I caught a cab at 1am by the Lower East Side. “I’m going to the Black Party in Brooklyn,” I told the driver. He shrugged his shoulders — he had no idea what I was talking about, and I was already drunk. “Sorry, it’s 1260 Atlantic Ave. It’s an old warehouse.” As we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, I wondered if he would be there — the person I was searching for who would give meaning to my life through sexual obedience. I knew that he was older, stronger, taller and fully in charge. I’d do anything he told me and I’d do it well. I needed this to be real.
It seemed like we were driving forever. The streets were vacant and unfamiliar. The deeper that we went into the suburbs, the more I felt like I was the only person left in the world. My life after DH had been an extraordinary journey that challenged the very essence of who I am — but it had also been very lonely. I couldn’t help but feel that when I finally meet him, this new and dominant man, he would tell me that I’m not alone anymore, that I’m his boy and it’ll be exactly what I was meant to be all this time. He’d show me how much he cares by placing me between his legs, holding me there and telling me that he’d never abandon me.
The driver finally let me out in front of the warehouse where the Black Party was being held. A long line up of men were waiting to get in; the techno beat from inside was pounding the façade of the building. When I got inside, I removed all my clothes at coat check — except for my white jockstrap and leather wrist restraints. I noticed that my jockstrap was inside out, with the tag hanging just above my crotch. I turned to the two guys behind me in line. “Do you think I can just reverse my jockstrap here?”
“Oh, for sure,” one of them said, so I stripped down naked in the line and fixed it.
The main room had massive ceilings with vinyl strips hanging down. There were 3,000 men scattered throughout, accessorized with leather gear and costumes. Anything and everything was available: daddies, twinks, circuit boys, bears and jocks. Some men looked kinky and some looked more vanilla. There were tall boys, short boys, muscular and stocky boys and everything in between. Though the theme of the party was “Mineshaft”, named after the infamous BDSM sex club, many guys were dressed in miner’s gear, taking the theme at face value. They smeared dirt on their chests and wore hard hats with built in headlamps.
Boris, the famous DJ from the Berghain in Berlin, was spinning in the main room, towering above the crowd in the booth — he was their god, spinning a techno soundtrack for the night. I danced close to him for a bit, drifting to the sound, lost in the sea of flesh and leather with my head above water.
After some dancing, I wandered around and found the play area in the back. In the darkness I could only see shadows of men clustered about. I was by a group of guys where one was bent over, naked, and two others were taking turns fucking him. Men kept pouring into the play space as though they were replicating, and the group got bigger and bigger until it turned into a full-blown orgy. I was tempted to participate, but I had yet to find my man — my purpose for the night. I couldn’t get sidetracked.
I went back to the main room and spent hours searching for him, using the vinyl, black strips hanging from the ceiling to orientate myself whenever I got lost. There was one guy that I found who fit the profile perfectly . . . had he not been so fucked up. He was drenched in sweat and his eyes were rolled back in his head as he chomped on a piece of gum.
After a few hours of searching with no luck, I was starting to come to terms with the reality that this man I was looking for doesn’t really exist. It was all just a cruel fiction. I would leave after I finished my last drink . . .