The gathering, part 1

In the end it was not so much about sex as it was about kink. I'm beginning to understand the difference.

I left the house last night still grinning from Jeff's Snow White crack and found myself singing along with Gram Parsons once I got on the highway rolling east. Oh lord, grant me vision; oh lord, grant me speed. . . . The smile faded from my face as I passed the giant warning signs: DO NOT TRAVEL TO HOUSTON AND BEAUMONT. LIMITED FUEL AVAILABLE. Still.

I found the place easily enough -- passed the entrance the first time by, but other than that I had no problem. Handed in my ticket at the door and signed not one but two release forms stating that I understood the rules of engagement and that I released the hosting organization of liability for any harm.

Inside (air conditioned, thank christ) the lights were low and club music throbbed (at a bearable level -- again, thank christ). In the middle of the large room stood various frames and equipment: crosses, tables, benches, and an arch. When I arrived the equipment stood empty. All the party goers stood in small groups near the food area or sat at the tables along the walls. Many people had brought bags, cases, and other containers from which they occasionally drew items to enthuse about in conversation -- a whip,a flogger, a violet wand.

Who was there? A true mix of people. Most plentiful were men and women in what appeared to be their 30s and 40s, but there were younger and older faces as well. A good number of the men wore black -- black jeans, black western shirts, black cowboy hats. Women wore everything from jeans and t-shirts to slinky PVC dresses. Corsets abounded, and the prettiest one I saw, custom-made, was modeled by a woman I had spoken to at last week's munch*. Bodies ranged from the lithe and slender to the enormously obese; faces ranged from the sweet to the scowling; skin colors were mostly white but some black and brown as well.

*Can we just get this out of the way now? I hate the word "munch." I'll use it, because it has a specific meaning in the BDSM community, but it makes my lip curl just to type it. I don't know why. I'm like this about certain words. Others words I hate: come spelled "cum," "play" as in "play party" or "play partner," and another (nonsexual) word that I can't even bring myself to say, let alone write. Call it my own hard limit.


The atmosphere was somewhat subdued, and I am not the chatty type. I didn't want to risk annoying the few familiar faces I saw by barging into their conversations or lurking at their elbows. I found the ice and the water, put some cheese and a few crackers on a paper plate, and took myself to an empty table, where I arranged myself in a chair and watched. And waited.

At the table next to mine, a women in a black corset laced up the back sat unmoving and unspeaking. A man stood behind her silently stroking her long hair with his hands, over and over. I began to take in individual images as I sipped my cold water. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone to start a scene. I wondered idly if there are people who prefer to go first, to set the standard, so to speak, and people who prefer to go last, to leave an indelible image. Like an ice-skating competition. A genial-looking middle-aged woman approached me -- ah, wait, a man. I knew him. He had been a bit too eager to ascertain my preferences at the newcomers' meeting a few days earlier. Tonight he was wearing a curly blond wig and a dress.

I greet him by name and he politely corrects me -- tonight his name is something else; something feminine. I correct myself, and he tells me I'm looking nice. I thank him, and he observes that I have the perfect smile for a Domme. Something about the corners of my mouth, he says, are so perfectly cruel. This makes me laugh. I'm sorry to let you down, I tell him, but I'm not the cruel type. He compliments my boots and lets me know that should I need anyone later to lick them, he'd be happy to. Well, thank you, I say. He lingers a moment uncertainly and then indicates that he needs to move on. "I'm greeting," he says apologetically, and I tell him I understand. And off he goes, his blond curls bobbing.

There is stirring a few tables over from me. Two women and a man move to one of the crosses. It seems the festivities are finally to begin.