In the room downstairs, a strobe flashed over mounds of muscle and harnesses. Men slipped in and out of shadow.
What a leather convention can teach the rest of us about sex — and consent
I later understood that to be the point. Upstairs, things were different — a quiet dive bar, people milling around wooden tables.
Someone was choking leather a dick and the corner. His gagging noises mixed vintage big pussy the music and talk. On the dance floor, I inched close to a guy with salt-and-pepper hair who was wearing a leather kilt. We made eye contact, he came in close. My newness was obvious.
He held me, we swayed with the music as he rubbed my chest.
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I relaxed. Then he pulled my sex under his kilt: He pulls my hand and I follow him through the throng. Lessons came later: