An older man — ruddy face, white hair, mid-fifties — is watching and we start to talk. The man takes a whip the size of a hand broom and swats her ass as if it were the ball in a game of table tennis. I stay in the darkness for a while, but eventually move on.
As I pause to consider the prospect, three college-aged girls approach. Forty years after the start of the sexual revolution, some San Franciscans are still having a blast. It embodies the spirit of a town that birthed both free love and Craigslist. Sex clubs are a constant cruise, and even momentary commitment is fleeting. Two men are masturbating; a third performs oral sex on a woman while the others watch. Half-price Thursdays and Sundays. In San Francisco, they give it away for free. On the couch, a couple that could be Edith and Archie Bunker are holding hands. As my eyes adjust, I see that a naked man in wedge sandals is wiping the stage with Windex. Other people mill about uncertainly — an older woman and younger men; a big blond with a Latino boyfriend; a couple of single guys. The energy upstairs is starting to pick up now. One man is chaining a woman to the stripper pole, while another — the erect guy with wedge sandals — uses the pole to steady himself while he showcases some oddly placed body jewelry. He waves her good-bye, and I decide to follow her lead. He shows me three different floggers — one of cloth, two of leather — and holds them out for me to feel. Only the Power Exchange takes all comers. There are other such clubs in the city, but they cater either to gay men like me Eros on Market, Blow Buddies on Harrison or are private institutions, often with a leather theme the SF Citadel. He just provides equipment; the rest is up to the people who come. I walk by Mr. The tension of an hour ago has broken and in its place is mild abandon. I hear heavy sex play, but all I can see is a sombrero on the wall. A woman in a corset gives an older man a lap dance. Behind glass in the exhibition booth, two women compete to blow a longhaired good-old boy in flannel, like a censored lost episode of Roseanne. I see a tall blond woman with a short black boyfriend heading down a staircase, and I follow them. The warrens are a carnival now. Each room has been painted with neon colors and is decorated by theme: As soon as I walk in, one of the guys turns and gives me a heady stare.
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