We grabbed some drinks and wandered into the backroom of New Action where tens of men were sitting around in full uniforms under the dimmed lights and smoke. If there had been any doubts as to whether some of the men in uniforms were masters or not, it was clearer back there. One of them had his slave’s head resting under his boot as he slowly rolled his heel on his skull and puffed on his cigar. I saw another master with his slave in a jockstrap, contently worshipping at his feet. Something about the slave’s gaze resonated with me.
The energy was primal. The men were doing more than just cruising — they were hunting mindlessly, thirsty animals using instincts alone. I wondered whether they used the leather uniforms like masks, allowing them to escape who they were in the outside world. More and more of these men filled the back room until there was nowhere left to stand. They outnumbered the slaves.. With my shirt off I felt vulnerable in contrast to their layers of leather. In my nakedness I felt like prey in this strange playhouse.
“I’m going to wander,” I told my friends, needing to escape.
I drifted even further back in the bar to a darkroom, to the belly of the beast. It’s where this collective fantasy was conceived with explicit scenes: I could hear excessive cries, cocks were out, skin whacked, cigars smoked, and slaves being used between two or three masters at once. These slaves were restricted to the floor where they belonged and surely longed to be. I smiled and reminisced.
This darkroom was home to the final stage of the hunt: the feeding grounds, where one can finally lose control and eat. It was so untamed; it made me delirious. My body was reminding me that I wanted to be handled in this way, but I also felt shame because I’d forgotten that it’s who I am deep down. In a lot of ways I’d given up on all of these things after DH because I just didn’t think that I would find them again.
For some, sex is just sex, a method to get your rocks off, but the relationship that exists between a Master and slave is unique. It’s about control, obedience, acceptance, trust and most importantly, unconditional love. This is what was missing in my life: to be in someone’s control like that, someone that I could respect.
I love Ernan and the affection that we shared, but that was different and very separate from this.
I went to the bathroom and found two half-naked men standing at the steel trough stroking one another and biting each other’s lips. One whispered something to the other, shoved him into a bathroom stall and locked the door. I could hear the sucking and slapping through the door along with what I presumed to be dirty talk in German.
As I took a piss I thought how the energy was even in the bathroom — you couldn’t hide from it, not at New Action. It was everywhere, infectious and making me feel far more dizzy and drunk than I actually was.
When we’d first arrived at New Action, I had criticized the dress code, but I was quickly learning that in Berlin, BDSM isn’t some weekend hobby. It was a way of life and nurtured with strict codes. That’s part of what makes Berlin the city it is.
The uniforms and gear were more than just costumes. They were a collaborative effort to create this staged fantasy, to ignite the subconscious and help us feel who we are.
I stayed at New Action until 5am, dazed by the desires flooding in. Since I hadn’t found what I’d been looking for — a proper master with a level temperament to show me the meaning of everything through sex — I had concluded that maybe it was unrealistic to find, or perhaps it doesn’t exist at all. I had soon forgot about it all: my wants and needs. But now suddenly here it was, staring me in the face, and all those old feelings rushed right back in. So the real question is: what am I going to do about it?