This past Friday I went to a sex club. I had to make an account on some website so I could RSVP to the event; it was Gateway Night (read as “for the new/shy people”). I didn’t want to go to this place by myself, so I emailed the DM’s (I don’t know what it stands for; I just say it means “dungeon master”) asking if I could take Derek as my plus one. Score.
We drove to Charles Village and parked outside of a huge yellow warehouse. I wasn’t sure if the address was correct because it looked like a building you’d find in an industrial district. We saw a large, bald man wearing a leather studded vest step outside the metal door, flick on a green light, and tape a piece of cardboard to the wall that had “CCPS” on it. “Yo. This is it.”
I was expecting to see some crazy shit as soon as I walked in but was instead greeted by an Asian man in a frilly pink top. Mental note: if the person is dressed like a girl, address the individual as “ma’am/she/her”… even if she has a beard.
We paid our cover fees and had to sign these contracts stating the rules of the house. Some that stuck out were “no water sports,” “the safe word is ‘Red,'” “no animals,” “needle/blood/knife play only allowed in the medical area.” The list went on. Most of it was pretty common sense. Then we donned our wrist bands. There were three colors: red, green, and yellow. Red meant you didn’t want photos taken of you, green meant you didn’t mind being photographed, and yellow meant you were okay with strangers approaching you. Derek and I picked the red and yellow bands. If I’m gonna play with the kinks, I don’t want photographic evidence.
They ushered us through the “grey door.” Inside the next room was a large storage space where I saw two girls placing harnesses and other leather strappy things on a shelf. There was a waxed, fat man wearing a skirt directing people where to place their bags and clothes, if they so desired. I had no intention of letting Derek see me without my clothes, so I walked through the storage space into the next room. There was a lady wearing a blue dress in matching high heels explaining the rules of the house and what could be expected at the event. I’ll skip what she said and get to the good parts.
Since it was a beginners’ night, the owners and very active members of the club had set up stations all around the warehouse: ropes, hot wax, needle play, flogging, and electricity.
I was most interested in ropes since I want to be a master of naughty knots, but before the man and his assistant set up, I walked up to a girl with a yellow band. She was very cordial and shook my hand.
Me: Woah, you have small hands like mine.
Girl: Yeah, I guess. You should meet my friend who has even smaller hands!
A petite Asian woman walked around me and reached out for my hand. I shook it… and then she said, “Tiny hands can be playful.” She then pulled all of her fingertips together, bent her wrist as if she were inserting her fingers into an asshole or vagina, and then wiggled her fingers. You’re in the jungle now, Jess.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rope master make the first few knots on his assistant – and wife. It was mesmerizing to watch him work. I forgot there was anything sexual about what he was doing until he had suspended her from a metal ring hanging from the ceiling and then caressed her breasts and thighs, for everyone to see.
A small crowd has amassed around the bondage area, so I decided to try the hot wax station. I learned that lighter colored waxes didn’t burn as hot and parafin wax+cotton wick candles were probably the safest to use. The lady then asked if she could touch my arm and put a few drops on me. I said yes. I thought she was going to just grab my wrist and hold my arm while she dumped boiling wax on my skin. Instead, she traced her fingernails up and down my inner arm, dripped some wax on me, and then blew on my skin. I’m gonna be honest, it was mildly arousing. She asked if I wanted to try it again, only this time lowering the candle closer to my arm. I said yes. Again, she lightly scratched my skin, poured some slightly-hotter wax, and then bent at the waist so her mouth was centimeters from where the wax had fallen on my arm to blow away the sting.
All while this was happening, Derek was in the medical area trying out needle play. I saw a topless woman with large breasts cleaning off Derek’s chest with antiseptic spray and sticking a sharp straight through some skin the needle expert had pinched together into a mound of flesh. As a type 1 diabetic, I’ve had my fair share of needles and skipped this attraction.
I walked away from the hot wax and took in the rest of the warehouse. There were a number of “breeding benches” set up on carpeted areas, a few dog cages with water bowls in them (I didn’t see anyone in them the entire night), two horizontal bamboo poles for tying people up to, about four St. Andrews Crosses, one run-of-the-mill sex swing, another swing with a mirror hanging above it, nearly ten metal rings for rope play, a stripper pole, a wrestling mat area that had the letters “YMCA” painted on them, and a large stage for very public “scenes.”
I’ll be honest, I’d always wanted to be flogged just to see what it’s like. I went to the whipping master and expressed my interest with earnest haste because I didn’t want Derek to be around when this happened (he was across the room watching the rope master do more intricate knots). The whipping master picked out a flogger that had thin, leather strips and told me to post myself on the St. Andrews Cross. I stood in front of the large wooden X, extending my hands and feet out to its points. He gently ran his hand down my right ribs and hip a few times and asked me if I was ready. “Ye-” Before I could get my damned words out that mother fucker had whacked me with a flogger. I felt a jolt go through my entire body. I wanted to pee my pants. His hand was at my side again. “That was a little harder than I had intended.”
“Whatever…. Do it again.”
I think the dude got a good ten hits on me before he stopped. He gently rubbed my side and explained that while some can find pain pleasurable, aftercare is also important. I assume aftercare is the snuggly-wuggly “I’m sorry I just whooped the tar outta your ass” part of the encounter, or in this case, the gentle massage he was giving my hip and ribs. Much obliged, Whipping Master.
I made my way back to the rope area . Derek was engaging the guru with multiple questions asking about techniques and knots while I chatted with his partner about how to tell if a Dom knew his shit about ropes. Rope play can get a bit dangerous if the person doing the tying doesn’t know what he/she is doing. Nerves and blood vessels can be pinched leaving the tied-up with temporary to permanent damage.
The Partner: You have fair skin. Do you bruise easily?
The Partner: Me too. If your Dom lends you out to one of his friends and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he can leave a mark with the rope, that includes rope burn. Some Doms don’t like their pets or property returned with marks.
She then lifted her skirt to show a rope burn around her upper thigh. “That was from a few months ago.”
While I finished chatting with her, I saw… pulsating movement to my left. A man who looked like the Lucky Charms dude had a 14 year old-looking girl on her knees in front of him. Her face was enveloped in some sort of mask that had straps attached to either side of her head. Lucky was holding said straps and face fucking the shit out of her. Sublime’s “I’ve Seen Better Days” started to play in my head as I spun on my heel and made my way to the electricity station.
The lady who had given the opening brief held in her hands something called The Violet Wand… and man did I like that wand. She let me play with the charges on my fingertips for a few seconds before she asked, “May I touch your back?” I nodded, and she began to run the wand along the backs of my ribs. I can’t quite describe the sensation with words. I just know it was pleasant… at least for me. Derek hated that shit.
The night went on with demonstrations and tutorials until about 2300… and then people REALLY started to get into it. The lights dimmed and light clubbing music started to pound throughout the warehouse. Lucky Charms led a completely naked, small-breasted, waxed/shaved Lolita to the wrestling mats with a ball gag in her mouth. A man took off his wife’s/girlfriend’s clothes, strung her up and started to flog and fingerbang her. A ginormous whale of a woman waddled up to a massage table where a man and another woman started to massage her cottage cheese-resembling fat. I was taking it all in until I had the sudden urge to pee. I blame it on the electricity. Outside of the bathroom was a large leather throne. Seated on top was a biker-looking dude with a woman kissing his shoes. I quickly walked by that scene (BECAUSE I HATE FEET) and found myself face-to-face with a curtain that had the sign “What Happens in the Glory Hole Stays in the Glory Hole.” I wanted to take a peek behind the curtain, but the moaning obviously implied it was in use. I spun around and walked into the gender neutral bathroom. The place had nice toilet paper.
I drank some water at the “dry bar” (no alcohol or other mind altering substance is allowed in the establishment and none can be taken before entering) and ate some complementary chips while the bartender told me of her Femme Dom tendencies. I would NOT fuck with a woman who looked like that. She sweated power and her voice boomed with a shackled fury. If she told me to kiss her shoes, I probably would.
Since Alex finishes work and comes to visit after his late night shifts, Derek and I decided to beat feet around 2345. Derek bought some rope while the knife salesman showed me how throwing knives had dull edges by sliding it up and down my arm… but sharp points. He dug the tip into my flesh. I thought it would draw blood, but he left no marks.
We walked back to Derek’s yellow Veloster. It was a good night of kink. I’d go again.
In the meanwhile, I have a couple “business cards” for munches I’ve been invited to.
Still got it, AND the kinks like me.