LAB.ORATORY LIFE - Faust. Anal deep throat. Fist-fuck party, Lab.Oratory, 12.01.2018
Lab.Oratory spoilt me for all other sex clubs. I have been there plenty of times, but the last occasion was at Silvester with my wife, our honeymoon in fact, when Berghain, Panorama Bar, Halle and Lab.Oratory were all open and every form of hedonism was possible as the new year slid in. Boris -> Mykki -> Marcel. Guten rutsch. Now I am back for a fisting party – my fantasies become reality the more I visit this city. I can’t live here, because I don’t want to run out of things to want. But I had wanted to go to a Lab fisting party since I first saw it on the flyer. Waiting makes wanting.
I always walk around first, seeing who I want, seeing what is happening where. I need to know if there are any cocks being sucked in the glory holes; if there are any men being pissed on in the pissoir. What will I smell? What will I taste? I look around at the metal frames where I have been deeply fucked, at the walls that my head has been pressed back against while a large cock is rammed down my throat. Everywhere I look I remember the faces of men whom I had fucked, whom I had made throw up on my cock. I remember the man whose face I never saw but whose arse I fucked for a very long time, never slowing, too high to come, too hard to stop, too entranced by the sounds of his grunts and moans as he would spasm from orgasm to orgasm, his limp dick leaking onto his thigh, but without me stopping the rhythm I was using him for. When I pulled out, his arse was gaping and did not close before I walked off, leaving him stretched open for the next man who wanted to fuck something. Who was he? What did he look like? We could be sitting together on the train and never know that we had fucked. Was he back here tonight?
The room is filled with tender scenes. I catch glimpses of long hugs in slings, of huge, hairy men tenderly touching their lovers, of anonymous kissing and rimming and sucking and fucking, and of men looking into each others’ faces and smiling and laughing and being in love for that moment.I’m lounging on a couch where I’ve been fucked before, smoking a joint, looking around from this little corner. The music is good. The air is blood warm. Hash-blue smoke coils through it as I look around and breathe in the heavy scent. Flesh is everywhere.
Over there is a German bull in leather shorts with a huge strap on, thicker than my wrist and 30cm long. He is about 60. He is fat. He has a big, fat head and large, ugly hands. He looks so average except for his glorious toy, too big to be real. An unrefined bus driver endowed like a king. He sneers as he rubs lube over this monstrous rubber dick, holding it like it is his own flesh. Polishing it. Proud of it. Looking around to see who is sizing it up, wondering if they can take it. He looks at me, but I don’t catch his gaze. I am not here for him. I wonder if he is impotent; if he has lost the ability to get hard because his prostate became malignant, or if his heart medication broke his dick when it saved his life. I wonder if he really just enjoyed having the biggest cock in the room. I admit that I am tempted, but mostly out of disgust. I question myself: who would have to be on the other end of this ludicrous dick to let them break my arse with it? I imagine the flashes of pain as I would stretch further than I thought I could, at the point where I might panic only to realise that it was already in. The higher I get, the more my mind wanders into this labyrinth of gaping arse. It would be the same dick on anyone; who would make me overcome myself?
For a while he disappears, though comes back with another man, perhaps a little younger, stockier, shorter. It is not going to be pretty sex, but I want to watch anyway. I am lazy. I am comfortable. There is so much going on that wherever I am I will miss something. So I sit and smoke and watch these men prepare to fuck. The smaller man looks wired. He is looking around, head flicking over his shoulder like a nervous dog, like he was looking for someone that he did not want to see him here, ready to hurt himself on this huge dick. He is chewing gum, but spits it out when the bull bends him over a large iron bathtub in which other men have been pissing. He pours too much lube over his arse and begins stretching him open with his fingers. The two men seem like they are in worlds of their own, only connecting through penetrating fingers feeling their way inside. He pours more onto his dildo and pushes its blunt thick head against this willing arse hole. The man bent-over holds a bottle of poppers, which he inhales deeply and then calls out as the toy pushes into him. The bull has his hands on his partner’s cheeks, pulling them open to take more, coaxing his cock into him. Once the head is all in, he holds him by the hips and plunges his hips forward, grunting, snarling, pushing through anything that gets in his way. The cries are almost excruciating. I wonder if this is tearing him open. I almost want him to bleed, just to witness someone going too far in this pursuit of pleasure. He doesn’t. He is the loudest person in the space by far; he winces but wants it. Soon the bull is pounding the man until his nose starts to bleed a little, perhaps from too much poppers, or from drug burns, or too much strain as his body tries to expel this huge toy that only pleasure is letting in, making him scream until he orgasms and constricts this dildo back out, immediately bending back over the bath tub to take it all again like a well-trained creature desperate to be filled. Every time his bowels reject it, they recommence; more screams, more thrusts, more rubber until finally it is buried harness-deep in his guts, thrusting into him until his body clenches tight and squeezes him out powerfully. I can see how loose he is, how dark and swollen the folds of his rectum are, splayed open like a ripening rose when the bull pulls out, a wall of red flesh to be re-opened and re-entered. A trail of slimy lube drips out of him and glistens in the red light as it splashes on the dark floor. The bull watches it drooling off his rubber cock, and appears satisfied, sneering. The man who had just been fucked walks slightly stiffly. Something must have caught my eye, as when I look back, the men have gone. The bull is walking around, looking for the next hole to destroy with his dick that will never go soft. He takes a handkerchief out of his little leather handbag and mops his sweaty hair from his lined, sweaty brow.
It’s older guys who really love fisting, when they have pushed through all of the other boundaries and are still looking for more to satiate their sex. A tall old man with a massive leather collar and short grey hair climbs into the gynaecological chair that is a few metres away from me. He has an impressive face, almost noble. His hair is very short; his beard, too. His eyes are clear and focused; his nostrils flare slightly as he breathes. Already his hole is stretched and wrinkled, much like the rest of him. I focused on him more than the man fisting him; more than on his sub who kneels on the floor like a pup, watching the scene from below. I look at him and I imagine myself in the future. It is impressive how easily the old man’s arse is to penetrate. Four fingers slowly press against him and opening him and enter straight up to the knuckles. Then the thumb disappears. Soon it is just a veiny stretched arse hole gripping a thick wrist pushing in and out and the sagging flesh giving way. Soon he is being punch-fucked, pulling out and then thrusting the clenched fist splashing back in. The old man’s face is serene, he is in a state of ecstatic reverie, mouth half-opened, eyes half-closed, a beautiful saint worshiping with his anus. He is so present in his body that he seems almost able to transcend it. Every penetration squelches into him and his breath exhales harder. His long legs in leather chaps clench back on his bare chest. I keep watching as he shakes with every orgasm, which keep getting more and more powerful as his arse tightens and softens and lets more in, deeper and deeper and deeper. When they stop the man’s arm is almost elbow deep. When he pulls out, the old man’s anus is gaping and wrecked, his bowels prolapsing slightly, red and flushed and engorged. His lover rubs his fingers gently over it, tenderly coaxing it back inside him, folding the old man back together. I look on, wondering how he would taste right now. I could feel myself getting hard at the idea. Sometimes I want to lose myself in the grotesque, to see what beauty can be found deep within it.
We were steeped in fetish worlds that over-lapped. Men wearing leather chaps and big boots; men wearing jock straps and sneakers; all of them here to worship anal pleasure. This is sex beyond fucking.“What all these people are doing is not aggressive; they are inventing new possibilities of pleasure with strange parts of their body — through the eroticization of the body.” (Foucault, 1982). Now there is a man wearing a mask and a heavy shiny black latex cat suit getting fisted in the gynaecological chair by another man in a rubber mask. They’re looking into each other’s eyes and caressing each other’s shiny black faces. When they are finished, they remove their hoods and joyously get into each other until again he’s being fisted. Good house music is playing - I want to dance, but I have smoked too much hash and I am enjoying the view of men pushing their arms deep into other men, plus some super-skinny twink is dancing and I don’t want to encourage him. I decide to go for a walk.
I need to piss, so go to find the pissoir, the famous structure with the mesh floor above a chamber where sometimes men wait underneath to catch the dregs of any golden showers above them. The metal walls hold in the warm wet air. The smell of piss is so strong that it opens my nostrils as I breathe in. There is no one wanting to swallow my piss this time, so I watch it drip through the grated floor onto the tiles below. I walk on until I see a hot tall German in leather chaps and a leather vest being fisted by a Turkish top who is drinking beer with his left hand while he moves his right in and out. The German wears black leather Adidas sneakers, sporty leatherwear, keeping all options open. First he is on his back with his long legs up in the frame, then he is on his knees, stretched out like a slut. His strong face is softened by a stubbly beard. I take out my cock and start stroking it while I watch. He is a good looking man, and his expressions are fascinating. He watches me between groans of intense painful pleasure that force his eyes shut. I come closer, and when the Turkish man takes his hand out and leaves, the German pulls me closer and starts sucking my cock, his face vanished in the shadows. I get fully hard in his mouth but I can’t see what he’s doing, so I rock my hips and lose myself in the excellent music while he keeps me on edge. He then moved his arse and takes my hand and pushes it against his gaping hole. I can feel how open he was around the bearded Turk’s hairy wrist. His hole is a thick, stretched rim. Inside, his bowels are soft and delicate. He is purple and swollen and sensitive but hungry to be filled again. I finger him with three fingers, feeling the stretched folds of his arse. He indicates he wants more, and pours lube over my hand and wrist.
I push all of my fingers inside him, feeling his body open up to me. He is in an inverted position. I’m plunging my hand straight down into his warm bowels, my hard cock is rubbing against his leather vest, leaving shiny streaks of precum glistening on the black, but I can’t see his head or chest as he is curled up under the metal bench moaning as I rub against his prostate. He is just an arse. A beautiful, gaping arse in leather chaps that is pulsating around my wrist and drawing me back in as I pull out, opening wider and wider and taking me in, a stranger giving warmth and softness with his body. Anonymous intimacy.
I push in deeper, his muscles softening and letting me further into his body until I’m past my wrist, and half way up my forearm. His sphincter is stretched but makes a seal around my arm where it starts to thicken. He is warm and soft and his body spasms around me as he has orgasm after orgasm, his colon soft but strong as it squeezes me like soft lips that stretch on forever. He cums for me and cums for me and I keep fucking him until his voice is going hoarse and his body is starting to fatigue. I slow down and stop, letting his body pulsate and come to w=rest around my hand. Every movement I make is amplified. He is twitching electrically from the pleasure he has endured. His head comes out of the darkness and he looks at me as I watch my hand come out of his body. His eyes are dreamy and half closed and his smile is relieved. I rub my fingers over him, and he starts to lose himself in the thought that I am going to fuck him again, but I stop. The Turk is standing behind me watching and drinking. I go to wash my hands. I have no idea if there is a connection between them, and no need to know. My moment has passed. I come back to the scene and the Turk is deep in him again, his arse so stretched it makes sloppy, sucking sounds as he is punch-fucked. He watches me watching him moaning.
I go back to my sofa to smoke another joint. A beautiful black man walks past in a red jockstrap, the best-dressed man in the room. Soon after, a chunky young Turkish cub gets into the gynaecological chair with his arse hole at my eye height for a tall German to fist him. It’s hot to watch from so close. I can see his arsehole stretch as the German coaxes him open. It is intense. He’s shaking with orgasms from just his lover’s fingers, but soon works his way up to the whole hand. He squeals like a little girl in cute high-pitched noises and nervous giggles, gripping the wrist of the top as if to gain the nerve to let him all the way in. Every now and then a guttural groan is released. He relaxes and his body opens up. He lies there, spread, receptive, relaxed. And then it starts. Large hands in black latex gloves are alternating their way into his arse. I can see his pink anus stretched around the man’s wrist. His balls are weighed down with a heavy steel ring. His thick cock twitches and swells as he comes through his arse over and over. Precum is hanging in long strands that glisten in the red light. Ugly men become something beautiful when they let their bodies open and they are taken over with intense pleasure. Beautiful men become ugly as they pant and beg for more pleasure, to be pushed deeper into intense sensations. Destruction and rebirth. Limits being broken, over and over. This is how we grow.
The scene continues as a German man walks over to me. He is exquisite. His clear blue eyes meet mine and he squats down and leans in. “Du bist ein schönes mann,” he says, and asks if I was good. I smile and he touches my beard. He walks away and I get a good look at him, his round arse framed by his leather chaps - fuck he is hot. He is wearing black leather Adidas shoes. He is the man I had fisted earlier.
I have been here for four hours and it is emptier now. Before I leave, I take one more look around the space. I am not sure when I will be back, or what I will be seeking next time I am here. A middle-aged guy who might have been Italian has been creeping around me all night, slinking by with long stares in his leathers. I see him again, still prowling. He slips over in the lube that I had seen dribbling out of the man whom I had fisted. It was time to go.
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