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Circuit Stories
By
Ken Cimino
Chapter
Three: Black Party
The hotel hallway stretched out ahead of me, empty, and with no exit in sight. It was a mystery with no obvious solution. There was nothing but white paint, stretching out to the tapered horizon, interrupted now and then with a sudden rupture of color from open doorways. White and red: white walls, red carpet, providing the pathway through this apparently straight maze. Although an exit is always the desired destination, I've always believed the true pleasure is in the journey. Sometimes, though, it's hard to step forward when the path seems so ambiguous.
Lao Tzu says, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” I've always been fascinated by where those steps lead. By stories structured around what appear to be very simple destinations: such as a door at the end of a long, white corridor. I'm interested in individuals faced with constrained options and narrow ranges of possible actions. The point of any choice is not the order of steps taken to get there, or the alternative routes not taken, but rather just male or female, straight or gay, life or death, Heaven or Hell. The original, unsolvable puzzle.
I remember one Halloween when I read about corn patch mazes in Iowa. One particular patch was almost twelve feet tall, designed as a real, life-sized puzzle. The farmer would invite people into his maze simply for the pleasure of finding their way back out.
But who cares about Midwestern farmers? Who cares about the empty Fall? This is springtime.
As I approach 35, though, it's harder to embrace the Spring. I know everyone says I look young for my age. Just last month a guy thought I was 28. But shit, at 40 gay men no longer exist in our culture. At 40 I'll probably just disappear. Maybe that's a good thing. I never want to be that tired old queen dancing around with his shirt off. And as much as I love the Spring, all good things have to come to an end.
But, man I do love the Spring. It’s the observance of the Spring Equinox. This is the time of equality between day and night. It marks our passage from darkness and cold to warmth and light. Legend has it that the ancient goddess, Eostre, was saved by a bird whose wings had become frozen by the cold of winter. I'm always confused by this part of the fable, but somehow the bird transformed itself into a hare. This, however, was no ordinary cottontail rabbit: this one could also lay eggs. Thus, the main symbols for Easter are the egg, for new life or beginnings, and the rabbit/hare, for fertility.
And speaking of fertility… The Spring Equinox also marked one other event: the biggest circuit party of them all - the infamous black party!
I’ve heard stories about the early 80s. The DJs at the Saint would set their decks on half-ton blocks of solid concrete to keep the bass from making the records skip. The Saint was home to some of the most decadent parties in New York; parties so saturated with sexual energy that the entire night - and most of the next morning - would dissolve into full-on orgies in dark areas all over the club.
This is the last one, I tell myself as I stand at the end of that dazzling white and red corridor. The last time ever. At least, though, I'll end on a high, at this black party of sinister celebration. The entire atmosphere is predatory, the party itself a heaven whose God and Goddess are sleaze and debauchery. The ambiance is one of testosterone-infused hedonism, where men seek only pleasure, and pleasure seeks only men. Ah, the decadence of it all!
Black Party attendees are told to dress heavy. Harnesses. Chaps. Boots. Unapologetic men dressed in heaps of leather with steel chain accessories will check their inhibitions at the door. Individual sweat soaked bodies will transform into one naked mass of masculinity.
The cult of man honored.
There will be no record of this event, other than the one held in our memories. There are no cameras allowed at the Black Party. It’s not hard to see why. This is a night when gay men indulge their deepest fantasies. When porn stars display their talents on stage. Where clothing never stays on for very long. It's an evening where partygoers will publicly maul each other on the dance floor, in the bathrooms, in the corners - anywhere that's dark and available. Some of the attendees will have spent months preparing for the darkest night of the year: a night when they'll discard their everyday personas and be free to become someone else. It’s a night when men give themselves over to the party that commemorates the genesis of gay nightlife and everything that has come since, from AIDS and activism to circuit parties.
A night of dark fantasies. No wonder there are no cameras allowed.
There's an irony to the Black Party, though: one which appears to go unnoticed. This night, you see, is not a celebration of freedom, but of bondage - and not the fun, black and blue bondage, either. Not the bondage practiced by those leather celebrants and proclaimed as the whole theme of the party.
This is a bandage to something else. Something that seems hardly worth celebrating.
It's bondage to commercial interests.
Bondage to gay lifestyle magazines,
Bondage to disappearing youth
Bondage to International Male Catalogs
Bondage to the higher rent we pay to live in gay ghettos
Bondage to HIV
I've always wondered why men who are HIV positive see the Black Party as such a life-affirming event. Are they simply returning to the scene of the crime? I shiver at the thought, feeling suddenly angry with myself for even thinking such a thing. I, after all, am one of the lucky ones. I didn't leave Iowa until I was 24, and arrived in San Francisco in 1986, a period when gay men seemed to have taken a break from sex. I always wore condoms, even when I was a top, the thin piece of plastic coming to symbolize my sex life. It was a permanent barrier. Maybe that helped explained why, at almost 35, my longest relationship had only lasted six months.
Part of the problem, I knew, was that I always wanted more than any man could give. Sometimes I wondered if I was just an addict, addicted to the empty sex which was freely available at events like the Black Party. How many temporary boyfriends had I met there, I wondered? Did I even want to know?
The gay dinosaurs never tired of telling me how the Saint at Large parties weren't what they used to be. And what did they used to be? A true celebration. A time to rejoice the drugged out, hardcore, excessive, kinky, sexual environment of the past. These were the very parties which had made these old dinosaurs' health fail in the first place. They told stories of a boa constrictor, and how many men the bottoms could take after that snake had opened them up. I'd always assumed that was an urban legend… until I saw it for myself, in some dark corner I got lost in last year.
The Black Party was a place a gay man could pay to get lost for the night, and lost for most of the next morning, too. For just fifty bucks, one could take a dark, twisted journey, leaving his true identity behind. (Well, all identities except those responsible for cash transactions). While cruising the Black Party was free, water and other necessities were not. Tonight's Black Party would be held at the Roseland Ballroom, on Manhattans' West Side. I was more than ready for it.
I knew the music would be the make-or-break ingredient for me. Would it inspire me to dance thirteen hours straight like I had done the year before? Or was I too old for this? Last year I'd danced, rested, dance, rested… At about five in the morning I'd stopped to put on a fresh jock strap in the bathroom, with the help of several men. The next morning I struggled even to eat an apple, managing to take several bites over the course of an hour before giving up altogether. Most of my friends were the same. We were doing well if we reached the point where we felt normal enough to return to work the next week. The smart circuit boy knew it was wise to take Monday and Tuesday off…
Circuit boy, though? Can I even call myself that any more? I guess not. If this is my last circuit party, then this is definitely the last time I can think of myself as a "circuit boy". The fact is that at almost 35, I haven't been any kind of boy for a very long time. A circuit grandpa, maybe? The thought depresses me.
I still have my hair, I tell myself. (Even although tips are turning grey)
I still work out five times per week. (Even although I'm really just going through the motions)
I still love sex with anonymous men. (Even although what I'd really love is a relationship that lasts longer than a year)
And I still love the fun drugs. (Even although I'm not sure I should any more)
I mean…what about the drugs?
Tonight there will be around seven thousand shirtless men walking around, their eyes so wide open they look like the eyeballs will pop right out if someone bumps into them with enough force. Gay, naked, sex-crazed zombies can be a little frightening, even when you're high. There will be live sex shows and back rooms hidden behind large black curtains. I wasn't sure I wanted to see them, though. They were never the reason I went to the party. I went to dance. I went for the fantasy, the brotherhood. I went for the spiritual journey. Of course, I knew the whole thing would turn into one huge, anonymous orgy. I knew I'd see my share of sex acts being performed right next to me. But I wouldn't see anything too out of hand. Sometimes I wished I did.
As I began my walk down the hotel hallway, I mentally reviewed my checklist, just as I did every year in order to make sure my Black Party Experience was nothing short of fabulous:
Avoid the coat check. Every good circuit boy…grandpa… knows it can take hours to get through, and that's time better spent dancing.
Have a memorable meeting place. If you have a bad trip, get lost or some old troll scars you, just stand in the meeting place, so one of your friends will find you.
Always wear pants with several pockets. Pockets really do come in handy for ecstasy, gum, blow pops, and water bottles.
Never buy drugs from strangers no matter how cute they are. Always look for your favorite drug dealer or have a friend hook you up.
I closed my eyes and listened to my leather boots as they made contact with some unknown substance on the hotel floor. "Someone started having fun already," I thought, walking on past rooms with their doors ajar. Each doorway presented a new peepshow scene: naked men in every position imaginable. The smell of sweat and cum permeated the air, sexual energy so tangible you could almost reach out and touch it. The rooms were filled with the entire spectrum of body types, from men so young and scrawny they were barely legal to corpulent old men in their 60s. This was not the typical circuit boy scene by any measure. It blew my mind.
I had arrived to the hotel early so I could settle in my room and get comfortable. As I checked in I ran into my dentist. I had labeled him the disco dentist because he was at every circuit event I attended. We greeted each other with awkward hellos. What does one say to your dentist attending an S/M party? Besides I wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible. I was nervous about the event tonight. I headed to the room and took a three hour pre-party nap, praying all the time that I wouldn't see him again until the plane ride home.
I was about to head down to the hotel bar to meet my friends when I saw him. The guy was in his 30s, like Jack, but with jet-black hair and soul patch. His t-shirt was a pristine white, standing out like a beacon in the sea of black that surrounded the bar. A rebel, I thought, interested. Anyone not wearing black leather or vinyl to the Black Party interested me. This guy stuck out like the little, red-coated girl in Schindler's list: like a flower in a desert landscape. In a sea of nameless faces, his was the only one which was distinct.
The man got into the evaluator and, abandoning my journey to the bar, I turned round and followed him. His eyes hunted mine as the doors pinged shut, like a tiger stalking its prey. I smiled back, knowing I mustn't back down.
"I'm Abe," he said.
"I'm Jac…" I started to reply, but my name was lost in his kiss. Abe ran his hands up my legs and started rubbing my crotch through my leather pants. I could feel his cock through his jeans. It was very stiff. I looked forward to getting it out and putting it into my mouth.
We walked down the hallway and stopped outside what appeared to be Abe’s room. We stopped kissing just long enough for him to rummage for something in his pocket.
"Are you looking for the key?" I asked.
Abe laughed, and pushed the door open, revealing a naked guy standing on the other side. I recognized him from the bar downstairs. On the bed behind him were six other men, all naked and jacking off. Leather porn played on the television screen. Two naked men were tied up in a dungeon as a master whipped them. S&M would be the theme of the night.
I wondered if Abe was the ringleader of this wicked circus.
"Ah, found it!" he said, interrupting my thoughts. "Here."
He handed me a small piece of white paper.
"What is it?" I asked, hesitating.
"Acid. It makes the sex great."
"But I'm going to the Black Party," I protested. "I want to be able to dance all night. I already bought two hits of X."
"Don't worry," Abe reassured me. "This will make your trip last longer. It's called candy flipping. It makes the E waves much stronger."
He smiled at me, like a parent encouraging a child to eat. I looked from his dark eyes to the tab in his hands. In all my years at the Black Party I never had done acid. But this was my last party. My last hurrah. Why not try something different? I placed the small piece of paper in my mouth and swallowed.
Within minutes I was naked and lying spread-eagled on the bed. All seven men were stroking my body and exploring all my sweaty skin. I could feel their fingers touching me, and sensed several tongues licking my nipples. I eagerly wanted to suck one of the guy’s cock.
I looked around and saw three more guys standing by the door, all playing with their cocks. Abe asked if his friends could come in? I nodded, and Abe came with a grunt and waved one of the other guys over. The guy came behind me and pushed his even bigger cock into me while one of Abe's other friends pushed his cock into my mouth. I thought I'd gone to heaven as both my mouth and ass were fucked at the same time. I felt so unrepentant and limitless. I could almost feel the rhythm of the two men. I told them how I wanted to feel their hot cum shoot inside me, and both men nodded agreement before the first guy shot his load after about five minutes of pumping. I felt the warm liquid drip onto my balls and became even more aroused as the second man came with a loud scream. Within seconds the third guy shot his load onto my stomach. I was covered with cum.
I tried to stand up to find a towel, but as soon as I got off the bed I felt dizzy. My head was filled with noise - a dull droning which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
"What's the noise?" I asked, clamping my hands over my ears. The pile of flesh seemed confused. They clearly had no idea what I was talking about. The noise, however, continued. I became so frustrated I couldn't concentrate. It was only when Abe placed his hand on my shoulder and spoke to me that I realized I'd been talking to myself.
I tried to focus. It was hard, though. All I could hear was my own voice. At first it seemed to be speaking Chinese. Then it told me I was dead. I looked around the room, horrified. I was in hell - me and all the men around me. We'd been sent to hell for doing drugs. "This is the end of your life, Jack," God seemed to be telling me. "This is what it's all about. You made the wrong choice."
I reached up and touched my face. Were those tears I could feel? I looked around again and saw Madonna sitting on a chair by the window.
She said to me:
Poor is the man
Whose pleasures depend on the permission of another
"But Madonna!" I protested. "I’m a good person. I only do recreational drugs. I have a job in finance. I go to my gay dentist ever six months to have my teeth cleaned. I really want to have a boyfriend. My last one Jerry - we had to break up. He was a loser. He was a whore. For Gods sakes he was a sex worker? Hey, do you know if Jerry is here? I really would like to suck his big dick right now. And if I’m in hell I’m sure Jerry is. How did I end up in hell anyway? Was it the drug thing? Was it the shallow thing? Was it the gay thing?"
Madonna waived her hands back and forth and continued:
Wanting, needing, waiting for you to justify my love
Hoping, praying for you to justify my love
I felt as if I was drifting off the bed. The men began to all melt into each other. Abe’s face was beautiful and deformed at the same time. I must be dead, I decided. This is what it was like to be a soul sent to hell. I thought of the dentist, bleaching my teeth the week before. Wasn't the dentist going to be in New York too? I must say hi if I see him…"
I was stuck on the bed watching everything drift away from me. I tried to stand up and for a moment I broke free of the box. I was let out of the maze. All the answers to life’s problems were there. Seconds later, though, I was caged again. I started to walk, trying not to notice the objects in the room changing shape as I passed them. That droning sound was back inside my ears, sounding like a baseball bat swinging by my head.
Suddenly I was aware of the fact that the world around me wasn't real. It wasn't the
physical world, just a view of the world as it impinged on my senses. That chair in front of me, for example, wasn't really a chair at all, just a pattern of neural activity in the brain. I could feel my brain itself, resting in my skull. There was no more outside world, just my brain and everything inside it. I could not see the real physical world, but only view the world as it impinges on my senses. That the image of the chair was not a chair, but a pattern of neural activity in my brain.
I could receive images, take in sounds, feel sensations, and paste each one in its proper place on a sensory sphere that represented the world around me. My perceptual distortion was that instead of seeing the outside world, I was now seeing this sensory sphere, with a sensory image of the world on it. I realized I had discovered a new form of mysterious energy. I would revolutionize the way we see the world. My unearthing was like that of Newton’s discovery of gravity. I needed to tell the group when I could speak English again.
My consciousness was definitely altered.
I thought about Jerry. Why did he hate me so much? Why did he spread such vicious and untrue rumors about me? Why did he see me as such a threat? I knew why I hated him: that was easy. Just before I'd left New York, I'd discovered that Jerry had gone around San Francisco telling people that I was some kind of a Nazi lover. According to him, this was the reason I'd shaved my head, two months ago. And while I knew anyone who really knew me would never believe him, in PC San Francisco, a rumor like that could be the end of me. Knowing Jerry, it wouldn’t be long before he rumor that I sleep with animals or I steal. He was that kind of person. He would change the shape of the rumor till it achieved its purpose. Rationally, I understood that spreading lies says more about person than the people they’re lying about. But I didn't want my reputation to be defined by the lies told by a bicoastal boyfriend of only six months. I hated Jerry for that. I might be tripping but my mind seems so lucid in its understanding of my screwed up love life.
Jerry, though, had sworn to torture me any way he could. He told me he hated people being friends with me: that he would figure out a way to end my circuit boy associations. Didn't he know that those associations would be ending anyway? That I was almost 35 years old? Old age revoked my membership. Man, I wanted to suck Jerry’s dick right then.
I knew the truth would come out. I would take the high road. I wouldn’t acknowledge blatant fabrications. Plus, I rationalized that only the weak minded would believe such phony gossip. Most people have better things to do with their time. Don’t they? Man, acid makes you so into your thought process. Suddenly, my body began to ache down below.
I looked down to see that I was being fucked by Abe. Or was I? His face looked so weird. Although visually he looked exactly as he did only a few minutes before, I was aware of the individual components of his face. His nose stood out like a lone tree on a mountain cliff. He was like a living impressionists painting. His face looked like an animated Picasso painting. A cartoon of
Guernica. Or maybe it was Tanning’s A Little Night Music. Private nightmares and erotic dreams all woven into a moving painting.
Were the hours rolling by, or were they just minutes? Had I missed the Black Party? Why did my ass still hurt? Was Abe fucking my ass with another guy? Abe seemed to have some tan object in his hand. Was I being fisted?
Was that Shane lying next to me? It was! I thought he was dead. Shane had died of a heroin overdose over eight months ago. I tried to ask Shane about why he died. Shane told me that he didn’t trust many people in the last year of his life. How the crystal meth had made him extremely paranoid.
Shane would often come by my apartment and ask to store things in my basement. I'd never really thought anything of it, until he died. Shane would come and go: he was like a little puppy dog who just needed his head patted every so often. Who needed to be loved. After he died, though, I opened the box he'd left in the basement, expecting to find papers - a car registration or a passport, maybe - or clothes. Instead, I found a year's worth of steroids. In the end, my sweet, sturdy and rugged 28-year-old friend's life was worth around $2K. I split the steroids up and gave them to people Shane owed money. I kept around five hundred for myself: it was the amount of money Shane had owed me before his overdose, and it was all he had in the world.
"Shane, was it okay that I gave most of the steroids to your friends?" I asked him now.
Shane smiled his puppy-dog smile and said yes.
"Jack, you were one of the few people I could always trust," he told me. "Do you remember when we used to wrestle?"
I nodded an acknowledgement. Shane always loved wrestling in his underwear. When I looked back at him, though, he was gone. Had Madonna taken him away with her? Was she still doing that hand dance?
There was an element of familiarity to everything I was experiencing. I sensed déjà vu all around me. Had I seen all these things before? I was so in tune with the images and forms. Was this like being a child and studying clouds after a rainstorm? The way clouds change shape in a moment?
Why did my ass still hurt?
I looked over to seeing Abe with a large black dildo in his hand. For some reason I knew the dildo had been used on me.
I managed to get off the bed. The door to the hotel room was open and a crowd of men were gathered. Had the door never been shut? Was I part of the live sex show for the evening? As I left the room, reality started to come back, like the sky clearing after a storm. The hallway was no longer a maze as I stumbled down it, trying to find my room.
A door to one of the hotel rooms was open. And a crowd was gathered. As I walked past I glimpsed a man getting fisted in a sling while a group of others watched. It was my dentist. The disco dentist. I moved on and found the door of my room, unlocking it and stepping over the threshold in relief.
It only takes one step to leave your past behind.
Copyright © 2006 Ken Cimino
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