There is a man who I play with who I can only characterize as a drug. We play together because we know that we'll go to someplace that no substance, legal or otherwise, can take us. When I let my singletail fly towards his back, it is as if our endorphins literally fly out of our body, aided by copious amounts of sweat and blood, up to the sky and fuck above us, leaking ecstatic bliss over the both of our bodies. Our scenes have been described by others as many things - a spectacle, a reckoning, a bloodletting. We call it sex. Pure, unadulterated, let's just move right past our cocks to the brass tacks sex.
The first time we played together was when he was visiting NYC with his husband. We got to talking about play, and what kinds of things we did. He looked me dead in the eyes, and told me that he was interested in bottoming to my singletail. He then went on to inform me that there have been only three men up to that point that he allowed to whip him. And that now, there would be a fourth. When he listed out the names, it was as if my entire being had stopped living for a second. These were names that I highly looked up to, who's skills were downright legendary. PF. FK. JG. (Names reduced to initials to protect the amazing.) Men who's skills with a whip were known nationwide, if not internationally.
I did not, and do not, belong in the company of these men. No amount of urging, insisting, or threatening of physical violence onto my person will ever convince me of this. I can count on at least a half dozen hands how many people I consider to be more skilled with a whip than I.
This was the biggest honor ever given to me as a top. Hands down.
After these words from my friend, I gulped. But I was able to swallow my fear, regain a sliver of confidence, and we went to work. In the "wooden" room at Paddles, without any fancy equipment, just a shirtless man against a wall, and a shirtless man behind him holding a singletail. It was humid in the club that evening, and before long, sweat was pouring down our bodies. Singletail kisses turned to lashes, welts turned to spotting, spotting turned to bloodletting. With every crack of the whip, a mist of sweat and blood would rise from his back. It was beautiful. It was gorgeous. It was heaven.
And we were higher than any heroin user could ever make claim to.
We played again at Inferno. This time with a much smaller audience. Just he and I and our natural drugs bouncing off the walls. More heaven.
When we saw each other in the lobby at MAL, I think we both knew before our mouths could open. Mutual hellos, and then straight to the point. "Play date?" "Uh-huh!!!" "Great!" *kiss*
Simple as that.
He was to be my third and last scene at the club that Saturday night.
When it was our turn to dance, we talked a little.
"So what are we doing?"
"I don't know, how hungry are you?"
"I'm warmed up and ready to go."
"Then let's go."
We both knew what we wanted. We wanted blood. We wanted pain. We wanted to get high.
The scene started with a loud piercing crack of the whip. It never lowered in intensity from there. Once again, two shirtless men, one writhing, one with a whip in constant motion, dancing behind him. It took five minutes to see the first burst of red liquid launch from his back. That was just an appetizer, though. Not a destination. Only briefly pausing to laugh and make out hungrily, we went on. Crack after crack, the lash ripped open his back. The intensity and passion we shared sending us through the roof. Rapid fire cracks, 2 in a row, 3 in a row, light kisses followed by lashes that dug deep into our souls.
Some say it is impossible to recreate a magical moment. That to purposely strive for it, to dedicate ourselves to the task, would guarantee its failure.
To be continued.