It's raining men as OutUK's Adrian Gillan dips his toes into watersports at
the Streams Of Pleasure Club. Or is it all just a wet dream?
Surfacing at London's King's Cross en route to Central Station's twice-weekly basement
watersports p-party, my nose begins to sniff in the air involuntarily on nearing, but
thoughts are calmed as a gorgeous young man in a bright red top follows me down
the steps into unknown depths.
It's already quite busy and I'm not really dressed to make a splash. Most have left
their civvies at the door and squeezed into rubber shorts, industrial clobber, speedos
or footie kit.
I quickly down a few pints so I've got something to offer - vodka shots
won't set your pleasures spurting - and watch the pump empty its yellow load into
my jar like some strange recycled golden nectar to wet the appetite.
A child's paddling pool takes centre stage and sets the mind a swimming. As in some
surreal fringe theatre, two regulars in heavy manual gear appear from the surrounding
darkness and step into the dim-lit pool. The plumper of the two lies flat on his back
and his full friend fumbles open a zip and spouts a warm bladderful over his pal's
check shirt with a muffled fizzing splosh like hot water hitting a tea bag.
I pinch myself. The tall man shakes out one final drop and then helps his paunchy mate
up who slips over again into the pool of piss with a dull wet thud. The toilet humour
of this splashy slap-stick circus makes me laugh aloud. Second stab and he's up
and pissing in his tall friend's boot, now off. Tall friend pulls said boot back
on for a few sloshy steps, removes it again and slurps out his fat pall's piss.
As the fat man readopts his horizontal obeisance for the duration, I resolve to piss
on someone here and now, before my time is out. I start to feel the urge but opt
for the toilet instead which I half expect to be empty - all things considered - but
which has in fact become a jolly little inner-sanctum side show. Everyone's pissing
on everyone, no room left for even the most discreet leakhits.
I return tensely to my pint and touch it gingerly to my lips, tasting for any external
influences in my absence. Shit! Some people I know: fancy meeting you! Fuck: ground open.
Then an older man who's been letching me throughout comes up and somewhat strangely asks
if my name is Alan. I tell him it is not and he goes on and on about how he likes fair
hair when blatantly all he wants to do is slash all over me. I tell him I'm a famous
writer and he scuttles off back into the shadows whence he came.
I'm sustained throughout this aquatic subterranean venture by the sheer jaw-dropping
spectacle, by my determination to piss over someone and by my cutie in red who
flits in and out.|
Someone's toying with my boy in the darkness and I jealously get
embroiled and make it clear I won't share him with anyone, nor myself with the
others in this cessy pit. So we disengage, zip up and regroup to discuss - me fit to bust.
Red-topped and red-faced Steve swears he'd been - like me - in two minds and only
entered the joint after he saw me descending. I tell him he'd been my only thought
all session, as romance buds in this most unlikely of places. He relates how he's
always wanted to piss in someone's mouth and I protest I'm not quite ready but need
more time and - anyway - have no change of clothes if things get messy.