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Virgin Fire Play

VIRGIN FIRE PLAY by Morris Taylor

Fire PhotoDew drops cling to white pine trees. The five needles of each bundle hug one another to ward off the evening chill. The sap that drips freely during autumn light now congeals in darkness. In the whispering wind, my nostrils pick up the resinous scent of evergreens on the Pennsylvania hillside.

Half scared and half curious, I people-watch. Hot guys schelpp duffle bags, roller cases and equipment boxes down the rutted dirt road. Old-timers embrace. Even in this safe space, newcomers cower. I muse about how different these men are from the adolescents who inhabit this teen camp in summer. Playful adult males have taken over indoor gyms and outdoor pool.

“There’s a first time for everything,” I mutter to myself.

Taxing my social skills in the registration line, I manage, “Hi, I’m Morris.” If there is a smile of recognition, I add, “Buddy, where are you from?”

One friendly person helps me find the group cabin to which I am assigned. I forget his name, but not his kindness. The spartan dorm looks like the army barracks I had experienced at Fort Hood, Texas, many years before: the splintered and creaky floor, torn mosquito mesh on open windows, showers with unreliable hot water and little-to-no privacy.

After staking out a claim consisting of one towel hook, a clutch of coat hangers and an unpainted wooden shelf, I decide to reconnoiter. The smell of greasy food wafts from the dining room, yet no one waits in line. I wander into one of the free-standing cabins that houses a temporary commissary.

Aside from the clerk, I am alone. A few snacks are for sale, but it is the array of hemp rope, adult toys and leather gear that turns me on. I hope that my feigned nonchalance will mask my lack of experience. I enjoy fondling some of the merchandise, imagining how this flogger or that clamp will torment my body.

Sensing a dominating presence, I glance up. There stands a bearded man. My eyes take in his tight jeans, heavy boots and Master’s cover—a costume favored by dominant men into leather. His black leather vest is festooned with flame-shaped appliqués in brilliant reds and yellows.

“Does your vest mean that you are into fire play?” I blurt out. My eyes fixate on the floor. I experience hot flashes. Sweat oozes from my pores.

“Yeah,” the leatherman replies in a confident voice.

“I have no experience in this kind of sadomasochistic ritual. Can I try it out?” I ask. Whatever possesses me? I am stupid as an ass and dumb as a donkey.

The command comes swiftly. “Boy, I’ll expect you at midnight on the tennis court!”

Would I? Should I? Could I? I was not introduced. I don’t even know his name. What if he’s a pyromaniac?

I gulp down a tasteless meal in the mess hall. I pretend to organize my clothes in the bunkhouse. I cannot focus my racing thoughts. How can I crave something so dangerous? I really am playing with fire.

My mind reassures me. I have seen demos where there have been flames that have not burned or maimed the recipient. The primitive part of my brain says, You should flee from this danger. What if something went wrong that you can’t control? The rational part of my mind kicks in with, You are at Gamma National camp where the players are expert and trustworthy. Yet the argument continues with the lizard-part of my brain, You ought to fight to maintain your safety.

I resolutely decide that I crave the experience of giving up control to another man whom I can trust to lead me into a unique experience of bravery, machismo and mastery of self.

Fifteen minutes to midnight I undress. Darkness conceals my pile of neatly folded clothes. I put my boots back on and walk to the center of the fenced pavement of the tennis courts. Shivering and quivering, I stand naked at parade rest, legs extended with hands clenched in the small of the back. The moments stretch toward midnight.

From behind instant terror strikes: crackle of flames, searing of heat and singeing of hair. A firebrand flashes in and out of my crotch and up and down my legs. I am too scared to speak; yet, I trust this “top” who is skillfully controlling the torch.

Sensing my terror, my unseen torturer says, “Boy, you’re going to be okay. I’ll take good care of you.”

He continues to whisk fiery wands which scorch my flesh in sensitive areas of my body. I sniff the acrid smoke and shudder. I blink when flames pierce the inky darkness. I cringe as the heat penetrates my skin. My cock rises and hormones kick in. The burns are mild. In the excitement of the scene, endorphins turn pain into pleasure. I am sexually aroused and, of course, really hot.

The mysterious man hugs me hard. I melt in his arms, exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. “Good boy. I’m proud of you,” he says. “My scene name is Flash; my real name is Arthur. I already know you are Morris; your buddies said you are a serious player.”

My terror has turned into trust. “Thanks, Flash. You definitely fulfilled a fantasy. Since childhood I have had a fascination with fire. I nearly set a house ablaze playing with matches. Back then I experienced nightmares of burning alive after the preachers scared me with hellfire sermons.  Now it seems like my soul is purged of fear.”

“Morris, I have one request,” he says. “At breakfast tell me if you’re still okay.”

The next morning I spot Arthur’s flame-decorated vest. “Flash,” I say, “that was one hot scene last night. My skin is red and a bit itchy, but I feel fine. My hair will grow back. I just hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did.”

Arthur, aka Flash, reassures me, “In a couple of days, you won’t see any evidence.”

Proudly and defiantly I proclaim to myself, I dare to be who I am. I’m not scared of fire, not even the preacher’s hellfire. I’ll never be a fire play virgin again.


Morris Taylor is a contemporary version of the Renaissance man. Throughout his fourscore  and more years he has displayed a keen interest and considerable skill in the arts, religion, family, and the leather lifestyle. As a musician, he has travelled the world giving classical piano concerts, master classes and lectures. His writing achievements  range from scholarly papers in musicology to poetry. For four decades Doctor Taylor was on the faculty of Christian universities. He retired as Professor Emeritus of Music. In the capacity of his missionary credential, he has taught Bible classes for youth and adults and raised up a Seventh-day Adventist church in Appalachia. For many years he and his wife Elaine, with whom he had four children, toured as a duo-piano team. In his sixties Morris has acted upon his inherent homosexuality. In his retirement years, he has become a watercolor artist. His twenty-five one-person shows range from San Francisco’s Grace Episcopal Cathedral to the Center for Sex and Culture. On May 21, 2015, he exhibited his erotic watercolors at Chicago’s Leather Archives and Museum. He is currently producing a book, Nine Lives of Morris: Great Tales from One Cool Cat. To find out more and to participate in the project, go to:

A documentary film is being made of Taylor’s life.