The Facility
On first examination, The Facility resembles a warehouse that’s been abandoned for the weekend. It’s easy to imagine that, come Monday, it will be filled with blue-collared men and women doing an honest day’s work—until you look to the left and see two metal shelving units, utilitarian in their Home Depot design, displaying a dozen or so foam mannequin heads modeling assorted gags. This isn’t your typical warehouse, and you can’t buy those at your local DIY superstore.
When we arrive, people are busily preparing for the evening’s party. There’s a DJ station complete with a lighting set up that would make some dance clubs envious. There are tables, chairs, and a buffet area filled with (I’m happy to note) a vegetarian’s dream assortment: chips and hummus, assorted nuts and sweets, and a platter filled with whole tangelos. The first few hours are for socializing.
“With this music,” my partner, Evan, says, “it’s like we’re going to Prom.”
Prom in an abandoned warehouse, sure. It’s here that I should admit that I’m not entirely comfortable. The night’s planned events, Kendra Holliday’s Coming Out Party, intimidate me a little. I’m not a kinkster. I’m not in what insiders know to be “the Scene.”
This may look like an abandoned warehouse, but when we go up to the second story we see two men working to complete a St. Andrew’s Cross, an X-shaped wooden framework for restraining willing victims. Around the room there are various pieces of furniture, each of them designed to facilitate a unique interaction between partners. There are suspension beams, a ladder rack, a whipping post, and a shrink wrapping tool. In one corner, there’s an ordinary bed. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
We are, in fact, in Missouri, located in what feels like a forgotten part of St. Louis. We’re here because tonight is also a fundraiser for Sex Positive St. Louis. Along with Anna Banana, David Wraith, and Kendra, I’m hoping to create an environment in this city where people can talk about sexuality openly and have a little fun with it. Tonight is supposed to be the fun part, and while I’m excited, I’m also intimidated.
All of the guests have been pre-registered and screened to ensure that things will go as smoothly as possible. Everyone is required to show legal identification, make a donation, and fill out paperwork providing information from a list of kinks and emergency contact numbers. They’ve been instructed to bring their own restraints and toys.
My friend Ziztur pulls a vibrator out of her coat. She flicks it on and it lights up, like Doctor Who with his sonic screwdriver. Tucked away in another pocket, like her coat is a Swiss Army Knife of sex toys, is a black and purple flogger that I won’t see until later. Ziztur is only one of many friends to show up. It’s their presence that makes this doable.
When we arrive, people are busily preparing for the evening’s party. There’s a DJ station complete with a lighting set up that would make some dance clubs envious. There are tables, chairs, and a buffet area filled with (I’m happy to note) a vegetarian’s dream assortment: chips and hummus, assorted nuts and sweets, and a platter filled with whole tangelos. The first few hours are for socializing.
“With this music,” my partner, Evan, says, “it’s like we’re going to Prom.”
Prom in an abandoned warehouse, sure. It’s here that I should admit that I’m not entirely comfortable. The night’s planned events, Kendra Holliday’s Coming Out Party, intimidate me a little. I’m not a kinkster. I’m not in what insiders know to be “the Scene.”
This may look like an abandoned warehouse, but when we go up to the second story we see two men working to complete a St. Andrew’s Cross, an X-shaped wooden framework for restraining willing victims. Around the room there are various pieces of furniture, each of them designed to facilitate a unique interaction between partners. There are suspension beams, a ladder rack, a whipping post, and a shrink wrapping tool. In one corner, there’s an ordinary bed. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
We are, in fact, in Missouri, located in what feels like a forgotten part of St. Louis. We’re here because tonight is also a fundraiser for Sex Positive St. Louis. Along with Anna Banana, David Wraith, and Kendra, I’m hoping to create an environment in this city where people can talk about sexuality openly and have a little fun with it. Tonight is supposed to be the fun part, and while I’m excited, I’m also intimidated.
All of the guests have been pre-registered and screened to ensure that things will go as smoothly as possible. Everyone is required to show legal identification, make a donation, and fill out paperwork providing information from a list of kinks and emergency contact numbers. They’ve been instructed to bring their own restraints and toys.
My friend Ziztur pulls a vibrator out of her coat. She flicks it on and it lights up, like Doctor Who with his sonic screwdriver. Tucked away in another pocket, like her coat is a Swiss Army Knife of sex toys, is a black and purple flogger that I won’t see until later. Ziztur is only one of many friends to show up. It’s their presence that makes this doable.
The Performance
At 10 p.m., Kendra prepares for her performance, a BDSM scene with her partner, Beast. The show is both beautiful and upsetting. It’s like watching a dance where one partner knows all of the moves, and the other has no idea what’s coming. Beast puts her through her paces slowly and intercuts the spanks with tender kisses to an exposed shoulder, to her back, to her lips. Part of me is happy for Kendra. This is exactly what she wants. Another part of me has a visceral reaction to watching a man, especially one as physically intimidating as Beast can be, hit a woman. Kendra puts on a convincing show and I squeeze my partner’s hand every time she squeals.
Afterward, Kendra thanks us all, and urges everyone to enjoy themselves. From downstairs, we hear a loud series of cracks. A crowd gathers around the balcony rail. Below, a man is putting on a show with flaming bullwhip. It’s an impressive sight. Strings of fire dance around him, and when he snaps the tip against the concrete floor, the sound is like a gunshot. Heavy with fuel, the whip leaves trails of flame on the concrete.
A woman’s near-orgasmic cries grab my attention. They belong to Velma, a close friend. She’s being held down playfully by three people as Ziztur uses her sonic screwdriver vibrator against Velma’s demim-covered crotch. Velma’s a screamer. Her girlfriend and Ziztur’s husband stand on the other side of the bed, enjoying the show. This arrangement, or something like it, isn’t new to any of them. We have, by almost anyone’s standards, an incredibly sexually liberated circle of friends.
My partner and I have no intention of having sex, here. A week or two before the party, we discussed everything; set the boundaries we expect from one another. This is new territory for us. We’ve been to a couple of strip clubs together, but this is something entirely different.
Surrounded by our friends and strangers in an elaborate and intimate dance, we can’t help but get into the vibe. At one point, we make our way to the bed where Ziztur went at Velma earlier. Other friends of ours occupy it now. We lay down in the free space, only to have the bed break beneath us. A handful of people rush over to help, while our three friends stay on the mattress, frozen mid-coitus.
The bed repaired, Evan and I try again. I push my luck and slide a hand up Evan’s shirt, and occasionally dip into his waistband. I wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if he felt, in the moment, that we could go further than previously discussed. The environment here is positive, almost magical, and undeniably erotic.
I feel another hand on Evan’s back. It belongs to our friend Charlie. At any other event, Evan and I wouldn’t think twice about cuddling with Charlie, or most of our other friends, but this isn’t any other event and Charlie’s other hand is engaged in teasing a woman’s nipples on the opposite side of the bed. I break my kiss with Evan.
“Are you okay with this?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Charlie’s hand is on my back. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah,” I say.
For the two of us, it doesn’t go any further than kissing. We keep getting distracted by the snapping sounds of a whip. Our friend Reed has been shrink-wrapped to a metal column and Ziztur is whipping his chest. Like a kid in a candy store, Ziztur is in her element. My instincts are torn between experiencing this event, and witnessing it. Even here, I think about the words I will use to describe this situation later.
Afterward, Kendra thanks us all, and urges everyone to enjoy themselves. From downstairs, we hear a loud series of cracks. A crowd gathers around the balcony rail. Below, a man is putting on a show with flaming bullwhip. It’s an impressive sight. Strings of fire dance around him, and when he snaps the tip against the concrete floor, the sound is like a gunshot. Heavy with fuel, the whip leaves trails of flame on the concrete.
A woman’s near-orgasmic cries grab my attention. They belong to Velma, a close friend. She’s being held down playfully by three people as Ziztur uses her sonic screwdriver vibrator against Velma’s demim-covered crotch. Velma’s a screamer. Her girlfriend and Ziztur’s husband stand on the other side of the bed, enjoying the show. This arrangement, or something like it, isn’t new to any of them. We have, by almost anyone’s standards, an incredibly sexually liberated circle of friends.
My partner and I have no intention of having sex, here. A week or two before the party, we discussed everything; set the boundaries we expect from one another. This is new territory for us. We’ve been to a couple of strip clubs together, but this is something entirely different.
Surrounded by our friends and strangers in an elaborate and intimate dance, we can’t help but get into the vibe. At one point, we make our way to the bed where Ziztur went at Velma earlier. Other friends of ours occupy it now. We lay down in the free space, only to have the bed break beneath us. A handful of people rush over to help, while our three friends stay on the mattress, frozen mid-coitus.
The bed repaired, Evan and I try again. I push my luck and slide a hand up Evan’s shirt, and occasionally dip into his waistband. I wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if he felt, in the moment, that we could go further than previously discussed. The environment here is positive, almost magical, and undeniably erotic.
I feel another hand on Evan’s back. It belongs to our friend Charlie. At any other event, Evan and I wouldn’t think twice about cuddling with Charlie, or most of our other friends, but this isn’t any other event and Charlie’s other hand is engaged in teasing a woman’s nipples on the opposite side of the bed. I break my kiss with Evan.
“Are you okay with this?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Charlie’s hand is on my back. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah,” I say.
For the two of us, it doesn’t go any further than kissing. We keep getting distracted by the snapping sounds of a whip. Our friend Reed has been shrink-wrapped to a metal column and Ziztur is whipping his chest. Like a kid in a candy store, Ziztur is in her element. My instincts are torn between experiencing this event, and witnessing it. Even here, I think about the words I will use to describe this situation later.
The Conclusion
Despite my timidity, there is a part of me that has never felt so at home as I do here, surrounded by close friends. I can’t help but feed off of their happiness and their pleasure, even though this isn’t the kind of pleasure I’m accustomed to seeing them in. The evening gives way to familiarity, to love—and to lust.
My earlier concern is moot. Nothing feels as right as this party. Even the people here that I don’t know, and there are many of them, are an important part of this mix. Almost everyone makes eye contact as they pass one another. Everyone smiles. There’s a small assortment of men who range from the awkward to the downright uncomfortable, but they are the exception, not the rule.
A huge part of the ambience is made possible by SatansMaster. The Facility is the culmination of years of work, a lifelong dream for this man. His unique name aside, SatansMaster is one of the friendliest, kindest people I’ve ever met. The first time we were introduced, he was wearing a Dr. Suess shirt. Tonight, he’s dressed a little more in character, mostly black, mostly leather. Still, there’s nothing scary about him. He watches over the night’s events with a careful eye, making sure everyone is having fun, but also being safe.
At the end of the evening, I thank him for hosting the party and stick my hand out to shake his. He waves it away.
“We hug here,” he says and leans in. He pauses. “Oh,” he says. “Pardon me.” He looks at Evan, then at me. “Which one of you is the boss? I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“No bosses,” we laugh. SatansMaster hugs both of us, asking if we had a good time.
“We did,” I assure him, certain that I’m not going to be able to express just how much of a good time it was.
All Photos: Mike Estes
My earlier concern is moot. Nothing feels as right as this party. Even the people here that I don’t know, and there are many of them, are an important part of this mix. Almost everyone makes eye contact as they pass one another. Everyone smiles. There’s a small assortment of men who range from the awkward to the downright uncomfortable, but they are the exception, not the rule.
A huge part of the ambience is made possible by SatansMaster. The Facility is the culmination of years of work, a lifelong dream for this man. His unique name aside, SatansMaster is one of the friendliest, kindest people I’ve ever met. The first time we were introduced, he was wearing a Dr. Suess shirt. Tonight, he’s dressed a little more in character, mostly black, mostly leather. Still, there’s nothing scary about him. He watches over the night’s events with a careful eye, making sure everyone is having fun, but also being safe.
At the end of the evening, I thank him for hosting the party and stick my hand out to shake his. He waves it away.
“We hug here,” he says and leans in. He pauses. “Oh,” he says. “Pardon me.” He looks at Evan, then at me. “Which one of you is the boss? I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“No bosses,” we laugh. SatansMaster hugs both of us, asking if we had a good time.
“We did,” I assure him, certain that I’m not going to be able to express just how much of a good time it was.
All Photos: Mike Estes
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