of myself, and I only had myself to thank for letting it happen. No guilt, no regret, no disappointment. Just pride, and a long drive home.

  2. The second one was different. Drugs were a much more prevalent component of this sex party. Maybe the guys needed the drugs to overlook the fact that they were in a small condo. The watersports section was in the kitchen, a sling was in the walk-in closet, and the rest of the house was open to doing whatever you wanted anywhere. While many of the guys were ones that I knew, somehow it was different. Maybe it was the fact that this wasn't new anymore, or perhaps this was no longer a fantasy. I didn't have a good time. Something had inhibited an erection on my behalf, and while I was totally able to walk, talk, and breathe, the parts just didn't work. I stayed long enough to prowl around and watch several different hot men going through the motions, but somehow I knew that it was time to go...permanently. I didn't want to do this anymore. And I didn't.

    Did I reach this conclusion because I felt like a hypocrite? No. But I did realize that doing this kind of thing just wasn't me. I avoid social situations where there are large groups of matter what they are doing. This charade that I had been participating in for the past two years had just played out. I may have been good at what I did, but overall, it just wasn't enjoyable anymore. It wasn't me; it wasn't what I wanted, and I didn't want to do it anymore.

    As I drove the fifty miles home from the city, the closer I got home, the better I felt. I did not have to do this anymore. I had nothing to prove, and if I had proved anything to anybody there, it would have been forgotten by everyone before I shut the door. "No more sex parties" was a great feeling. It wasn't me, and I didn't have to do it. I don't hang my head in shame for being there. How can one really be ashamed when something valuable has been learned...even if it's what not to do?