tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7592438569548324456.post5242795372203385398..comments2023-06-21T03:33:10.629-04:00Comments on Hunting for Sex: Cautionary Tales from the Quest: Berlin Leather Sex PartyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935963810668196582noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7592438569548324456.post-67279501870956942052013-01-06T14:49:18.198-05:002013-01-06T14:49:18.198-05:00The second one was different. Drugs were a much m...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.<br /><br />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 people...no 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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br /><br /><br /> Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11483697136597085511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7592438569548324456.post-79859219292038897172013-01-06T14:48:38.865-05:002013-01-06T14:48:38.865-05:00Somehow I fell into the sex-party circuit after mo...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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11483697136597085511noreply@blogger.com