The Edge of Reason

Wallowing in misfortune is not only dull, it is disrespectful to your intellect. It is a clue to the fact that you have lost perspective on your own life. But, of course, removing yourself from the pattern of negativity is easier said than done. It takes awareness of every negative thought that passes through you so that you can stop it in its tracks, turn it around, and send it creeping in the other direction.

And so after the breakdown of the two most important friendships I held in this city, I did not curl up with my laptop and a jar of Nutella, as I was inclined to do. Instead, I called up A&R (see Line of Beauty) and made an emphatic appeal as to how we should do something fun and different in the coming weekend. After the success of our tranny night, we owed it to ourselves to go exploring the depths of all the alternative gay scenes in London.

A decision was made, perhaps a little too hastily. The outfits were bought. And on Friday night just before midnight, 3 leathered up boys in harnesses, boots, studded collars, chaps, masks and whips walked across covent garden (to the horror of some tourists) and hailed a cab for the Hoist.

At the front door, our outfits were meticulously checked. I was told the Jeans I was wearing under my chaps had to go, which meant that I was therefore in a leather thong for the rest of the night. The doorman tightened my harness and winked at the black band on my left arm. We rolled into the ‘club’, and i use the term loosely. The space was claustrophobic and labyrinthine, strong spotlights showered a direct ray of light below them and left the surrounding areas in gradual darkness. The smell of leather and sweat was invigorating. Music pounded but nobody danced, there was far too much testosterone in the air for that.

A&R and I made it to the bar, got some drinks, and then reached into our boots for our pouches: sexual stimulants, stimulants in general, associated utensils and condoms. We laid them out on the bar with our drinks and began mixing and matching. I felt like I was in East Berlin. Noises started to become more audible from the back rooms.

After a swig of courage, we started to make our way through the dark corridors. More than a hundred men were prowling, not a single word being said. Two hoists were being put to good use, with one guy getting double fisted in one, and the another guy double fucked in another. Deeper into the maze, we came to ceramic clearing, where about 20 men were urinating on one another. Further on, the sound of clinking metal and cries of pain was getting louder. Metal bars were scraping against the body armour of one man as he was being flogged with a large horse-whip.

The three of us watched all of this in amazement. The animalism was extreme and we weren’t sure whether it was arousing or disgusting. Nobody looked like they were doing anything they weren’t accustomed to doing.

We felt like outsiders, like tourists, gawking at everything that looked out-of-this-world, occasionally giggling at certain sites, and downright intimated when someone attempted to grab our genitalia or engage us in the relentless orgy.

For all the weirdness, I felt a certain excitement in experiencing a different thread in the the diverse fabric that is human sexuality. This is just how they roll in 2010 in the dungeons of London. Will I go back? Maybe in the spirit of fun, but probably never to engage in any of this madness.