Play Date

It was one of those indecisive Midwestern evenings in Kansas City. The temperature had been debating dropping all week, but had yet to follow through in doing so. A stiff breeze had blown into town and the sandy, isolated patches of dirty crab grass pushing up through cracked cement in abandoned parking lots were overcome first this way then that by the wind and they let seed fly in the unintentional hope of reclaiming the land.

I was escorting a friend. I stopped the car next to a fence and parked. A fence can be a lot of different things to different people. So, I will tell you what kind of a fence this wasn't. This wasn't a "I can afford to have someone come and restrain wood every summer" fence. This wasn't a "I have a big beautiful dog that I take care to provide with a safe and appropriate environment" fence. This wasn't a "I run a respectable business that I want to protect at night" fence. This was the kind of fence that really doesn't do shit. The bottom is pulled up in places, an entire side has been removed. It dips down a full two or three feet. The gates won't close. It is the color of disintegration. It is the kind of fence that says, "I give up."

Her: We won't stay long. I mean, unless you want to.
Me: We can stay as long as you like.
Her: Let me call and make sure they are here.
Her: Hey. You inside? We just ate. Yeah, we are here. Yeah, we are coming in.

We braced ourselves against the wind, shoulders hunched, cigarette cupped in palm and strode across the street. We stepped up to a door. It was a heavy sort of door. Commercial grade. This wasn't the kind of place that looks like it should be open after dark. The block has a scarcity of buildings characteristic of industrial zones. The neighbors are mainly warehouses and buildings that have changed purposes so many times it is hard to know when or why they were built. Looking at them inspires awkwardness in anticipation of trying to navigate odd mis-appropriated spaces, of offices with ceilings so low you have to crouch, of conspicuously boarded up doorways and of old unopened closets. You can't help feeling bad for folks who live in apartments on this type of block of lonely buildings.

We exchanged glances before opening the door. This is the right place, okay. Yeah. Right place.

She went first.

Let me say this. There is a certain type of social dynamic that permeates underground places. New people are desperately sought after and vehemently distrusted. It is important, as a newbie, to start off on the right foot. We had fucked up with the clothes. We were wearing street clothes. I had on black pants and a worker-man jacket. She had on an old second-hand peacoat and some jeans.

The instant we walked through the door we were called out on it, "Were you invited?" Meaning, "What are the two of you doing in our space?"

"They're with us. They are invited." Called out a friend of my escortee. She was a girl with a great open-jaw, sideways smile. Her smile revealed a large amount of space inside her mouth and it felt like looking in a peep whole and seeing a whole lotta shit going down on the other side. It was as if smiling was her way of letting you in on the inside story.

The girl with the smile also had a date. A sweetheart. She was tired to the point of not being able to talk right or walk around. She had wet sort of eyes and puffing lips. But she wasn't too tired to raise the corners of her mouth into a friendly grin. I was struck with the impression that it was possible that in her dying moments she might choose to spend her last bit of energy pushing those corners up at someone.

The building we entered was an art gallery. The art was covered with bubble wrap and drapes to protect it. It was the people who were to be on display tonight. In the middle of the gallery floor was an odd table made from black leather and rivets. The gallery lights had been turned around to shine on the table.

There was a group of people sitting on two couches, drinking, eating and talking. It was like any other party, except that several of them were dressed head to toe in leather. A gal from the couch came over to our group. She had on a full length leather dress. Her head was shaved. She introduced herself and said, "I am an admissions counselor at XYZ University."

I thought to myself, should I be networking? I decided against it and introduced myself as Billy. Another member of our group, a guy, told her that this was his first leather party and he was unsure about the etiquette. She took him under her wing and lead him over to a spot close to the table where a woman was now taking off her shirt.

Nearby there was a table set up with pizza and soda. It was apparent from the amount of food that the organizers had expected a larger turnout. This gallery was owned by a local artist who had lost his legs. There were uninhabited wheelchairs strewn about. I wasn't sure if it was art or additional seating.

The woman who had been undressing dropped her pants. She scooted over to the table and spread her legs as much as she could with her jeans around her ankles. She bent forwards and put her hands on the table and waited.

A heavy-set butch woman with a leather vest and jeans took up a spot behind her. She unfurled a long leather whip. The gal who was bent over the table began to squirm. And then with hardly any effort at all the butch woman began rhythmically striking the nude woman's back with her whip.

Now, I say nude, but she had underwear on. They were men's briefs. They were grey men's briefs. They were the color and cut of briefs that you would expect to have handed to you at a prison or work camp. There was something unsettling about the big Germanic butch woman in a leather vest whipping this little Jewish woman in prison grey underwear that were, to heighten the effect, too big for her. There was a tranny boy in the crowd. He yelled out, "Oh, give it to her." This caused the butch woman to stop whipping and motion to him with one finger to come hither. The tranny boy sauntered up to the butch woman and fell to his knees. The butch woman pinched his back and picked him up. She twisted the skin on his back and resumed with the rhythmic, oddly non-violent whipping. The man in the wheelchair cut across my view. He loaded up his lap with pizza and wheeled back out of view without so much as a glance at the main event.

I looked to the couch. Miss Leather USA and Miss Leather Universe sat bored out of their minds holding cokes like eigth-graders at a house party. I presume they were enumerating the ways in which the KC leather scene could benefit from their combined expertise. But I was struck with how juvenile the whole thing was. Two grown women in leather chops and vests with chokers, whips and flogs who couldn't hold a conversation. I mean, we are adults right? What is the point of breaking every taboo if you don't have anything interesting to say about it afterwards? The night felt more like a play date than a play party. I decided that they should of just had a big ol' fucking gang bang. Then people would have come. No one likes this in between shit. And why, for chrissakes, why pizza and soda?

Anyhow, the woman at the table couldn't take the whipping for very long because it was "too cold" in the gallery. If she was my sub I would have told her to shut the fuck up, but that is just me. The butch woman never got much more into it than a flick of the wrist anyhow. I think one of the Miss Leathers dozed off. And my escortee's friends with their magical smiles exscused themselves to go home and sleep. Not seeing any way in which we could possibly add anything to the mix ew excused ourselves as well and we walked back out into the decidedly chillier night and drove away from that desolate stretch of land in search of hot coffee and grittier sex.