HIS

His obvious filthy macho

His wandering gaze above the crowd

His arms are long; he rocks his backpack

His legs are lean and smooth

His trench coat barely covers

his shredded jeans–

He stubs out his cigarette

and boards the train.

(c) Rob Goldstein 1975-2015

Written in Grand Central Station in 1975

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February 20, 1987 – The Party

Warning: This post contains sexual content.

A friend invites me to an S&M Party.

I’m not into S&M but agree to go.

We stand on a dark ally in front of a shiny black
door bathed in the golden light of a Victorian street
light.

A plaque on the door reads, if you didn’t call don’t knock.

The setting is so theatrically dark and mysterious I have to laugh

Mark knocks twice, then three more times: the door swings open,
and we enter a cavernous dungeon.

It’s a party of mostly middle-aged men and women.

Some of the women wear elegant nipple clamps or strap on dildos.

I follow the sound of a pop and find another huge room.

A man dressed in leather chaps teases the nipples of a woman,
blindfolded and lashed to a cross.

Next to them two nude women: one bent over a massage table, the
other holds a paddle.

“Do you like it?”

‘Yes Mistress.”

Pop!

“Do you want more?”

“Yes Mistress.”

Pop!

Next to them a woman in nipple revealing latex and a
guy with a throbbing erection; he’s strapped to a gurney.

“Mommy loves Boy!”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Slap.

“But Boy is bad!”

“Yes, Mommy”

Kiss.

“Thank you, Mommy!”

Slap.

I part the sheer curtains that divide the playrooms from a patio.

On the patio a dozen leather clad men and women sit around a
lawn table passing a fat joint.

A nude man on leash and collar places his hands on his hips
and laughs:

“You tops,” he says, “You have to wear so many clothes!”

I get the joint, and take a deep hit.

Back in the playroom the woman on the cross squirms with pleasure
while Mommy tickles Boy’s balls.

(c) Rob Goldstein 1987-2018



HIS

Art by Rob Goldstein

A make avatar in a red hoodie against a dark background

His obvious filthy macho

His shredded jeans

His wandering gaze above the crowd

His arms are long he rocks his son

His trench coat barely fits

His legs are young and smooth

He stubs out his cigarette

He boards the train.

RG 2015

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