I was visiting SF late in the 70s, a few years before I moved here. I'd played non-cp a number of times that trip, but had never got my butt spanked, which was definitely what I was looking for. "Jeez", I thought, "If you can't get a whuppin' in San Francisco, where can you?"
So I went to the Black and Blue, a bar kitty corner from the 8th-and-Howard Baths (the former is now a paint store, and the latter a homeless shelter). Got pretty drunk, and eventually got up the courage to approach some guy named Lance ... tall, dirty blond, lean, butch. Once I'd said hello, I just blurted out "You wanna spank me?"
I was early twenties; 5'8"; lean, tight body; longish, brown hair; great butt ... still pretty much the same, except my hair is short and I have a goatee. Lance laughed, and took me home.
I had no idea in those days that somebody bigger than me could be a bottom. I just assumed somebody as butch and hot as Lance would be top ... but I got my first lesson in SF men that night. He tried to spank me, but it was so lame that I soon turned him. I had his pants off, him laying lengthwise on the tattered couch that projected from the mounds of mess that littered the living room of his Clementina alley apartment. I pulled off my rawhide belt and took it to him. I lashed him back and forth, up and down ... stopping every now and then to try to get him to switch, but he was having none of that. It was the first total whipping I ever delivered, and when I blew my load screwing his perfect ass, I knew I was now in a new place, past some boundary from which I could never retreat.
I spent the night. The next morning, I mistakenly called my one night bottom "Rod", which caused laughter. I knew the name was something long and hard, and I just picked the wrong tool! I misnamed him right as he was getting up and discovering that he was black and blue ... and he realized that he had to cancel a sunbathing trip to the nude beach ast Land's End. I laughed and told him that he ought to be proud of the stripes ... even though they made me nervous. Since then, I have always prided myself on long whippings that leave minimal marks.
But that's not the story here. I still get a knot in my nuts when I think of Lance ... wonder where he is, every now and then. I wonder whether he'd like another session with my rawhide belt.