VIRGIN FIRE PLAY by Morris Taylor
Dew drops cling to white pine trees. The five needles of each bundle hug one another to ward off the evening chill. The sap that drips freely during autumn light now congeals in darkness. In the whispering wind, my nostrils pick up the resinous scent of evergreens on the Pennsylvania hillside.
Half scared and half curious, I people-watch. Hot guys schelpp duffle bags, roller cases and equipment boxes down the rutted dirt road. Old-timers embrace. Even in this safe space, newcomers cower. I muse about how different these men are from the adolescents who inhabit this teen camp in summer. Playful adult males have taken over indoor gyms and outdoor pool.
“There’s a first time for everything,” I mutter to myself.
Taxing my social skills in the registration line, I manage, “Hi, I’m Morris.” If there is a smile of recognition, I add, “Buddy, where are you from?”
One friendly person helps me find the group cabin to which I am assigned. I forget his name, but not his kindness. The spartan dorm looks like the army barracks I had experienced at Fort Hood, Texas, many years before: the splintered and creaky floor, torn mosquito mesh on open windows, showers with unreliable hot water and little-to-no privacy.
After staking out a claim consisting of one towel hook, a clutch of coat hangers and an unpainted wooden shelf, I decide to reconnoiter. The smell of greasy food wafts from the dining room, yet no one waits in line. I wander into one of the free-standing cabins that houses a temporary commissary.
Aside from the clerk, I am alone. A few snacks are for sale, but it is the array of hemp rope, adult toys and leather gear that turns me on. I hope that my feigned nonchalance will mask my lack of experience. I enjoy fondling some of the merchandise, imagining how this flogger or that clamp will torment my body.
Sensing a dominating presence, I glance up. There stands a bearded man. My eyes take in his tight jeans, heavy boots and Master’s cover—a costume favored by dominant men into leather. His black leather vest is festooned with flame-shaped appliqués in brilliant reds and yellows.
“Does your vest mean that you are into fire play?” I blurt out. My eyes fixate on the floor. I experience hot flashes. Sweat oozes from my pores.
“Yeah,” the leatherman replies in a confident voice.
“I have no experience in this kind of sadomasochistic ritual. Can I try it out?” I ask. Whatever possesses me? I am stupid as an ass and dumb as a donkey. Continue Reading »