Strip

Los Angeles, 2007. I looked this entry up because the organizer of this dance died recently. These parties were the best I have gone to in my life. Between his many accomplishments I wanted this one remembered too.

I have been to this dance party before. The organizer sends email to his list that it is coming, and you buy your ticket online with your member name. New people can only join the list if previous members allow them. It's all about keeping it down to the guys who will actually dance, and participate, and bring sex energy, instead of standing around waiting for what is supposed to happen. I had been to this party once before; it was a blast, but I wished there had been a space to consumate the contact I made on the dance floor. This time I was told there would be.

I drove up to what turned out to be a dungeon space that gets rented out, on a dark cul-de-sac surrounded by warehouse, somewhere in the northern part of this sprawling endless city. In fact, I had no real idea where it was until I saw a shirtless built fuck in leather pants walk from a car and turn a corner. I parked, walked where he had, saw a lit doorway, and went in. Checked in at the counter, checked my big pants. Just wearing really short cut-off black denim shorts, a tanktop, and zip-up riding boots that stretch all the way to my knees. Some Big bouncer-like dude makes a joke how they have complimentary body hair waxing inside, and I react stupidly hostile to it, and he feels bad and apologizes. It's just that I am insecure at the beginning, trying to psyche up. It's just I had spent way too much time deciding if I looked good enough instead of just saying fuck it. It gets in you.

Beause what to wear had been a stupid issue; when it was time to get dressed, right after dinner since this was an early dance, I realized I had sent off all my underwear to be laundered some hours ago. All of it. I do not have much, I am a freeballer, and what I have is really to keep the balls snug in the gym or a pair of boxers or boxerbriefs for show. Well, I had used it all up during my excursion to the leather fair and adjacent parties a few weeks ago. I don't really own leather, it ain't me. There was still some camo a friend in the service had broken in and then given to me, but not really what I wanted to dance in. Now what. I grabbed some black jeans cut-offs I had somewhere, but they were too dorky. I attacked them with scissors, curring them shorter, until my flaccid dick was just about to peek out. Better. Showed off a lot of big hairy leg. And I finally get to go to a public fuck place while having actual pockets to carry condoms. 

Through the door after check in is a large space, the size of a large living room, now set up as a dance floor, hot beefy DJ in a jock behind the table, spinning. behind him a hallway with playrooms off it: exam room, room of regal chairs, jail space, etc, a kitchen where tables had been set up to hand out drinks and lay out fruit, cookies, energy bars. Dance time. I walked on the floor and the organizer greets me, remembered me from last time, his partner does too, I bop with them to help get it started, say hi physically to chunk dance beat.

And this party worked. It worked for me. I saw some usual suspects, but it was the fun ones. We all danced, alone or body to body, chest to chest or crotch to ass, just two or whole chains. I never felt alone on that floor like I sometimes do out dancing in clubs; every time I thought it would be fun if something happened, a new friend or almost-stranger would ride his body up to me. The hardcore player who had actually brought a flogger and knives for play I bumped hard, bent him over while dancing, kissed him and bent him backwards till he gasped, bit his neck, ears, nips. The muscleguy I just dance from left to right, my chest to his back, my hands slapping his massive arms to the beat. The hot daddy I make out with and tell him I will fuck him like I did last time. The latin boy who was obsessed with me I push down so he can get to my dick under my shorts, and blow me hard, my fuckstick now thick and hard sticking out. My tanktop folded into my back pocket. The dancer dude on the little stage in the middle flirted with. Going from spot to spot to say hi to friends and acquaintances with my body, dancing big and wild. One crowd of 200 fuckfriends, hairy and built and smooth and leathered and ready.

Sure, there were some guys gawking, hanging out instead of jumping in, walking up and down the hallway pointing out sex instead of having it, and joining the sex in when they were buzzed enough to not care someone might watch. Me, I was in and out of the floor, the rooms, the kitchen. I'd grab a huge bunch of grapes and offer them to guys, holding it high with a smile, and many would be startled at the stranger going "Grape?" But the space we were in, the men chosen, led to almost all of them very quickly saying "Sure", and reaching up with their mouths, and we break the ice. I'd walk from group to group, fucking or chatting, offering a grape or my dick until all grapes were gone, and then back to the floor where I danced again.

I don't know if by then I was already only wearing boots. The gogo dancer guy, who had gone from hat, sunglasses, and codpiece, to tanktop hanging from his cockring, to now just hat, had bent over to me while I was on the floor dancing next to his little podium in the middle, and asked if at some point "those shorts were going to come off". I knew the organizer, already also naked, would love that, so I bit back all my self-doubt, all my worries about not measuring up in this body-fascist city, mustered all my courage about being me, worked through all the catty words I have ever heard or read about how the only guys in locker rooms being naked were the ones who had the least business being so, all in a split second, and just casually opened the top button, unzipped, and let them fall to the floor, stepped out, kicked them aside, and danced on.

This did require a change of dancing. Less hips. Too much flopping otherwise. No cockring to keep me hard, my uncut dick looked normal, small. And there I was, between the men I want to look hot, and buff, and desirable for. All I had now was confidence, or faking it. Big grin. No hiding. On a floor filled with leathermen in fitted chaps, harnesses, thongs, codpieces, chain-mail, roid muscles, I am a naked hairy hard-working hard-lifting but natural guy, grinning, getting into it, getting into the thumping beat, hands everywhere, stomping his boots, lasers dancing on his blond bodyfur. I remind myself I never got anything being on the sidelines but regret. No sidelines here.

So yeah, this is how I went on that night. I got my fucks in, two, good enough that a guy later almost drags me off to fuck someone else so he can watch, which I decline. Boots licked. Ass eaten out. Once during a standing fuck the latin boy comes by and I just order him once to get between my legs and lick my balls while I pound and he goes and stays there, and when I order him out of there because I need more room to fuck he thanks me for having let him. Later, while sucking my dick some other time, he cums. I don't shoot all night for some reason, but don't care.

And go back repeatedly to dance. The Big bouncer-like dude starts calling me "Wolverine!" from across the floor - I have been getting that more and more lately -- and sometimes comes over to dance with me, face to face, cradling my balls in both his hands. Friends and dancing men come up and dance close and then we split off to dance freely and then one or two jump me from behind and I realize my whole body might have just become a visual or tactile triptoy for someone on X. I feel like I have shed another skin, and feel first vulnerable, and then supremely grateful that this fraternity of thumping leathermen has taken me in this way, not just when they want my dick. I laugh, I cruise, I raise my arm when I see a guy, who has licked my armpits previously, on the other side of the floor, he comes over and I tell him I have a new coat of sweat, he licks them out both again under the colored lights, I get close to all my friends in new ways. Later, when the bright white lights come on and the clean-up starts, I will say goodbye to new friends, the organizer will tell me he loves what I bring to his space, the DJ will say he was very happy to see me happy every time I hit the floor, the Big dude will admire my dick and wish we could do more, I will put my pants on and drive home through the hot night.

And think about the last half hour, when the floor was thinning out, and I was still there, and saw two newcomers to the night, codpieces, chaps, huge chemmed pecs and shoulders, tans, together, one staring my way repeatedly and talking, but no happy grin, no appreciation, just that smooth big-city neutral look, but over and over my way. I don't know why I walked up to him, he is almost surprised when I am suddenly almost in his face.
"Yeah hi?"
-- "I saw you staring my way a lot, I wondered what was up." I now think I should have added "Do I have spinach stuck between my foreskin or something?" but I didn't.
"I was just saying it was nice to see someone hanging all out here."
-- "Oh hey thanks!" and I went back on the floor.
Later, in the hallway, he will tell me he wants to blow me but he's here with his boyfriend so he can't suck my dick, you know, but they just partied (code for 'took some meth') before they came here, and what's my manhunt name, so maybe we can get together, but that's just between us, ok? 

Seems like in between all the men fucking and dancing naked for hours, the universe sent me a sharp sign reminder of what actually is real sleaze.