A foursome in a darkroom… sort of

Clubs in London aren’t in the best nick these days. Pubs are fun, sure. But on some weekends, a wooden table, packet of crisps and a G&T feels a little short-straw. When the working week has been a real ache in the left bollock, we want to get fucked, be fucked and feel exceptionally fucked the next day.

There’s a pub in Hackney, I’m not sure if it’s even an LGBTQ+ pub, but it’s always crammed full of gays. Last Friday, we headed there to celebrate Curly Haired Gay’s birthday. He’s a special character. No one’s really sure what he does – besides partying, going on holidays and doing yoga – but he’s properly loved. A special character who makes you feel good about yourself. And he has a six-pack, a chiselled-yet-cherubian face and a wicked sense of humour.

Anyway, the smoking area, a pretty big one, was packed with members of the London Creative Gay Committee: artists, DJs, ravers, designers, PRs. Curly Haired Gay was working the room, nibbling on a pill, giving out hugs and cocking back his head to let out a filthy laugh. I know what I said about pubs earlier, but they’re always the start of a good night, right?

A few hours in, most of us were pretty steaming and had caught up on our shag, job and Hinge date updates. By then, we were itching to get out. We were heading to a warehouse rave. It happens every other month, projects gay porn on the walls and plays the kind of techno that makes you want to hump the floor. Sweat-dripping-off-the-ceiling type of thing.

The Ubers arrived, we piled in and made our way.

Even though I’ve been to the night many times before, there’s always a giddy sense of the unknown. No night is ever the same. New faces, sounds, styles, even bits of the building left to discover. Armed with a couple of pills, there’s no knowing how the night will pan out. But definitely there will be dancing. Lots of it. Chance encounters, probably. Some new tunes Shazam won’t pick up. All that, and a momentary feeling that real life outside doesn’t exist anymore. If only.

After a few hours on the dance floor – with the occasional break to hydrate with tequila – I remembered: cigarette. Chain-smoking in the outside bit, feeling euphoric and chatting to some familiar faces, I saw a guy from New York I’d met at a party a while back (incidentally, I got with his mate that night). New York Guy works at a magazine and comes to London quite frequently for, well, I’m not actually sure. But he’s hot. Tall and slim, short-cropped haircut, pouty lips, wears a silver chain and Air Max. Maybe he’s been watching a bit too much scally porn.

We headed inside together, along with the faces from the outdoor bit. When you’re at a rave, there’s a certain look that a dancing neighbour gives you that says: go on, givuz-a-kiss. New York Guy shot me one of those, so we had a snog and felt each other up a bit. Then, he took my hand and guided me through the sweaty bodies towards the second floor.

Up some stairs and through an unassuming door, we were in the darkroom. The music isn’t so loud in there. Instead, grunting and panting: the sound of fucking. We found a space on the floor and I started sucking him off. His cock, which was a little limp from a pill, tasted of piss. There was no way he was going to cum, so he told me to get on my back and started sucking me off.

As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I tilted my head back a little further and saw, stood directly above my head, a burly bear getting fucked up the arse. Anyway, there was no way I was going to cum, what with the chemicals. So after snogging for a bit, we made our way back down and to enjoy the rest of the night, which lasted till around 6am. Total saints.

Some 72 hours later, sat at my desk, it seemed I’d skipped a comedown. I’d felt a little fuzzy on Sunday, so I spent most of the day in bed. Monday was a breeze. But Tuesday, when the ensuing comedown can creep up like the Slenderman, was as good as any. Score.

That’s when I realised. When a night out is good – like, properly solid – it works a bit like medicine. It makes you feel better, puts a spring in your step (eventually) and heals the pain. Two fingers to the non-existent comedown! Pills come in all shapes and sizes, right?