Some years ago, I was in a playwriting workshop and one of my fellow writers/classmates was “Terry.” Terry was awesome. He was the gayest guy I had ever met—very out, very flamboyant, very proud. Other gays would look at him and go, “Damn, that boy is gay!” Terry would regale the class with tales of his wild “gayventures” and many of his stories would revolve around these underground S&M clubs he would often frequent.

As I am always up for new things, I asked him if I could tag along with him to one of these underground clubs. “I’ve been waiting for you to utter those very words,” Terry replied; a small tear trickling down his cheek. He said one of the clubs would be in Silver Lake that coming Friday (they moved around to different locations) which was just blocks from where I lived. I told him I was definitely there.

At the time I was dating a woman named “Sally.” When I told her about my plans for Friday night, she wanted to come along too. I didn’t see any harm in this (big mistake as you will also learn shortly) and I called Terry to let him know Sally would be joining us.

Now, Terry was also one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met so of course he said this wouldn’t be a problem. But there was hesitancy in his voice. If I had been more perceptive, I would’ve picked up on the fact that he didn’t think this was a good idea.

So Friday rolls around and Terry picks us up and we head to this non-descript building. We park and enter through the rear back. Terry knows the doorman, they exchange a few words, the doorman makes sure we’re not sneaking in cameras (but drugs are OK, he asks us if we have any blow to share) and we are in.

The place is an art gallery by day, but now it is a hot and sweaty vice den. I won’t go into too much detail because I don’t want to give away the secrets of this underground fraternity that I had been welcomed into, but I will say this—all the guys were in great shape. It was like being in a room full of Caucasian Roger Fans and Sung Kangs. There was what you’d expect–nakedness, leather, chains, whips, people in costumes, but it wasn’t as crazy as I imagined it would be. I guess I was expecting nude dwarfs talking backwards, various animals partaking in the orgies, Tom Cruise sitting on a throne in the middle of the room—but alas, it all felt pretty…normal. Well, as normal as it could be watching six guys ejaculating on a barking guy in a dog collar.

As Terry took us on a tour of the different rooms, I could sense he seemed uncomfortable. Was it because I was Asian? No, there were actually other Asian dudes here. Did the people in the club sense I was not gay and an intruder? Did I need to get naked and have sex with a guy to prove I belonged? No, there were guys here who were dressed “normally” like anyone you’d find at any bar on a Friday night. But something was definitely off.

After awhile, I took Terry to the side and asked him if anything was wrong. “Look around,” he said to me, “and tell me what you don’t see.”

That’s when I realized the obvious. There were no women in the club. Except for Sally. That’s when I also became aware that people were giving us strange looks. We didn’t belong there. But it wasn’t because of me. It was Sally. I knew then what had to happen. She had to go.

“You want me to leave?” She screamed after I explained the situation to her.

“I’m sorry, baby, but it’s just…uncomfortable with you here.”

“But I’m having fun. I want to stay. I can be like your fag hag.”

“Honey, look around, there are no fag hags here. Fag hags don’t hang out with their gays at places like this. They hang out with them at Ikea and cabarets in West Hollywood. Think of it this way,” I try to explain further, “you know how you always talk about how pissed off you get when you’re at an Asian function and one white guy shows up and spoils things. Well, right now, you are that white guy at the Asian function.”

“So you want me to go? And you’re going to stay?”

“When am I going to get another chance to experience something like this? Don’t worry, no one’s going to convert me. Well, unless they buy me a drink first.”

She doesn’t appreciate my attempt at humor. Still pissed, she leaves muttering something about how I won’t be getting any that night. I stay. And I have to admit I have a pretty awesome time. Seriously, when am I going to get to experience something like this again?!

One of my proudest moments of the night is when one of the club goers approaches me about engaging in some of the activities. Awesome, I’m successfully passing as gay! I have him explain to me what he’s into and he does in graphic detail.

Then he asks me what my safe word is. I say the first thing that comes to mind: “tube socks.” He explains how I should pick another word because it’s easy to get confused with a word like “tube socks” (If I scream out, “Stuff my tube socks down my throat” does that mean I want you to stop or actually stuff my socks down my throat?). So I pick “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” But that won’t do either because if I’m really in trouble that word may be too long and difficult to utter. Man, I have so much to learn! In the end, I say thanks for the offer and politely decline. I also realize I wouldn’t be having these interesting experiences if Sally had still been there. I guess sometimes a sausage fest isn’t always a bad thing.

Later that night, I get home and Sally is still upset and a huge fight ensues. In the end, the argument’s not really about the gay club, it’s about the fact that I don’t really involve her in my life. And the truth is—she’s absolutely right. The truth is we have nothing in common and we should have broken up long ago. And that’s what we do—we end things then and there. I guess sometimes it takes a trip to a gay S&M club to make you see things clearly and put your life into perspective.