While walking along Church Street, I was disappointed to discover that the Attic had closed down. It had been a private sex club that hosted many kinky nights for all flavours on a weekly basis — it was a very special place, and I couldn’t believe that we’d lost yet another great venue in Toronto.
I’ll never forget the first time I visited the Attic; it was a fisting party called Red Hank Reverence. I remember that there was a “private party” sign outside of the club as I approached, but I ignored it and went upstairs into the darkness. The space was unique in that it felt like it could’ve been someone’s home — and back in the day I suppose it was, as it was located in one of the old Victorian row homes on Church Street, south of Maitland. I could hear moaning coming from beyond the walls as I made my way to the top of the stairs. There was a man sitting behind a lattice giving the impression of a makeshift confessional booth.
“This is a private party,” the man said.
“It’s a fisting party,” he explained.
“Do you want to come in?”
He seemed surprised. “It’s $25. That includes a drink.”
He let me in and handed me a key to a locker. “They’re upstairs. You can take everything off except your shoes. Those have to stay on.”
By the entrance, a group of men huddled around a sling. As I passed by I could see a guy sitting back in it, with his legs up in the air and the arm of another man thrusting it in and out of his hole. I didn’t think you could fist someone that fast — it was almost like he was punching his asshole. The guys around them were eagerly egging on the pair. I wondered who they were, if they knew each other and whether there was a fisting community. What would happen to this community after the Attic closed? I didn’t know of any other parties in the city that were dedicated to fisting.
It is sad to think that the Attic is no more.
Up on the next level where the lockers were, most of the men I saw were wearing jockstraps, socializing and drinking. Had it not been for the fisting, you’d might think it was a house party.
I found my locker and stripped down to my Joe Boxers. I wished I had worn a jockstrap too — I stood out uncomfortably in my ordinary looking underwear. As I locked up my clothes, I could feel a thin film of Crisco on the outside of the locker. In fact, everything I touched felt a little greasy.
There was a room by the lockers with three slings. Each one was occupied by a man being fisted, creating a sea of groans, while others huddled around them and patiently waited for their turn. As I wandered about the space, I found a few other slings hidden away on the top floor, which were also occupied with men clustered around them. No matter where you turned, there were legs up in the air, slings suspended from the ceiling and a mild rectal smell.
There was this one man who was being fisted that caught my attention. He seemed captivated by the act, was drenched in sweat, and he was flexing his entire body, like he had achieved “level two.” Some naive and ignorant people might think that BDSM is about searching for a new high, but I was learning that sex was like any exercise, in that you can excel when you push your body to its limits. That’s how you transcend conventional sexuality, in my opinion. The man on the sling had put his life in the hands of his partner (literally), who was sliding his fist in and out, in and out, in and out. His anus was expanding with each plunge until it was completely elastic. Fluids spewed out of his hole and onto the floor . . .