Gawd, you remind me of a much younger version of myself daring my body up the creaking steps of a New York City townhouse to the third floor apartment. "He's Gotta Have It" was the name of the club, quite unlicensed and definitely in violation of a score of building codes.

"Slow down, stud," the door guy said to me as I pushed into the main room. "You gotta check your clothes first." He pointed over at a counter where guys were stripping.

I was relieved most of the crowd elected to keep their underwear on, though you could check that too if you wanted.

I hadn't paid an ungodly sum for my fashionable Calvin Kleins just to hide them away. 🤣

Actually, I was pretty intimidated. I'd been to nude beaches and nude saunas and all that sort of thing, but I'd never gone to such a sexually charged space and then had to take my clothes off.

The clothes checker gave me the speech. "If anybody complains that you didn't respect them, you're gone, no questions asked. If they shake their head at you or step away, that means no, move on."

We didn't say, "No means no" in those days, let alone, "yes means yes." Nevertheless, the club held together on the strength of consent culture, which we didn't even have a word for — because how else could two or three hundred naked or nearly naked gay guys crammed together in a tight space get along peaceably?

I also used to go to Hell, a club with a similar theme but an older, rougher crowd. Consent culture was just as important there.

I actually used to go to Hell as part of a safer-sex peer education project, but that's a different story!