It’s been ages since I’ve had a mind-blowing orgasm. Mostly it’s been a splintered pleasure where I cum while half in my body and half outside it, a single toy under the blankets, an ear perked up listening for chirps from the digital door. A gilded cage is what it felt like, the past few weeks I shared a gilded cage with others.

Upon returning to my reality, the body taking its time to readjust to this realm, here I am, an anchorless ship again.

•••

The Lower City is where people go to let loose, a place to be transported in time, or outside of it. Here I walk, wine bottle in hand, as a woman leads a latex-hooded man with a bedazzled collar beside me on the sidewalk. I take a swig from my bottle and carry on.

Back to this mythical creature that I might be. Down here, away from civility, I can sink inside myself more. I’m fascinated by the whole fullness of who I am, the quiet things that usually go unnoticed though they fill out the form.

As I reach for the door I feel lighter, less like chaos in clothes.

“Safety is our top priority,” one of the hosts on stage says.

“No pressure negotiation and consent booths are available in every room,” the other continues.

The place is essentially an adult playground—a 5,000 sq ft mansion serving up a seemingly unending stream of amusements from sex ed, to workshops with live demos, to pick up play, to watch us play, to please fuck my wife while I watch… the possibilities are endless.

The arrival ritual: before entering the dungeon, I take a seat on the suede sofa in the foyer, tear a page from my notebook, and write my intentions/desires for the evening, listing in bullet points what I hope to feel, witness, experience. I chart my desires then fold them up into a paper airplane and place it in my purse.

Next is choosing a wristband, which are coded by comfort level. Mine is bright pink with a white V carved into it, V for Voyeur.

👀

Each room has its own theme, but mostly the vibe is sensual. Dim lights, candles that never burn low, lanterns lining the walkways. The dark walls are decorated with low beam cursive neon words of encouragement—phrases like “Enthusiastic consent is sexy!” and “Ask before you touch,” and “Thanks for saying no.”

There’s good stuff here, I think as I head toward a man squirming in a box on the floor, his entire body buried in blue. As I get closer, I realize it’s latex. He’s covered entirely in latex save for a few breathing holes at the nose and mouth.

A place like this brings us away from establishment and closer to creation. Creation of self, creation of community, creation of connection. Here, the firefighter kisses the arsonist’s hand. Later on, he’ll explode galaxies on her pretty face then fill her up with gratitude and praise.

The more I look the crisper his body becomes. It seems like the device is suctioning the air around him. He’s fully exposed now, the veins of his impressive cock visible.

A woman in strappy black lingerie straddles him and holds a bottle above her head from which a viscous fluid, either oil or lube, drips agonizingly slowly onto his chest. When she’s satisfied, she lowers her hands to his latex covered body and touches him sinuously. Her hands spiral from his chest down to his abdomen down to tease the inner thighs. He squirms, his figure fighting to form new patterns in its form-fitting cage.

My eyes widen as I look on in amazement. Not being able to move, see or speak, I wonder how that feels to the body, what it frees you from and what it traps inside with you. I pull out my paper airplane and add a bullet for “latex air mattress suction thing” under my curious about column.