There was an older Brazilian man next to me in a jockstrap who was sniffing poppers. “Want some?” he asked. I wasn’t sure what the rules were about taking poppers from strangers but I hadn’t had them in some time. “Sure,” I said. He held the bottle up to my left nostril and I inhaled. The whole room got lighter. In my haze he went on to tell me his life story, which I partially listened to with my newly acquired high. He’d been in Canada for four years — that I got — and he loved Toronto. Something about the snow. I stopped him. “You like the snow? Are you crazy?” He started playing with my nipples and asked if I’d like to fist him. He wasn’t exactly my type, so I declined but he continued to play with my nipples. It felt nice.
That night, whenever a sling opened up another person would quickly jump in so that they too could indulge. One guy told me that since him and his boyfriend had broken up, he hadn’t been fisted once. That was months ago. He was next; you could see it in his smile. Another man confessed that he hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours because he knew he was going to be fisted publicly. “That’s dedication,” I said.
“Better to be safe then sorry.”
Where would these people go now?
I had decided to venture back downstairs and found a man in a leather vest skillfully fisting two men at once: one was in a sling with his legs up and the other bent over by his side. The smell was much stronger down here, so much so that I had to hold my breath, which made me feel like a bit of a prude. I wondered whether the odor had something to do with the sex itself. I imagined that all the fasting and douching couldn’t prevent some mistakes from time to time, and how could they not be invited when you’re in so deep? I didn’t like the idea of people smelling or touching my shit. That level of intimacy frightened me, somebody getting that close. Perhaps I just haven’t met the right person.
I continued toward the coolers, which were set up by the washrooms and unattended. They were filled with water bottles and alcoholic beverages. People were helping themselves, so I took that as an invitation to treat it like an open bar, grabbing one beer, downing it then having another. As I hung out by the coolers, I noticed some guys sitting in a side room, laughing and drinking. They welcomed me when I walked in and they introduced themselves: a very friendly lot. One of them was the promoter of the night. He asked whether I was having a good time. “It’s a lovely party,” I said. “I can’t believe there’s an open bar.”
We proceeded to have the most unabashed conversations about Canadian politics and social divides amongst people. We debated and challenged notions of religion, nationalism and Dom/sub relations. Everybody listened to the other respectfully and each person had something intelligent to say. It was a very cathartic to connect with these people on an intellectual level.
The clenched fist is the symbol of solidarity and support, expressing unity, defiance and strength. You could sense that in the room. There was this feeling of camaraderie because everybody was there for the same reason. The act of fisting is something that the majority of people don’t understand or even want to understand. The people at the Attic not only understood it, they experienced it, embraced it and loved it. Perhaps that’s why we could talk about such controversial subjects in a sexual setting, because they’re strong enough to explore anything. Even within our own community, fisting is treated as a joke, like you’re some loose pervert for enjoying it. Hell, I used to judge it, and am only now starting to understand the significance of this sexual act.
Now that the Attic has closed, I wonder whether Toronto will get another venue like it. People say that places like this are dying because of Recon, Scruff and Grindr, but you really can’t get an experience like this online. I sure hope we get another Attic.