Recently, I had a very candid discussion with a fellow contributor (wouldn’t you like to know) comparing the surface with the deep. We discussed how the light brings attention to the surface of a person based solely on the physical, tallying their appeal based off his face, shape and attire; however, when darkness falls, the very spirit of a person becomes evident.
We took our conversation to the bedroom and talked about how appearances fade. In such a closed space, personality qualities becomes the main attraction. At the moment, you'd trade the six pack for unselfishness. You'd trade the muscularity for intuitiveness. I'd even go as far to say that you'd trade the dick size for someone who's truly in sync with you and your needs.
Living in a visually led society, we are all restrained in many ways. We are all forced to play the hands that we’re dealt to us by our genes, class and culture. This is especially true for those that are considered misfits. Being black, overweight or ‘unattractive’ comes with an even smaller preselected box to live within. But what if that box disappeared for a moment? How does the disenfranchised respond to sudden liberty? Follow me and find out…
Here’s my personal account of my experience at a ‘Blind Rave’
Labor Day, 10:30 pm, I am heading to Oakland to attend what is called a ‘blind rave’. Accompanied with a good friend, we are both a little nervous about going to a dimly lit party where everyone’s masked. Going over the possibilities, he asks, “Would you let a dude suck you off?”
Playing devil’s advocate, “How would you know if it’s a dude?”
“The absence of lip stick, I guess.”
“Well, we wouldn’t know until after the party’s over.”
He jokes, “I guess we should compare dicks afterwards!”
“That’s probably gayer than getting head from a dude.” We’re laughing it off, but I could feel the tension swelling in my car. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was preparing to place a great deal of trust in a warehouse full of invisible strangers. If anything were to happen, I wouldn’t have any justification.
Dressed in a black wife beater, black jeans and my ass-kicking boots; my spike collar and leather mask sat in my lap. My friend was similarly dressed, except he wore a leather jacket. Parked near the location, we put our wallets and house keys in the trunk of my car and I tucked my car keys, IDs and some cash in my right boot. Walking closer to the building, the thumping grew louder and I could make out the industrial sound of the music, “Here goes nothing.”
After showing our IDs and paying the cover, we walked down a narrow corridor; I was getting more and more excited to see the scene. The further down the hallway we walked, the darker it got. Fastening my collar and sliding on my mask (think Zorro) I got mentally prepared to get an eyeful. I started to anticipate see naked bodies writhing and slithering across each other. I imagine depraved, masked action.
Pulling the door open, I could barely see anything. It seemed as though the blaring music made me even blinder, looking back to my friend, I lost track of him. Starting to get scared, I was bumping into people and tripping over random items on the ground. My pulse starts to accelerate. I stretch my arms out to feel around only to run into someone. I just need a safe place to two-step until this party blows over. Walking forward, I occasionally ran directly into someone from behind. I was starting to understand the appeal. Moving slower, I began to embrace the person I was bumping into…for balance, of course.
Closer to the music, I decided to plant my roots and dance. I thought I would be doing the ‘Kid n’ Play’ in the dark, but I surprise myself by rocking my hips and snaking my arms. The darkness made me more fluid in my movements. My personal jam, ‘Ghost IV’ by Nine Inch Nails comes on and I start to gyrate and tug at myself, stripper style. In very close proximity to the people around me, I began to feel free to make Braille of their bodies, using my hands to see. The song’s throbbing synth had everyone rocking back and forth. A hand gropes my pectorals. Still dancing, I feel pair of hips pressing against the backside of mine. A calloused caress traces across my naked shoulders confirms that he’s a man; a shorter man.
No words are exchanged. I could feel his mustache brush across my back as he hand digs under my shirt. He’s scavenging for naked flesh with one hand as the other squeezes my denim coated bulge. Somehow, I could tell by his scent, he was white. White guys just smell different! From behind, he’s reaching around and pressing his palms heavily against my growing erection; the next song changes our slow rhythm. Something that sounds like the Apex Twins picks up the pace. Getting brash, his hands begin to undo my belt buckle…