The East Bay Mind Fuck

San Francisco, 1997

Walking behind the guy I'd just met in the Powerhouse, I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, Joe. Just how hard up are you?" I preferred having sex in my own place, so I could kick the other guy(s) out afterwards and get some sleep. And here I'd just agreed to follow this dude all the fucking way to Berkeley. But he was handsome, furry, and muscular. You'd have gone to Berkeley for this guy too.

Fortunately, the ride over to the East Bay was quick. Somewhere that seemed more Emeryville than Berkeley, my "date" (let's call him Sam) slowed down in front of an rather impressive looking apartment building and with some waving, indicated that I was to find parking on the street. Sam drove into his building's garage and I began hunting for a space. And hunting. And hunting. A couple of times I thought I'd even lost where his building was. Several blocks away, I found a questionable parking space alongside a dumpster and decided to chance it.

When I walked up to Sam's building, he was standing inside the front vestibule, peering anxiously up the street. He pushed the door open for me and said, "I'm really sorry about the parking problem around here. You were taking so long, I was starting to think you'd changed your mind about me." He looked down and added, "Not that I'd blame you if you did."

That seemed a bit odd. He'd seemed so confident in the bar, almost cocky. Probably why I was attracted to him in the first place. We got into the elevator and Sam fumbled with his keys. He had the penthouse and needed a key to take the elevator to his floor. I made a mental note not to comment on how well off he must have been. The door opened directly into his place and we stepped out into one of the most spectacular apartments I'd ever been in. Floor to ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of downtown San Francisco and both bridges. The effect was stunning.

Equally stunning, however, was the decor. It was if a thrice-divorced woman had gone on a mad spree at Pier One or QVC with a stolen Mastercard. There was not a seating surface that had not been throw-pillowed, not a shelf or counter-top that had not been Hummeled into submission. I got the impression that the entire apartment had been arranged from the viewpoint of the elevator entrance, everything seemed to be angled towards making that first impression.

Sam said, "Why don't we sit on the couch and have a drink?" Again, he cast his eyes down. "I'll get you whatever you want. I have everything. You say it and I'll get it immediately." I started to get an idea where this visit was headed. I pushed a pile of beaded pillows off the sofa and sat down. "A beer is fine." Sam nodded, "Yes-" He seemed to cut himself off and scurried away.

Sam returned with a six pack and placed it on the coffee table, taking care to slide an Ikea catalog underneath. He handed me a beer, and again with that curious downward look, said, "I was thinking on the way over here that you were probably an OK guy, since you go to the Powerhouse. You have to be pretty open-minded to go to the Powerhouse."

I raised my eyebrows. "You do? I thought you just had to like beer and slutty men."

"Oh, I mean that...you know...Powerhouse being a leather bar and all, you wouldn't be there unless you were, um....open to stuff."

"Here it comes," I thought. What was it gonna be this time? Spanking? Bondage? I steeled myself to be non-reactive when he laid it on me. I smiled faintly. "And just what is it that you are hoping I'll be open to?"

Sam leaned forward and put his beer on a copy of Martha Steward Living. "Don't think I'm a freak or anything, but I'm really into.....being humiliated."

Fuck. I hate the mental kinks. The physical stuff is easy. Shackle this, electrify that. If I know how the gear works, I can go through the motions even though the thrill is pretty much one-sided. But the mental stuff, the mind fucks, the stuff where I have lines to say and have to act, that shit can be pretty tiresome at times. But not always. I'll be the first to say that on occasion I may have gotten a little too into the "Cruel Daddy Master" schtick. On the occasions when I could successfully stifle any giggling, that is.

So it was with utter nonchalance that I said, "Humiliated, how?"

I could see beads of sweat beginning to form on Sam's forehead. "Well, that's up to you. SIR. I'm just really into being in the presence of a superior man. You know, a superior man that isn't afraid to tell me how beneath him I am." I didn't say anything. Sam stole a glance at me and looked at the floor again and said softly, "But how you tell me, you know....that's up to you...Sir."

Jesus. I had to act and I had to improvise? Trying to buy some time, I made a weak, terrible joke, something that I'd heard a stand-up comic say. "You want humiliation? How 'bout we start with this fucking wicker sofa?"

Sam's eyes flew wide open and a fearful look spread over his face. "I know. It's a terrible sofa. I'm lucky to have a superior man like you sitting on it." He fell to his knees in front of me and looked up, his face now completely wet, flushed with eagerness and excitement. "What else?" he pleaded.

I pointed at an armoire. "And what the fuck have you got over there? The entire fucking Franklin Mint? What are you, a man or some pussy housewife?"

Sam rubbed his crotch and reached out for mine. "Yes sir. I know. It's terrible."

Emboldened by his touch and caught up in his excitement, I almost shouted, "Did you macrame' those plant holders yourself, you bitch?"

Sam pulled his cock out and began jacking it furiously while undoing my belt with his other hand. "My....mother did. But...I....helped her!"

I sat back to allow Sam to get my pants open, foolishly hoping that once the actual sex started, I could ease off on the "humiliation". Sam pulled my cock out and started sucking it, but stopped just long enough to hiss, "What else?"

My eyes darted around the room. "Oh, um....um...I would definitely have gone in another direction with that window treatment." Apparently, that wasn't harsh enough because the fervor in Sam's sucking eased off. He waited. I knew he wanted more but for the life of me, I couldn't find a new target for decor derision. I turned around a little bit but I couldn't see into the bedroom.

"What else?" Sam whispered insistently, his mouth still on my cock. I could see his own cock beginning to deflate. I was blowing the scene as badly as he was blowing me. I whipped my head around, looking for something, anything to ridicule. In desperation, I was about to return to the topic of the wicker furniture when Sam decided to help me.

"The ahdwuk!" he mumbled, then pulled his mouth off my cock and repeated. "What about my artwork!"

Bingo. He had a chrome-framed Nagel. I went to town. And so did Sam. Twenty minutes later I was paying my toll, westbound on the Bay Bridge.