The Lab

Enter the dark corridors, filled with masculinity, men with hard-ons, semi-erections, fucked-up arses, lubed-up arses, rubbered dicks, noses sniffing poppers and other addictive substances, slippery warm penises entering raging intestines and mouths, hands groping all over the place – nipples, butts, muscles, hair, mouths, feet, balls, name it, you have it.

The Gay world is fucked up. And how? Read on.

Imagine a Lab. A Lab-Oratory. Full of men. Gay men. With and without clothes. With and without tools. With hormones. Having fun. In all kinds. Everywhere. Adults. A-rated.

You drop your clothes in a plastic bag, deposit at the counter, enter the big playground. Drinks for all, smoke for some, sex for all.

Skins, punks, leather hunks, masters, slaves, lycra and sports fetishists, boot boys, sneaker and skater boys, hairy hunks, men of colour, men of all ages, sizes, preferences, likes, attractions.

Enter Pissoirs filled with watersports enthusiasts acting as extra pots.  Join the sling sluts getting their holes filled. Grab the next cock (definitely many with cock rings around them), blow it till it explodes, and move to the next.

Enter the dark corridors, filled with masculinity, men with hard-ons, semi-erections, fucked-up arses, lubed-up arses, rubbered dicks, noses sniffing poppers and other addictive substances, slippery warm penises entering raging intestines and mouths, hands groping all over the place – nipples, butts, muscles, hair, mouths, feet, balls, name it, you have it.

Amidst the search for fun – read cocks, balls, butts, hands, mouths, throats, tongues, assholes, penises and anything between and beyond these, is an arbit conversation between clothed men and semi-clothed men. A beer or two, and the three chat amongst each other. The French boyfriend decides to go with the Brazilian into the loo and blow him. The Brasiliero fingers him, somehow detects a not-so-douched hairy arse, and can’t stand the smell in the restroom area. They leave. They don’t meet again.

The other clothed boyfriend finds an Asian guy, plays with his running shorts, and as the Asian slips his hand into the German’s jean, he chuckles and feels tickled, refuses a finger in the arse, grabs the Asian’s erect phallus and smells his armpit. Remember, only one of them is fully clothed. And there are no restrictions here.

I am enticed, tempted, charmed by the ‘Asuras’ around me. I’m not experiencing altered states of consciousness as some others claim to sense. I’m fully in my senses. A couple of beers, a couple of warm arses I’ve fucked – thank goodness I had enough rubber stored in my socks. Yes, that’s the only other piece of clothing on me other than my sportly lemon yellow boxer briefs that keep getting ripped off every now and then.

I finally decide to visit the sling lair upstairs with a jail-like ambience. A man in the centre on the mobile leather patch getting fucked in turns by horny men, without a condom of course. Nothing is safe here, except rubber, if you have it on you, that is (the rubber dispensers have been emptied out by midnight).And the American visitors share a comment or two on the bare sex saying it’s the same in the States too. Quite scary!

I leave after I come in the hairy Detroiter’s mouth. I’m done. Out of here. My clothes smell of cigarette smoke, I know I have to hang my jacket out in the sun. I’m sleepy, tired. And I miss the train by falling asleep on the platform. I take a taxi back home. Sleep, wonderful sleep, hug me.

I’m freaked out by last night’s experience. I’m wondering what Berlin is gonna see for Easter – for they have a big fat fuckfest – 36 hours long, with thousands of tourists. I wonder what WHO thinks of the Lab.Oratory.

Berlin. It is.

 

About the author

Srini

Distracted as ever - by life and its vibrant hues, Srini discovered writing recently when a bushy eye-browed Muse with luscious lips tickled his senses with her couplets. Fat man grew up to be a fitness conscious cook, a gardener by grandma's inherited green thumb and an Agnostic who used to believe in myriad rituals and gods and goddesses of the Southern landscapes, landscapes where rice paddies and Gopurams made people believe in the gifts of music, culture, art and nature's miracles. With a face that's expressive enough to throw off a couple of stubborn people off their stools, and an arse that can dance to drum and base, he's constantly trying to bridge his semi-German thoughts with his roots back in the Land of the Peppers. He writes, occasionally.