by Tony Valenzuela, via The Guide
I was christened into the rituals of darkroom sex by blunder. New York's Wonder Bar in the East Village had a walk-in-closet-sized backroom when I visited in 1995. I entered through a tarp-like curtain and paused at the doorway, hesitating long enough to annoy the breathy men inside who glowered at the beam of light I was allowing to slice through the room. Using my hands as eyes I treaded carefully, shifting through gropes and hairy tentacles and settling on some thick arms that shoved me to the ground. When I was vertical again and ready to leave I dusted myself off, patted myself down and noticed my wallet was no longer in my back pocket.
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