Inside, past three sets of doors and a changing room cordoned off with an old tarpaulin, is a shadowy warren of alcoves, cages and dark corners. Knee-high leather boots hang from iron chains looped through ceiling hooks like fetish bunting. A gregarious barman greets regulars while hairy-chested musclemen appear on a small screen next to an ice bucket. A string of closures has caused concern for those interested in a variety of fetishes, but the leather scene seems to have been hardest hit, particularly in London. Bars such as the Coleherne, the Anvil, Bloc, Substation and, most recently, the Hoist, have all disappeared into the annals of gay history, replaced with gastropubs, luxe apartments and identikit offices. Rising rents, competitor fetishes and competition from online dating apps have all been a turn of the screw.
Why is the gay leather scene dying?
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In the room downstairs, a strobe flashed over mounds of muscle and harnesses. Men slipped in and out of shadow. I later understood that to be the point. Upstairs, things were different — a quiet dive bar, people milling around wooden tables. Someone was choking on a dick in the corner. His gagging noises mixed with the music and talk.
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Her shapely hips thrust against my hands as her orgasm rolled through her body, my hands dripping wet with massage oil and her own nectar. I longed to dive face first in to the open slit in front of me and taste that nectar from the source, but I also needed to blow my cover (if I still had it) and get some attention of my own. I felt her hand slowly snake its way up my leg towards my rock-hard erection.
I spread my legs slightly as her hand grabbed my swollen cock through my pants and gave it a squeeze.