"It's called Head Quarters," said Justin, "And the emphasis on Head is deliberate."
So, Justin drags me into one of his favourite haunts. We've spent an evening wandering around Oxford St, Sydney's gay street, which has the overall ambience of caviare served on used chewing gum.
After wandering the bars, and a quick visit to Justin's favourite porn emporium (porn still bemuses me.... firstly: why? secondly: why are the covers so awfully produced?)... we ended up in Head Quarters.
It's where Justin finished the weekend's SleazeBall - "I had four or five men. All fine - but nothing you'd bother cooking breakfast for." - and, charmingly, he insisted I saw what he meant.
Head Quarters turns out to be four floors of solid filth. Well, three floors of solid filth, and one showing soaps. There were rooms for enemas, slings, crosses, chains, dark rooms, a room with a marble altar, and a room containing three bathtubs.
Some of the rooms contained exhibits. In one, a middle-aged man stood, splayed provocatively in a leather nappy, snarling listlessly like a tired lion at the zoo.
Outside the room where men crap over each other was a notice: "For your own comfort and safety, this is a NO SMOKING club."
Five feet away from it, a bearded man had his arm buried inside a friend, working him like a human puppet.
This is the point where I'm supposed to say I made my excuses and left. I should have done. Justin and I looked out of place. For one thing, he was dressed in designer gear, I was still in beach shorts and a mambo shirt. But, I went looking for the loo, caught someone's eye.... and lost Justin.
Hmmn. How does one describe this properly. Um. "Dear diary, last night I had sex in a cage...?" No. No. Perhaps not.