Far Out Experiences: BDSM at The Folsom Street Fair, San Francisco
In September, I was fortunate enough to take a month-long solo trip to California. I’d desperately needed solace, self-reflection, and maybe even the chance of a bit of growth should the opportunity arise. In hindsight, I have no idea why I chose the Sunshine State as the battleground on which I could face up to a few home truths that had arisen throughout the first part of the year. Still, one particularly anxious morning, it was booked in, and there was nothing I could do about it.
A solo trip is naturally filled with equal parts wholesome experience and sheer debauchery, and I indeed wept at the sheer immensity of Yosemite National Park and fulfilled a lifelong wish to visit the Salinas Valley, the setting of one of my favourite works of literature, John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. As for the other side of the scale (and I am indeed a Libra for those cosmologically inclined), one particularly debauched experience came during the last weekend of my trip, to San Francisco, at the Folsom Street Fair.
One thing that surprised me when I arrived in California was the exorbitant price of everything. Being a British person on his jollies, I naturally wanted to have a cold glass of something in my hand whenever… well, whenever, really. Still, at $7 a pint, plus tax, plus tip, sadly, that meant that I sure as hell wasn’t going out every single night without fail – although I damn well tried where I could, forever a grifter and eternally unashamed of an underhand dealing or two.
As such, I frequently had to make do with any free offerings that were presented to me. Other times, I had to charm my way into getting others to buy drinks, which quite happily turned out to be pretty often. But to the Folsom Street Fair! It fell on the last Sunday of September, my mother’s birthday (perhaps pertinent for what follows).
Just two nights prior, I had got illicitly fucked up with some amiable Irish guys, wound up back at their apartment and woke up on their sofa many hours later with the sun shining so brightly through the window that I genuinely thought I was in a resort in the Bahamas, having suffered what I would consider a near-death experience just a few hours before.
Saturday was spent incredibly hungover, walking through Golden Gate Park, so oblivious to what was happening around me that I walked directly through the middle of an ongoing baseball game. One player had been shouting quite aggressively at me to “walk around! walk around!” (I had had my headphones in, you see) until I finally clocked him, raised my hand in apology and shyly scuttled off. Fair enough.
Sunday rolled around, and finally, I had my head screwed back on. I’m sure I’d read of the Folsom Street Fair online sometime during my trip when I was investigating what was on in different parts of the state that I was due to visit and what I could sneak into. The description I recall was that it is America’s biggest celebration of leather, kink and BDSM. So I thought, “Why the fuck not?” Much of the trip had been me essentially saying “yes” to things, seeing as I had felt that I was unlikely to return anytime soon given the ridiculous cost, lest it be on future business – and therefore, hopefully, paid in full.
They say when in Rome, do as the Californians do. As such, I found myself about two blocks from Folsom Street in San Francisco’s Mission District, happily and herbily intoxicated, the late September sun still tanning hot and slowly turning my hair blonde. As I stumbled down towards Folsom, I saw a few folks heading down with their leathers on. I thought, “OK, we’re gonna roll in, get our leathers on, have a bit of a laugh, look at some whips and spiky dildos and call it a night”.
That much proved to be accurate, at least for a while. I bowled in, cracked the warm can of beer the Texan girls from my hostel had given me and thought, “let’s get stuck in there, lad mate”. Immediately, I spotted the opportunity of a free drink, well, a sample of one at least. Sound. I lined up for a taste, and it drastically turned out to be non-alcoholic. Shit. I told the guy I thought it needed a bit more sugar as I necked it and turned away.
The titular street splits the outdoor Folsom Street Fair into six other public roads, on which there were little stalls selling leather harnesses, whips, chains, you know, all the stuff you’d expect from a BDSM festival. Everyone was admittedly dressed up to the absolute nines and looked utterly mesmerising. Drag queens, dominatrixes, boyfriends behind led around on dog leads by their partners, furries, and all sorts of characters in tow. There was a persistently relaxed smile on my face throughout the day, induced by the really amazing draw you can easily buy within the state.
A few naked blokes rolled through. “Fair play,” I thought, “do your thing”. Then, Viagra-induced erections, cock rings, and all the rest. One bloke had even injected his bollocks with so much saline that they had swollen to the size of a generous Galia melon. I went and danced a bit; the sun still ultra-pleasant on my skin.
One thing about the blokes who were totally naked, though, was that a small percentage of them were just on the side of the road having an extensive tug. I mean, one guy was lying on the floor sunbathing, jerking himself off, completely oblivious and seemingly uninterested in anything else that was going on around him. It got me thinking, but more on that shortly.
I wandered around for a while and came across the Society of Janus arena, where several people were being consensually whipped, those with foot fetishes were being trodden on, and everyone was getting up to all sorts, it seemed. “Give him poppers!” someone called out in a Californian drawl – furries playing with one another in a playpen, tossing a ball between them.
There was even a commentator explaining what the highly-skilled sadist was doing to the willing masochist whilst he was whipping her with an intricate tool. When the commentator put the microphone to the masochistic lady’s mouth and asked how she was doing, her voice shook the words, “hyper-aware…”. It really was becoming delicious fun.
I continued to wander around, chatting with folks. By this point, my top was off as I had started to feel a bit left out, being fully clothed. Then, suddenly, I found myself in a rather interesting scenario. With all the placidity of watching Kasabian at V Festival, I stood upon the scene of several men crowded into a paddling pool urinating into one another’s mouths. Come to think of it; I did need a piss, actually.
Out of nowhere, a young man tapped me on the shoulder. Without introduction, he told me he desperately needed to “bust a load” and wanted me to join him in the toilet so he could have a good huff of my armpit while he brought himself to. I politely rejected his offer. However, he was insistent, assuring me he’d take just three minutes tops. Again, I told him I was fine and was enjoying watching these blokes relieve themselves on and in one another. He offered me 30 dollars.
Tucking into an excellent hot dog from one of the vendors, I took a moment to look around again. People were getting spanked, others giving and receiving head, and well-rehearsed drag shows. I went for another dance while the sun threatened to dip below the city skyline. Karl, San Francisco’s infamous fog, was waiting to swoop into the city and suggest everyone chuck on a few more layers.
I’d gladly gathered enough from the fair; there wasn’t an awful lot more that I could learn, so I started to head back home. But then, I was captivated by an irresistible beat from one of the bars. I joined the crowd and lamped up another joint. A very tall Danish-looking chap stood nearby, so I went and told him that “us tall guys need to stick together”.
We got talking, and I was glad to share a fascinating conversation with him about the fair, kink and sexuality in general. Sadly, many conversations I had with the Californian populace had been stereotypically superficial. But Jeff and I left no stone unturned. During our discussion, a few lads in front of us started going down on one another, but we carried on, as oblivious as if they were getting stuck into a very intense game of Top Trumps.
Through Jeff, I was able to relate my thoughts on the fair. I asked what he thought about the wanking blokes who seemingly had no interest in what was going on around them. In sum, I figured that whatever kink you have, whether that be the exhibitionism of public masturbation, getting whipped and lacerated, or urinating into someone’s mouth, it’s not merely OK; it is there to be celebrated. Still, I felt that the wanking gentlemen weren’t really celebrating an awful lot.
The sun finally settled beyond the skyline, forcing Jeff and me to throw a few more layers on. I asked, “What’s happening now? Do we go to a club or something?” Jeff said there were quite a few sex parties on usually, but we decided to hit a club nearby. However, when I got to the desired spot, the line was truly outrageous. I looked around, and I didn’t exactly fancy anyone, so I decided to call it a day. Jeff seemed sad at this. He enjoyed our conversation and wanted a bit more. I hugged him and told the people behind him what a great man he is. He seemed pretty anxious upon my departure, so I hope he had a good time, even today.
On the way home, I popped into a goth/emo/underground club and stumbled around, listening to trance remixes of Fall Out Boy and Panic! At The Disco. But by this point, the body and mind were pretty knackered, so I dipped back out quite soon after and headed for slumber.
The Folsom Street Fair was one hell of an experience I shall not forget in a hurry. It’s a celebration of all facets of human sexuality. Whatever kink you have is there to be celebrated in a joyous union, and while I’m still on the fence about the public masturbators, it’s well worth a visit should you find yourself in the area in late September. However, it must be said that it is certainly not for the prude or the closed-minded.
