I Accidentally Ended Up at a Gay Warehouse Orgy in DTLA

Lord knows, I made the best of it.

The paperback for Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto is out now. Order it here!

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Original illustration by Eduardo

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It was eerily silent driving through DTLA at 11 pm. I could only hear the wind slapping against the car and police sirens off in the distance. 

I hadn’t realized we were going to a warehouse party downtown. I thought we were having a chill (and early) night in WeHo. It was the Saturday eve before Mother’s Day. I did not want to spend the entire day with my mom (and extended family) a hungover, exhausted mess—especially since my whole family raises their voices by fifty decibels when my niece is around.

Being a loud talker, I usually don’t mind, but I can't handle the noise when it feels like my brain is a desiccated raisin that’s been sitting out in the hot sun for a week. 

We parked on the street and made our way to the gate. “Twenty more minutes,” the bouncer said. “They’re not done setting up yet.” 

I checked my iPhone: 11:18 pm. With an eyebrow cocked, I turned to my friend and asked, “When does this party go until?”

“From eleven to eight,” he said.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I said, frustrated that we were on extremely different pages. I thought I had made it clear I needed an early night. If a party is going until 8 am, no one will arrive until 2 am at the earliest. And I was on the east side of LA, around twenty miles from my mom’s place. I couldn’t just “pop” on home. Getting home would be an ordeal (and an expensive Uber).

“I think I’m going to head—” 

“No, Zach, absolutely not. You’re only in town for a few days, and this is the only time I get to see you.” 

“I just really need some sleep before family brunch, at least seven hours.”

“Seven hours? That’s decedent, Zach. PLENTY of sleep. You’ll be fine.” I didn’t reply. “The guys here are stupidly sexy, and the dark room gets full.” 

I weighed the pros and cons. “Goddamn it. You’re lucky I’m a basic bitch and don’t get to have much sex when I’m in LA,” I said. “But I’m out of here come two am!”

“Deal.” 

Thirty minutes later, we walked into a near-empty warehouse, no more than five early birds inside, horny fuckers hoping to catch the worms. It was hard to see; the main room was only lit up by red lasers flashing in random patterns.

The crash of pots and pans was blaring over the speakers. God, I am not cool enough to like warehouse music. It’s cacophonic trash to me. It just elevates my heart rate, so I feel disoriented and anxious. (Am I getting older? It sure sounds like it!) 

I headed to the bar, grabbed a napkin, tore it up, and plugged my ears.

“Let’s grab a drink,” my friend said. Before I could protest, he continued, “One White Claw isn’t going to kill you.” 

White Claw in hand, we began dancing. I could either be a crumpy, anxious mess or start moving my body. More men slowly filtered inside as I swiveled my hips and pumped my arms, dancing like a poor man’s John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever. 

Until, at one moment, I opened my eyes to notice I was swimming in a sea of shirtless men. I checked my clock, it was 1 am. Honestly, the party was popping earlier than I expected. 

“Let’s head to the darkroom,” I told my friend. We walked up the poorly lit stairs. I tripped and saw my life flash before my eyes, but luckily, I managed to grab the handrail. Some poor, high bastard is going to kill themselves on these stairs, I thought.

There were a total of two dozen men upstairs. Half were mid-scene: fucking a dude in a swing, getting railed on a bench, a twink on his knees deepthroating the cocks of three burly daddies. 

Half roamed mindlessly like zombies, peering in at scenes but not initiating. They clearly wanted to get involved but were seemingly waiting for a cock to fall into their mouths.    

Waste not, want not, I always say. So I whipped out my cock, and dangled it like bait, seeing who would bite. I blinked, and a mustachioed otter appeared on his knees before me. The bristles from his stash tickled the base of my cock as he sucked, his mouth round in a perfect O.  

He handed me a bottle of poppers, and I took a hit and fed them to him. He snorted, unhinged his jaw, and swallowed my cock like a Copperhead. I let my head roll back, and the warmth of the Rush flooded my soul. My hole loosened. My body, tense and sore from dancing to mediocre music, relaxed.

I took a seat on a nearby bench. The otter, on his hands and knees, followed. I placed my hand on the back of his head and guided him deeper down my cock. Nothing rough or brutal, just a gentle encouragement to go a little further, to take all of me. He gagged, and I let him up for air. 

I grabbed his cheeks between my thumb and middle finger. “You like that?” I was in Dom mode. 

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Open.”

He opened his mouth, and I spat directly onto his tongue.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. 

“Back on it.” 

He stuck out his tongue and licked the backside of my shaft while he sucked. Up and down. Up and down. I took my cock out of his mouth and slapped his face with it before pulling it back and releasing, making a loud “thud” as my dick hit my stomach.

I made eye contact with men as they circled me, making a note of who I’d like to fuck next. It was Los Angeles and circuity, so yes, all the men were beautiful, but one tanned twunk caught my eye. Mind you, I’m not the biggest fan of twunks (or twinks), or more accurately put, they’re not my go-to fuck in a darkroom. But he was dressed like Laura Croft, and when we made eye contact, he smiled and winked—in a way that was unquestionably femme—before turning around, revealing a dump truck ass. That’s the thing about pocket gays: a few squats, and they have a massive booty. 

This little gay boy knew what he was doing, knew the power he yielded, and I can guarantee he fucked any man of his choosing. I was just one in a long line of men he’d seduced, and honestly, I was flattered that he took a liking to me. 

I pulled my cock from the dick sucker’s mouth and thanked him. He had sad eyes like a puppy when he sees his owner packing for a vacation. I felt bad, but only for a second. Another man would surely give him his load. 

I turned the corner to see my twunk waiting for me. He knew I’d follow. We locked eyes, and I pressed my body against his. We kissed with a sense of urgency—both of us horny with no desire to wait. My dick, in pain, pressed against my jean shorts. I unbuttoned his pants and reached underneath his booty shorts. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. I grabbed his meaty cheeks before placing my middle finger on his hairless hole. He puckered it for me. 

I needed to be inside of him, not in a minute, not in ten seconds. Now. I pulled down his shorts with one hand while pulling down mine with the other. My cock flopped out of my jorts, ready to pound. I flipped him around, and he placed his elbows against the wall for support while he stuck out his ass. He handed me a bottle of lube from his utility belt, and I poured it without abandon.

“You ready for this cock?” I said as my head hovered at his hole.