What Happened at Folsom 2015

I have to tell this sex story.

My name is Alexander Cheves, but lovers call me Beastly. I write about sex for magazines. 

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I had great sex and want to tell you about it. But first, a life update: I moved to L.A. to write for The Advocate, a dream come true.

I went to the Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco last year. This year was my first time going alone. I left L.A. before dawn, at four in the morning. Before sunrise, the hills outside the city look blue. Beyond them is the long, flat stretch of I-5 through fields of lemon trees.

After five hours of driving, I rounded a corner and saw Castro Street sloping down the hill before me. It felt, in a way, like coming home.

San Francisco was home for a bit last year, and that experience was not great. I would rather not go into details about it — they involve a crazy pornographer/conspiracy theorist and my former Sir. In hindsight, I should have known it would be a disaster. Jose knew it would. All in all, it was a San Francisco story: brief, messy, dark.

But it was an educational mess, and I have spent much time this year wondering what my life would be like if I had stayed. Would I still have this gig at The Advocate? Impossible to know. What if I had left the scary porn house and found a real job? Leaving Jose a second time to come to L.A. was harder than the first time, and though we are still trying long-distance, it's tough. I miss him so much.

Even with San Francisco memories fresh and painful, I decided to do Folsom again. Arriving this year, I drove past the coffee shop on Market Street where I spent time last year sitting on my computer sending out job applications, none of which were answered. But that did not matter now — I was here to play, not work.

The Folsom Street Fair is the largest outdoor leather and fetish event in the world. It is bewildering the first time and beginners need a guide. My Sir was my guide last year. He and I don't speak anymore. There are thousands of people from all over the world gathered in this small city, and they all love kink. Any kink you can think of, you can find others who share it — packs of others, hordes of them, so many others you'll never meet them all. It's a fuck fest, and it all happens in a city that looks like a toy set, a dollhouse. How can such a lovely place harbor such tales? And all of them are true. People complain that the city has lost its edge, its cool, and that is probably true. But some cool comes back this weekend.

Having done this once before, I had a flexible itinerary and knew which parties I wantd to go to. On Friday night, I went to the Recon party, called Full Fetish. I walked in at midnight and it was empty. I wore assless neoprene shorts and walked from room to room wondering where everyone was. There was a large, empty dance floor bathed in red light. A gay couple was making out on some lounge chairs, but besides them, the place was dead. I turned to leave and must have looked confused because the doorman said, "They're all in the back." He pointed in the direction. "Around the corner."

Somehow I missed the black tarp hanging in a doorway. On the other side were hundreds of men milling through a dim sex maze made of tarpaulin and metal fencing. Guys fucked, fisted, and sucked each other in the dark. There was a stage in the middle of a large room where at least thirty guys were fucking on sex benches.

I walked through. Near the end of the maze, I saw a poor guy getting railed over a table. The top was amazing. His body moved rhythmically and gently, then jack-hammered. The bottom yelped. He was struggling to take it. Soon he had to pull off. When he did, I saw the top's cock — it was huge. I was staring and didn't realize he was looking at me. We eyed each other in the dark, then I walked on.

I fingered a hairy muscle guy in a sling who wanted me to go home with him. I told him no. This request was repeated many times. Who wants to go home? The fun was here. As the hours ticked by, the drugs started to wear off and people began leaving. I had arrived too late. As it emptied, I saw the majestic top from earlier standing in a corner. He nodded to a fuck bench. I walked up and bent over.

He started fucking me, then stopped and asked if I wanted to go back to his place. We walked out of the party, took a taxi to his building (he was local), and walked up to his apartment without much talk. Inside, he told me to get in an armchair on my knees, ass up. "Don't move," he said. He put a blindfold over my eyes. Then I felt something, a toy, slick and round, push into my hole. It was hard to take, but he slapped my ass and told me to breathe. After it was in, he said, "Ok, get ready." Then I felt the tip of his dick pushing in over it. I started to pull away and he grabbed me. "No boy. Remember what I said. Don't move. Take a deep breath."

I did, and in one hard push, he shoved his dick in. "Take the pain," he said. "Get used to it." I started counting to ten, a trick I do, but my head was spinning, and by number eight, something happened. My hole just opened, and he fucked me — fucked me. He fucked me with the toy in, then without the toy in, then stuffed more toys in. I took it all and just wanted more. I was hungry.

I've only gone to that mental place a few times in my life. I was just open, just hole. At one point he started sliding his fingers in until all five were in me at the knuckle. He placed a bottle of poppers under my nose and told me to breathe. He held it there a long time — "keep breathing" — then pulled them away. My body felt like putty, hot. I felt him slide his hand in, and I took a fist for the first time.

I had been watching fisting porn for many years, but until that moment, it lived in the terrain of the untouchable, a place in my mind reserved for fantasy and masturbation, never real life. I never had to do it. And then, in a moment, I did.

"You're taking my whole hand boy," he said. "You like that?"

I could barely squeak out a reply: "Yes, sir."

In and out. I breathed. I took it. And then I began to get restless and he said, "You're tired." I was — I was empty. He took the blindfold off. Sunlight was coming in through the window. He helped me up, cleaned me off, and drove me to where I was staying. He dropped me off on the curb, and so ended one of the best sex nights of my life.

I was sore for the remainder of the trip, which didn't stop me from having fun the following days but certainly tempered it. The actual fair happened almost as an afterthought. By the time I walked through the half-million attendees, I was a ghost. It was great, but in the middle of a sweaty hug with a friend in leather, I rested my head on his shoulder, and he understood. "Oh, no," he said. "Time for puppy to sleep." That night, when every leatherman in San Francisco was dancing at Real Bad or fucking in the bars or having kink sessions across town, I was on a sofa, two blocks from the Castro, asleep.

That night was the kind of fucking that makes a person feel strong. In high school, guys teased me when I came out. I was weak and skinny, covered in acne. I remember a taunt, one sung more than said, almost a jingle: "Alex wants a dick in his butt." But I did. I do. His hand felt like ownership — I was proud of being a bottom, proud of what I could do. I wanted to show off. I wanted more. I wanted to own it.

All the slut-shaming from people over the years felt erased that night. Folsom does that, I think. It renders judgments meaningless. My doubts were burned away by beautiful sex — the memory of which I hope to carry around like a talisman. I hop the feeling of it infects everything in my life. I want it to live in me and never die.

Are you kinky? Have you had a chance to break into your kinks? When you do, you will have this feeling, and you will love it. Our fetish world is far from perfect, but it is magnificent, and magnificence has its moments. Every now and then I am struck by it, and in those moments, the pleasure we chase, and the honesty and communication we foster, overshadow our ugly parts and bad people. They replace bad San Francisco memories with good ones.

I want to make this pilgrimage to Folsom every year because I need to feel this again. I think this is the start of something in my life, something that I think is good for me. It is a taste, I think, of sexual maturity. Or it's just a hand, just fisting. And I'm just a hole, Sir.

Love, Beastly