We had begun building a dungeon in the basement of our 1740s townhouse, had used it a few times, and were acquiring a decent collection of toys and equipment. My boyfriend/partner/lover/husband (I'm never sure which term to use) and I were drawn together in part because of our sexual preferences and predilections; finally I'd found someone who was comfortable walking around in his "kinky boots," someone who was comfortable sexually and shared my interest in bdsm. The whole "alternative community" had thrilled me for many years, although previous partners were, for the most part, uncomfortable with it. Although we agreed up to this point to maintain an exclusive, monogamous relationship with each other, it was clear pretty early on that that commitment would be tested as we began to explore our kinky sides together.
We'd been going to the leather bars, sometimes alone and sometimes together, and we'd both attracted the attention of other men -- TEMPTATION! It was exciting being noticed and the flirting whipped up our hormones. We'd both begun to spend more and more time and energy cruising and flirting in online gay chat rooms, something harmless enough, to be sure.
My lack of experience and insecurity over my technical skills (as opposed to what I perceived as my boyfriend's expertise) made it uncomfortable for me to contribute much about the sorts of 'scenes" I was interested in exploring -- and it wasn't for want of him asking me, either, I have to admit. Admittedly, I would have preferred at that point in time that my boyfriend take the reins entirely and simply submerge me in the possibilities of bdsm, something that, looking back, was unfair and interest-deadening for him. At any rate, there was a period of frustration that we both felt: me wanting more kink, he wanting more input and involvement.
It was a Friday night, in the midst of this mutual frustration, and my boyfriend was working nights at Jefferson ER. Although I knew my partner was fine with me going out alone to the local leather bar I still found it an exciting, almost forbidden, pleasure going there alone, knowing that the attention would be less curtailed than it is when you're there with another person, even just another friend. The lust of the hunt! the instinctual craving for sex, the thirst for more, the taste for variety, even though I wasn't at a place where I could admit that to myself without feeling guilty, I knew what I wanted, and it was in the Pit Stop (basement) of the local gay leather bar known as "The Bike Stop."
The Bike Stop is a four-level leather bar tucked discreetly away down a side street in Philadelphia's "gayborhood" district. Close to the other bars, close to the gay shopping district, close to a decent residential area, close to the gay baths. As bars go, it's nothing special, really. Each floor has a different "theme" of feel. The top floor has a bar and a rarely-used danced floor that plays boppy gay disco music and has a lonesome looking bar that few people bother with. The third floor is the "sports bar" replete with pool table, and large-screen television flanking a large horseshoe shaped bar. Unpretentious (and FAR too brightly lit), the "Back Stop" is still a friendly place to talk and relax away from the more intense "meat hunting" in the lower two floors. The ground level floor has a long bar, plays rock music and is more of a hub and crossroad for people cruising from the basement (the "Pit Stop") and the upper floors. The Pit Stop, with its low ceilings and barely lit décor of black walls and sparse red light bulbs, is pure sexual energy. And don't wear any cologne, either, because they'll turn you back at the stairs. The drinks are poured particularly strong, the corners are completely dark and inviting, the toilet as a swinging door or it, and there's a small shop that sells bsdm equipment (and will do demonstrations for you if you hold your head just right when you ask!). The Pit Stop is my kind of bar!
My outfit is simple -- wear as little as legally possible! Practicality has its place, and boots do keep you from getting splinters, so I decided to wear my black Boulet cowboy boots, which look so nice with my snug leather pants. My 2" ball stretcher casts a great profile through my leather pants so they were on the menu tonight, too. I took a leather jacket but with the intention of ditching it at the coat check as soon as I got there -- and taking it off in the bar is part of the fun, too! A red handkerchief in the rear right pocket sends just the right message, and I'm off with cash and driver's license tucked out of sight in the tiny "drugs pocket" of my leather pants.
I am bold today, and my weight is down to 152 pounds, so I feel comfortable with my flat hard tummy and firm pectorals being on display. I'm no gym bunny, but my body is smooth and hard, on the slender side but definitely not skinny. My disproportionately broad shoulders and long arms could use a little more meat on them, but even there I cast a nice profile in skin. I take a cab to the bar because it's already pressing midnight, and I know the place will be packed. I enter the bar, my favorite cowboy boots giving me a confidence in my stride as the heels thud noisily on the hardwood floors. I stand tall, pass the bouncer, and stride swiftly into the main floor bar thrusting my hips forward and squeezing my ass cheeks tight against my leather pants. I can feel my cock swell as my ball stretcher presses through the leather of my right leg.
New meat -- everyone turns to watch any newcomer, so I take advantage of the moment and smoothly slide my leather bike jacket off my oiled shoulders, swing it up and over my shoulder, and walk toward the coat check as I flinch my oiled pectorals. I glance around to see if anyone is watching, and smile flirtatiously at a few men who are staring intently at me. As I approach the coat check the attendant, a leather daddy in full garb, smiles, reaches out across the counter, and lands a firm slap on both pecks with his hands. "Very nice," he says, smiling confidently at me, "you work out. Good for you."
"Thanks," I say coyly, although I'm not going to be a dork and point out how much I hate gyms, how I have never sustained a workout regime for more than a week in my life. If he wants to think a bench press did this, so be it, it's not as though he likes me for my mind or the witty conversation, anyway. Details like that are lost in a place like this -- it doesn't matter why you look good as long as feel like you look good, it's a man's confidence that draws men in places like this like flies drawn to a burning torch.
Okay, time to go before he asks me how many reps I do and spoils the moment. I turn to the bar, leaning over a chair that is strategically in my way, so as to give the crowd behind me a good view, squeezing my ass gently to make sure the shine of my leather pants catches the light of the spot lights above, showing the curve of my butt. It works, in a few seconds a couple of passers-by slide their hands over my ass as they walk past. "Tall Tom Collins, please, easy on the ice," I ask the bartender, also known as "hit me hard with the hard stuff, would ya?" A smile and a wink on my part seals the deal -- I'm such a shameless flirt. However, the drink is now so strong I can barely manage to swallow without wincing at the biting sting of the alcohol. You have to love the American "free-pour" mentality when it comes to mixing cocktails.
Speaking of cocks, the place is full of them tonight, all ages, sizes, and tastes (pardon the pun). I make my way down the back stairs to the Pit Stop and lean back so as not to hit my head on the low ceiling of the bottom landing, making a deliberate thrust-and-twist to my hips as I spin on the heel of my boot and stride into the crowded room. It's way dark in here! and it's very hot! The humid aura of musty basement and sweaty men fills the space. Many men are wearing leather gear, and I can catch the occasional whiff of tanned leather. The sexual energy is intense, I can feel the eyes careening over me, and I lick my lips slowly, drawing heavily on the straw of my drink. I can feel my heart beating faster, and my nervousness increasing as I venture into this den of iniquity. "I know I'm going to be faithful to my man, I'm not going to do anything to hurt him tonight," I think to myself.
