After about a hundred consecutive Saturday nights spent holding court at The Powerhouse, Darren was starting to bug me about doing something else.
'We could go out in the Castro...'
'Yeah...NOT.'
'We could go to Universe earlier.'
'There won't be anyone there until 3am and you know it.'
Darren and I had been partners in crime on the San Francisco scene for a couple years. We did EVERYTHING together. We worked out together, took trips together, ate out, shopped. We were more than fuckbuddies, less than lovers. Everyone thought we were boyfriends, an opinion we were happy to let ride.
We certainly had plenty of sex together, although we had a lot more sex with others...albeit usually in each other's presence.
'How about we check out The Sling?'
'Is that still going?'
The Sling was a twice-monthly fisting party, held in a South of Market warehouse, run by a local chiropractor. He had cancelled the previously long-running watersports party in that same location, telling the regulars that his landlord had been complaining about damage to the walls and baseboards....but telling ME that he was just too repulsed by the clientele to even want to attend his own event. So, out went the troughs and tubs, and in went a dozen slings.
Personally, I don't have much interest in fisting. Certainly, none at all in BEING fisted, and not much more in doing it. I've always found that the guys who want to be fisted the MOST, are the guys with whom I enjoy it the least.
No challenge. GLOP. Like stepping thru the Stargate, but with less resistance. Reminds me of the tiny old psychic lady from Poltergeist, throwing the rope into the void: 'STEVEN, NOT YET!!'
Darren explained that he'd run into Dr. Drake (his first name), on the street, and that he'd 'specifically invited us' to stop by The Sling.
'Oh, well. With a social obligation like THAT, how can we risk our standing in the community by NOT attending his fisting sex club?'
The next Saturday found us shivering in the vestibule of a dimly lit warehouse off of Dore Alley. Only a small flyer, taped to the door, had alerted us to the entrance. No street number, no name. Just a cartoon of a hairy fist and forearm, with sweat and lube droplets flying off. Classy.
After paying $20 each, and signing a frightenly long waiver of liability, we were ushered into a small seating area. The dress code appeared to be: boots. We complied, and Darren led the way back into the dark.
The place had a simple set up: one main long hallway, five or six small rooms on each side. Prowling the hallway and rooms were a couple of dozen men, mostly out of shape, mostly much older than us, all of them unappealing. They were all naked (except for boots, duh) and each carried a small tub of Elbow Grease.
Inside each room: two slings, two stools, two waist-high tables.
Also inside each room: two insanely unattractive old men, swaying slightly in their slings, as they craned their necks to evaluate us, when we peered in.
Darren and I took two complete tours of the premises, then returned to the dressing area where we could speak and compare notes.
Me: 'Well, THAT was worth $40!'
Darren: 'Maybe we caught it on a bad night, I don't think Drake would have invited us, if he didn't think there'd be something here for us.'
'Maybe, he certainly should know our taste by now.'
Darren pointed out a large red sign over the hallway entrance that we hadn't noticed when we first came in:
Do NOT enter a sling without YOUR top present!
Slings are meant for PLAYING, not PRAYING!
We will NOT tolerate sling lizards!
Clearly, a house rule that was not being enforced.
Just then, I became aware of being stared at from across the room.
He was about my age, short military haircut, handsome and extremely muscular. I guessed him to be German, judging from his cruel, tiny, angular eyewear.
The moment I met his gaze, he strode purposefully up to me, pierced cock tapping the top of his boots.
'I zee you look at me and I zee you like the bodies', he boomed.
Um, what?
'You like the bodies and you like the better bodies, yezzz?'
Darren and I decided on the spot that we would find the poor English of this horse-hung, handsome bodybuilder utterly charming.
Darren: 'We like your body, sure'.
Me: 'Do you like this place?'
See, I'm already angling for us to snatch this prize right out of the joint, out of the Elbow Grease'd claws of the patrons, who were now hungrily gathering, and a little too closely at that.
The German directly his attention strictly on me: 'You like me, yezz? I zink maybe for me you have the hot shit?'
Do I think this living Tom of Finland sketch is hot shit?
Me: 'Oh, yeah man...you look amazing!'
Him (clearly frustrated and shouting, a bit): 'VELL? DO YOU???'
Me: 'Do I what?'
Him: 'DO YOU HAVE SOME HOT SHIT FOR ME??'
Darren sprang to his feet: 'Ooooooooo Kaaaaaaay.'
'Joe, are you ready to head back over to Powerhouse?'
'Yes, Darren...we REALLY should get OUT of here!'
Darren zipped over to the coat check with our claim tickets.
The German never said another word. He just stood there watching us struggle to get our boots off, pants on, boots back on.
It seemed to take forever.