The Velvet Curtain (Group)

Friday night, I was feeling restless. By Saturday morning, I was covered in cum on a concrete floor after letting at least 8 guys use all of my holes.

Sometimes Portland just feels... flat. You know what I mean? Like a beer left open overnight. The fizz is gone, and you're just left with the stale smell of hops. I'd just finished a week of shifts at The Hop & Hammer that felt exactly the same. The same IPAs, the same arguments about whether hazy is better than West Coast, the same guys trying to explain my own tap list to me. By Friday night, I was crawling out of my skin.

It was 2 a.m. and I was doing what I always do when I feel that specific kind of restless: riding my fixie with nowhere to go. The streets were empty, just wet pavement reflecting the orange streetlights. It had rained earlier, and the air smelled like damp asphalt and greasy, yummy food from the late-night carts closing up.

I was grinding up a hill in the industrial district, my thighs burning, just trying to sweat out the boredom. It wasn't working. I wanted something sharp. Something that wasn't predictable. I was thinking maybe I should book a flight. But where? Just somewhere else.

Then my phone buzzed in the pocket of my hoodie. I slowed down, skidding the back tire slightly, and pulled it out.

It was Kat.

Kat is the only person I know who makes me feel like I have my shit together. We both sling drinks, but she works at this absolute gutter-punk dive on the Eastside. She's covered in tattoos that look like they were done with a prison gun, she's got a septum piercing she's always flipping up and down, and she treats life like it's something to be used up as fast as possible. We bonded over tequila sodas and a shared appreciation for chaos.

The text was simple: Feeling brave? Got us on the list. The Velvet Curtain. Backroom. 3 a.m. Be ready for trouble lol

I stopped the bike completely. The Velvet Curtain. I knew what it was, even though I'd never been. It wasn't a bar. It wasn't really a club. It was a space. People talked about it in whispers after their third shot. It was an old warehouse, totally unlisted, known for performance art that blurred the line between a show and a sex party. Extreme, hedonistic, and very, very private.

The boredom evaporated. This was the wavelength I needed. I hadn't fucked anyone in what felt like weeks (it was a few days) and I could really use a good pounding. Some trouble, as Kat put it.

I'm in, I texted back. Where?

She sent an address deep in the warehouse district. I turned my bike around and started pedaling hard.

I got there at 2:45. It was a massive, brick building that used to be a cannery or something. No signs, just a heavy steel door painted black. Kat was already there, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing thigh-high boots, ripped fishnets, and an oversized leather jacket that looked like it might be the only thing she had on underneath.

"Hi," she grinned, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out. Her eyes were already bright. "Knew you wouldn't bail."

"Fuck this week," I said, catching my breath. I chained my bike to a rusty signpost.

"Exactly." She pulled me into a quick, hard hug. She smelled like clove cigarettes and cheap whiskey. "Okay, so here's the deal. It's already going inside. This isn't the usual performance night. This is... specialized."

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small glass vial with a dropper and a tiny, folded piece of paper.

"Focus and feeling," she said, tapping the paper first, then the vial.

Coke and liquid MDMA. Perfect.

I unfolded the paper and took the bump of coke quickly off the back of my hand. The familiar, bitter drip started almost immediately. My teeth went numb. The fog in my brain cleared.

Kat unscrewed the vial. "Open," she said.

I stuck my tongue out. She dropped three drops of the MDMA onto it. It tasted metallic and chemical.

"That'll kick in right when we need it to," she said, putting the vial away. "Ready?"

I nodded. My heart was hammering, a mix of the coke, the bike ride, and the anticipation.

Kat banged on the steel door. A slot opened, eyes looked out, and then the door clicked open. A huge guy with a shaved head nodded at Kat and stepped aside to let us in.

The main space was massive, dark, and loud. There was heavy, slow industrial music playing – a deep bass that I could feel in my ribs. It was mostly empty, though. A few people were milling around some weird sculptures made of scrap metal, but that clearly wasn't the main event.

Kat grabbed my hand. "Back here."

She led me through the main room toward a smaller door marked "Private." The air was getting warmer, heavier. The smell changed from stale air and dust to something else. Sweat, definitely. Lube. Sex. A weird, sharp ozone smell, maybe from a fog machine or just the sheer amount of body heat.

She pushed the door open, and we stepped inside.

The backroom was small and intensely dark, lit only by a few red bulbs hanging from the ceiling. It took my eyes a second to adjust. The music was muffled back here, replaced by different sounds. Wet noises. Heavy breathing.

Against the far wall, there was a partition, painted matte black. It ran the length of the room. And it was studded with holes.

Glory holes. Maybe ten of them, at different heights. Some at mouth level, some lower down.

There were a couple of other women in the room, already busy. I couldn't see their faces clearly in the red light, just the shapes of their bodies kneeling or bent over.

Kat leaned in close, her breath hot on my ear. The MDMA was starting to hit. A warm wave was spreading from my stomach, and the red lights suddenly seemed much brighter. My skin felt sensitive.

"Rules are simple," she whispered. "No talking to them. You don't see their faces, they don't see yours. You pick a spot, you take what comes through. You're in control until you decide you're not." She squeezed my arm. "I'm right here. Tap my shoulder if you need water, a break, or if you want me to step in. Got it?"

I nodded. My mouth was dry. I looked at the black wall. I could hear men on the other side. Shuffling, a low cough, the sound of a zipper.

This was insane. This was completely impersonal. It was exactly what I wanted. I didn't want to talk about IPAs. I didn't want to flirt. I just wanted the physical. I wanted to see how far I could push it.

"Have fun, slut," Kat said, smirking.

I took a deep breath. The air was thick and smelled like… cum, for lack of a better term. I walked toward the wall, my boots sticky on the concrete floor. I picked a hole right at mouth level, about center of the room, and I knelt down.

The concrete was cold and gritty under my knees. The molly was rolling hard now. My jaw felt tight, and the red lights seemed to be leaving trails when I moved my head. My skin was buzzing, hyper-sensitive. I put my face close to the wall, near the opening. I could smell the latex paint, but underneath it, something else. A musky, male smell coming from the other side.

I didn't have to wait long. Maybe five seconds.

A cock pushed through the hole. It just appeared. Thick, uncut, and completely hard. It twitched slightly. No hand guiding it, no face, just this anonymous piece of meat sticking through the black wall.

It was so impersonal. So transactional. It was incredibly hot. It stripped everything away. There was no flirting, no names. It was just a cock, and I was just a mouth.

I leaned in and licked the tip, right over the slit. He tasted salty, clean. A low, muffled sound came from the other side of the wall. A grunt, maybe.