Perverts

OK. How about a second effort at constellation in the wake of Berlin. Because really, I've only talked about the end of the first night out. And I have lots more to say. The stars were out and I really should remember how exactly they were arranged from the particular perspective of last weekend.

So we had our pills in hand as we walked into the "Perverts" party. We almost didn't go. Because last year, we were a little disappointed. But we were so filled with expectation, and I was so excited about being able to dance and fuck and fuck some more and then dance again that we decided we might as well leap right in. We had a little warm-up. Drink at Mario's. Where BLUF (Breeches and Leather Uniform Fanclub) has an annual get together. For Muir caps and cruising and beers and breeches ("a pair of trousers worn inside tall boots and with balloons on the side" dixit the BLUF website). And some sex in the backroom. This is not T's thing. Sex in backrooms yes. But not in aforementioned attire. It is mine. I was wearing my first pair. Of trousers that fit that definition. In high boots. T not into it. I knowing there to be with T. So a few beers. Marginal cruising. A couple of possibilities. Perverts? U-Bahn to Perverts.

Berlin has more space than it knows what to do with. Sometimes they get a little over ambitious. Like at Perverts, you walked in, coat check on your left, dance floor through a small door on your right. Dancey dancey dancey bounce across the dance floor and then there was a chill-out space before you got to a really long bar that was across from an even longer couch along the wall facing it. That's where T and D and V and I ended up sitting alongside one another at the end of the night. But we had to get through the night first. Which involved, first of all, negotiating the rest of the space. We got there early, so that's just what we did . Just before the beginning of the bar, there was a door that led to a stairway that led into a darkish basement playspace. Cold! at the beginning of the night. Just after the bar there was an ersatz wall that bound a little room with a cross in the middle of it, and just beyond that little room there was a kind of big platform where you could sit in or stand around one of, ummm, five or so slings. Just across from the little room, there was another bar, fairly spacious, that led to the space that was too much. Because it was really fucking freezing. There was a little heater in it. And there was a fairly constant cluster of people around that heater. Because, like I said, it was fucking freezing. And after your pit-stop at the heater you could go all the way to the space that really was too much and jiggle your butt with all of a maximum, at any time of the night, of maybe 8 people on a dance floor that had some great video going on on the walls around it. And the music was actually better, I thought, than the music on the main dance floor where there were actually quite a few people. So, like I said, those Berliners sometimes have more space than they knew what to do with.

The start of the night involved several chats. I think the first was with a guy we see around a lot in Paris and sometimes play with. His boyfriend lives in Geneva. And they were both there. I think they're the ones we evaluated the space with first. It also involved a chat with a very high and cute California sex-buddy of T's. It was funny, because before we left, I had written an email to T saying, "Is J going to be there? Maybe you should write him?" I think I actually blogged about or wrote you about sitting across the bar from T and J last year while they made out. And smiling. J's the one who sold T his chaps. And then invited him over to his place for fucking. And they've kept in touch. I've never really hung out much with J. He'd always been T's thing. Though related to me because a good friend of my sex-buddy R in SF. With whom T actually has quite a bit of static. Anyway, J was there with his crew. (And that's actually an issue: all these boys who have crews. T and I have each other and several sets of dispersed and very strong friendships. No crew. That's not all bad. But sometimes it feels like it'd be nice to have a crew. Or a kind of family). We chatted with J and his crew. Ran into them a little later on. At the bar on the way to the too cold space. Probably evaluated space with them, too. And then at some point we ran into J all alone sans his crew. And the three of us made out a little bit. J stroked T's hairy chest. "I love this chest!" he said. Before breaking away saying he had 30 or 40 German cocks to suck. I have every confidence he found them.

There was also a moment worth setting on the map of the constellation in the cold dark basement playspace. Darkness and moaning and a vaguely perceived mass of flesh. You sorta make your way around the periphery waiting to see if something snags you. Something did. And then that something became someone. Someone French. I mean I recognized certain features. And T seemed to be into it. And so was I. For awhile. I remember breaking away at some point to go stand at a little grid that was stretched out over a little window that looked out onto the water. Sorta like gallows. Meditating pleasure and smoking. T emerged. Later on, we saw the something that had became someone sitting on the couch with his someone else. Outrageously sexy someone else. They apparently met in Brussels. So we introduced ourselves. I forget the name of the outrageously sexy someone else. But the something become someone who was our entry into that someone else's periphery was named E. At the party the next night, just outside the bathrooms (apparently quite a space for meeting, since that's where we bumped into D and V, too) we ran into E again. I guess T had told him we'd been together 15 years, because I found myself being congratulated. I'm getting ahead of myself, but we chatted a bit with him. I was between them. I like being between things. And people, too. And at some point, I ended up propping my right leg over E's left, my left leg over T's right, looking at that arrangement of diagonals and saying. "Wow. That looks nice." E must have thought I was a little bit of a freak. Because at that point he wished us a great party and walked away. Maybe, though, being with us made him want to go find his someone else. That would be flattering. If T and I really had that kind of effect on people. Seems possible.

You know it's not all pleasure. There was a moment where I was standing on this sort of weird grid that was in between the back wall of the small space with the cross in the middle of it and the circle of slings. It was weird because the slings were on firm ground, and then you'd get to this weird grid thing and find yourself at risk of losing your balance. T was kneeling down in front of me doing his thing giving pleasure to mine. Which was nice. And apparently attractive to this guy standing not far away. Who I looked at invitingly. And who approached. And who every time I'd touch his tit would lift his eyes to the sky and emit a little moan. So I'd let go of his tit. And then I'd do it again because he wasn't going away. And he'd do the same thing. This went on for a little while. I think we're the ones who ended up going somewhere else. "Whatever" was our mutual comment about him.

And then there's also JF. I think I mentioned him in a blog or email to you last year, too. A conscious sero-converter. Which I can get my head around. Now. Sorta. It's taken a little while. But he seems to think we all should follow in his footsteps. Or at least that I should. T, too. *Sigh.* That's a little annoying. And can be a damper. In general he rushes up to you with a big smile to say how high he is. Or something else basically uninteresting.

Oh, yeah. One last shooting star. I was chilling out while T was in the bathroom. Appropriately enough in the chill-out space. I recognized a couple of Frenchies walking by. One of them had a big 'ol mohawk. Much more rad than my little one. He walked through the chill-space on his way to the bar but did a U-turn to prop his elbow on a little window between the two spaces and smile at me. I smiled back. So he came back and we made out a bit. Moaned about how many Frenchies were there and how happy they were to be there compared to their usual French gueules. Which can be awkwardly but accurately translated somewhere in between a grimace and a pout. I saw him later on in the weekend, but he remains a shooting star because, Frenchie that he is, he likes to complain about the gueules everybody makes but that doesn't stop him from making his own. For the moment, I'm primed to crack those Parisian gueules with a smile.