“Bend over a bit more . . . Yeah that’s it. You like this? My buddy is gonna join us now. That OK?”
Therein starts the threeway, and there I stand. My jaw drops as two six-foot-tall, three-foot-wide daddies in jeans and big black boots both thrust their way into the inviting back end of their third. This all takes place in the corner of a dimly lit room, deep inside the sweaty sex-maze that is The Black Party, America’s largest fetish bash.
The bottom remains bent over after the daddies leave, while an endless queue of guys hungrily line up to fuck him. Sometimes raw, sometimes protected; always with permission.
I experienced the final Black Party at the Roseland Ballroom in 2014. The floors, hallways, rooms, corners, stages and surfaces will never be replicated, as the theatre was a majestic and haunting place. The ballroom is now a pile of rubble, and this year, the party moves to a 3,500-person-capacity warehouse in Brooklyn, where even more sinning will take place.
Regardless of the venue, it’s the hedonism within that really matters. Entering the Black Party is like walking into the pits of hell (if you’re like me, hell is a massive cave filled with the hottest men, sucking, fucking and dancing everywhere possible. Guys are hanging from the scalding hot ceilings, dark house music is pumping from the speakers and Satan himself presides over the entire place . . . panting and laughing at all the PG stuff happening in heaven).
The Black Party is so hot, the walls sweat. That’s not an exaggeration. Walking through the event, the spaces are so incredibly packed with shirtless, horny men, every body glistens and every surface is moist. There are so many men packed into one hallway that I hang onto a ceiling pipe so as to not be slowly trampled by the throbbing sex mob. Eventually I’m taken away in a current of men — the smell of sex everywhere — and land in a side room with a DJ, a couch and what could be a record-breaking number of simultaneous blowjobs.
Venturing out into another room, I end up in pitch darkness. I lean on a table for a minute to get my footing, and take a moment to listen to the moans and groans. Someone starts grinding on my crotch, and I don’t stop them. Slowly, I realize he isn’t grinding, but is using me to lean on as he fucks another guy. I am no one’s lamppost! I crawl out of there into the main area.
Main areas of the party are focused around the pulsating dancefloor. Thousands of men, high as kites, dance back and forth to deep, dark house. There are extravagant shows, dancers and, of course, sex fetish demonstrations.
Not in the mood to dance, I walk around the various floors and sex stations, one of which features Boomer Banks fucking five guys on a couch. When he finally comes, the small gathered crowd lets go of their hard-ons and claps.
I’m mostly recounting the full-out sex elements of the event, but one can go and have several different experiences. Being a voyeur is easy. Going to dance and having a crazy , drug-fuelled circuit night is also possible. Hanging around the Rent Boy tent until one of your favourite porn stars or escorts is free is also a popular spot. There’s a sex toy and education market. Hell, even the washrooms are mini-sex clubs within themselves. Attendants will loudly rush people out, but just standing at the open urinals pissing while facing another guy is entertaining.
The night ebbs and flows all night and well into the next morning around 11am. There is no time inside the Black Party, so it’s easy to get stuck in there for seven or eight hours, watching or participating as much as you want.
Beyond all the fucking and flashing lights is a feeling of freedom and uninhibited fun. There are no phones or cameras allowed in the venue, and everyone is inside to have a good time. They’re all looking to grab or be grabbed; it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one goes home disappointed.
See you in hell!