Gay fisting personals

More and more of late, as we endure yet another round of controversy about unsafe sex, promiscuity and bathhouses, monogamy and marriage, I find myself thinking about the late ’70s and early ’80s. During that time, I was a lesbian with separatist tendencies, in San Francisco and yet a quandary: Even though I kept myself in school and earned a living, being capable to have the kind of sex I wanted was my true obsession. I went tracking along the fringes of leathermen’s territory because they had built a culture around that obsession. The stark extremism of gay-male S/M iconography echoed my retain fantasies. The ethos of erotic risk-taking helped me to run away from feminine conditioning that sees every sexual opportunity as a threat. The tidy practicality of trick towels and no-spill popper bottles was endearing. I learned that lust has everything and nothing to do with like, and that love has a million equally alluring faces.

Back then I was privileged to attach out with Steve McEachern, who ran the Catacombs, a fist-fucking club, in the basement of his Victorian h