Aside from the time I went hang-gliding in a foreign country with a guide who didn’t speak English, the scariest thing I ever did happened inside a yurt in Northern California a few summers ago, when I was a horse.
It was the horse fair, also known as the FickstutenMarkt, a sex party imported from (where else but?) Germany. We were in a yurt because it was part of an annual, all-male, weekend sex camp not far from Ukiah that I promised the organizers I would not name. The yurt was for privacy. The entire weekend is secluded from the outside world — there are signs at the gate instructing UPS to come back some other time — but it’s also private in the sense that half of the 30 or so FickstutenMarkt participants don’t know who the others are. It’s a structured, semi-anonymous orgy built around dominance and faux-bestiality.
You signed up to be a mare or a stallion. Mares meet separately an hour before the market opens, at which point they’re blindfolded and given a soothing pep talk where they’re assured that handlers will be there to provide water or adjust blindfolds as needed, and that it’s OK to tap out at any point if you’ve had enough. Also, all the mares have to be fucked before any one of them can be fucked again.
That is probably not how they do it at clubs in Berlin.
Still, self-esteem-boosting California modifications or not, it’s a German concept — which means there are rules. First, there’s no peeking and no talking. The sex has to be entirely anonymous. Second, a mare cannot refuse a stallion unless the stallion’s cock is too big or if it has a piercing. Third, mares have the option of choosing only protected sex. I play safe as a condition of being in an open relationship, so a ribbon was tied around my arm to indicate my choice. (This was before PrEP became widespread and condom use began to decline in such circumstances.) Fourth, if you choose to stop for any reason, that decision is final and you are escorted outside into the dark, at which point you remove your blindfold. But you have to keep walking without turning around, like Orpheus leaving Hades.
We sat in near-silence around the yurt. Low tribal music played. I remember my heart pounding, and ridiculous thoughts masquerading as pragmatic concerns filling my head. We had just eaten dinner — what if I got nauseated? What if I got a rough top who was really into the equine aspect and wanted to inspect my gums? The only thing that kept me from cackling was the worry that inappropriate laughter would spoil the scene for other nervous mares psyching themselves up.
The stallions entered, a demonic processional. After a few minutes, I heard moaning from other mares as they were sold off. A hand gripped my arm, and I was led wordlessly to my first stallion. The anticipation mixes with the fear. The agony alternates with the ecstasy. The knowledge that you’re being observed causes you to remain stoic.
I knew who he was, right away. I could determine his voice from his groans as he fucked me. He was about my age and very good-looking, so I relaxed into the rhythm of it. I think he came, but I honestly don’t remember for sure. He might have got what he wanted and moved on.
My second stallion was older and larger. Instead of fucking me from behind, he positioned me to sit on his dick. It was girthy and rock-hard, but he was almost gentle with it. He wanted me to have fun, too. I am certain he did not ejaculate. I think he wanted to fuck as many mares as he could. I did not know who he was.
After two, I signaled for water — but what I really wanted was a break. Although I had no idea how much time had passed, it was clear that the room had thinned out a bit. But the realization that I had lasted longer than at least a few mares was all the encouragement I needed.
The third one was rougher. He broke the rules by whispering in my ear, whatever the opposite of sweet nothings are. He didn’t care if I felt any pleasure; I was his to use. Ordinarily, being treated like meat would turn me on, but this was a little too intense. My body was done and so was my mind.
I was taken out. The lead handler, an affable blue-collar bear, thanked me for being a good sport but emphasized the importance of following procedure. I showered and went to the hot tub, happily dizzy. At that hour, many guys were in the middle of flogging scenes or fucking in their cabins, but there were enough people soaking to make it too aggressively social to stand for more than five minutes. So I left, proud that I could take three dicks at the FickstutenMarkt and still keep my trap shut afterward.
I never learned who that last guy was. We will always be two anonymous horses who fucked at the fair. But the next morning at breakfast, a handsome, middle-aged guy introduced himself in such a way that I realized he was the second stallion. Funnily enough, he was German. We never saw one another again, although we share the same first name.