Above: More amazing backroom photography by French photographer Vincent Couderc can be seen here.
I left at four in the morning to drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco.
The mountains outside L.A. look blue in the early morning. Beyond them is the long, flat stretch of I-5, coastal highways and fields of lemon trees. When I finally rounded a corner and saw Castro Street sloping before me, the red letters of Castro Theater blinking in the distance, I almost cried.
Few people know this, but I lived, briefly, in San Francisco. Driving in, I passed my old tanning salon on Market Street. I parked and took Muni downtown. I walked past the shopping mall where I used to visit a bathroom on the second floor to get random dick.
When you go to Folsom, you’re getting in trouble. I knew it as I dropped my stuff on the floor of my friend’s spare room, as I unpacked my harnesses and jocks. It’s the same dream that draws men from all over the world to this overpriced, fabled little city.
On Friday night, I went to the Recon party, Full Fetish. At midnight, the dance floor was dead. I walked from room to room in assless neoprene shorts. There were a few guys dancing under the strobe lights, a few blowjobs happening on the lounge chairs, and a few guys hanging out near the bathrooms, but for the most part the party was deserted.
Then I found the entrance to the backroom.
All partygoers were in there. Hundreds of them, milling through a sex maze composed of tarpaulin and metal fencing. Guys were fucking, fisting, and sucking each other in the dark.
I walked all the way through, checking people out. Near the end of the maze, I saw a poor guy getting pounded over a fuck table. The top was incredible, moving rhythmically and gently, then jack-hammering hard. The bottom was really struggling to take it, and after a few minutes had to pull off. When he did, I saw the top’s dick was huge. I was standing there staring at it and didn’t realize he was looking at me. He was wearing a harness and leather biker cap. In the dim light, I could make out a faint, almost embarrassed smile on his face. I smiled back. And then I walked on.
I fingered (and very nearly fisted) a furry muscle guy in a sling who wanted me to go home with him. I said no. Two hot guys kept taking turns eating my ass. As the hours clicked by, the drugs were wearing off and people were coming down, and the backroom was slowly emptying out. I was getting restless. And then, thirty minutes till closing, I saw him, the amazing top, standing in a corner. He nodded at a fuck bench and I bent over.
What followed was a night so amazing that I’m classifying it into one of the few things I want to keep to myself. From three until eight in the morning, we took fucking to the next level. I took dick, toys, and his hand like a god.
Those long, dark hours of pounding (I was blindfolded too) were broken up by occasional cock and ball torture with his breath in my ear, giving me instructions: “Stay down.” “Good boy.”
I was sore for the remainder of the trip, which didn’t stop me from having fun the following days but definitely tempered it. The Folsom Street Fair came almost as an afterthought. By the time I walked through the nearly half million fair attendees, wagging my tail, I was exhausted. That night, when every leatherman in San Francisco was partying hard at Real Bad or one of the leather bars in SoMa, I was curled up on a sofa, two blocks from the Castro Theater, fast asleep.
I’ve gotten ample slut-shaming and backlash from all my talk about fucking by people who would have us pretend that we aren’t sexual creatures. This post is for them. When I have sex, I get fucked hard. That’s part of me, no better or worse than the rest. You can be a stable, healthy, well-rounded person and still love getting your ass wrecked by anonymous strangers. Sexuality isn’t depravity. It’s human.
Happy Folsom, fuckers!