And this time, things got messy. The party was called Rave Cave: Afters . Partly because it was underground-themed. Partly because it was literally being held at a bar called Afters. Which, considering how the rest of the night unfolded, turned out to be a very fucking appropriate name.
A dark underground bar. Graffiti. Harnesses. Short shorts. Sweaty gays. A dog mask. Exactly the sort of environment Woulf thrives in. I started the night with my boys. My three besties. Pre-drinks at a penthouse apartment. Two hours of drinking, gossiping, catching up and watching more and more gays appear through the door.
I fucking love pres. Half the fun of going out is everything that happens before you even leave. Then someone familiar walked into the room. Brett. A guy I’d been on a date with. Which was interesting because earlier in the week he’d told me he wasn’t coming.
Even more interesting? He was standing in the kitchen talking to Rich. An old fling of mine. Of course they knew each other. This is Wellington. There are approximately seventeen gays here and eventually we all connect somehow. I walked over, hugged them both and laughed about it.
Then Rich asked what had been happening with me. And once again I found myself giving the explanation . The business. The house. Losing everything. Starting again. And halfway through saying it, I realised something. I’m getting fucking sick of that being my introduction.
Yes, it happened. Yes, it changed me. But that isn’t who I am anymore. That was Wolfie’s ending. This is Woulf’s beginning. Anyway. 10pm. Time to rave. Getting twenty-plus gays out of an apartment is like trying to evacuate a burning daycare where everyone is drunk and wearing a harness.
Eventually, somehow, we made it. Out of the penthouse. Onto the freezing Wellington streets. Short shorts. Singlets. Harnesses. And me carrying a fucking dog mask down the road. This is exactly why gays travel in packs. Five minutes later we reached the venue. 10:15pm. Line out the door.
Perfect. Ticket scanned. Wrist stamped. Down into the cave we went. Graffiti across the walls. Bar at the back. Dance floor in the middle. Bathrooms at the front. Dark. Dirty. Underground. Perfect. The moment we walked through the door, my three amigos and I ripped our tops off, got into party mode and hit the bar.
And something occurred to me. The 2019 version of me would have been fucking terrified. Wolfie would have looked around first. Checked whether anyone was watching. Wondered whether his body looked good enough. Waited for permission. Woulf? Shirt off. Harness on. Let’s fucking go.
I didn’t even think about it. That meant more to me than I expected. For me, it was another little sign of how much has changed since EMDR. I feel safer being seen now. Not invisible. Not protected. Seen. And still safe. That’s a massive difference. Naturally, I grabbed my usual Red Bull and vodka.
I like having something in my hand. Then came the important part. The mask. I pulled it over my head. Instant transformation. The eyes of the two guys behind the bar practically fell out of their skulls. No idea whether they were gay, straight or somewhere in between. Didn’t matter.
They were fascinated. I gave them an evil little laugh from behind the mask and walked onto the dance floor. People stared. Good. That’s what the fucking mask is for. Although apparently a pup at a leather party was still enough to confuse everyone. Because as far as I could tell… I was the only one.
Lone Woulf. For now. The room filled fast. I actually remembered to get my phone out and make content for once instead of disappearing completely into the night. Progress. Then, while I was dancing, filming and generally living my best masked life… I saw Brett. Kissing Rich.
And something ugly immediately jumped up inside me. Jealousy. Annoyance. That little feeling of: Why am I not part of that? Ah. There you are. That old belonging wound. Still alive. Still capable of popping its head up when it feels like it. The difference now is I can recognise it.
I don’t have to become it. And luckily, I didn’t have much time to spiral anyway. Because another guy appeared. Someone I’d been talking to on Snapchat. We’d previously organised a hook-up that never happened after he went to Auckland for work. There had been about a week of messages, fantasies and promises involving him and his partner.
Lots of talk. Not much action. And fuck, that irritates me. Maybe it’s the Virgo. Maybe it’s being 42. Maybe I just have dramatically less patience for people wasting my time. I’d actually stopped replying to him a few days earlier. Then he offered me a line.
Friendship restored. Temporarily. Off to the bathroom we went. And on the way, I bumped into another guy I hadn’t seen in years. Someone I’d literally grown up with. So naturally the three of us ended up squeezed into one cubicle. Dicks out. Because apparently a line tastes better off a cock.
I don’t make the rules. That escalated into about ten minutes of general bathroom foolishness before the gays waiting outside started hammering on the door. Fair enough. Apparently one friendship had been repaired and another resurrected in the same toilet cubicle.
Efficient. Then came dancing. Lots of it. Two solid hours of losing myself in music, running into people, kissing people and getting progressively sweatier. I fucking love kissing. My friends. Men I fancy. Random people I connect with for thirty seconds. Kissing is underrated.
And I’m really fucking good at it. I was getting something else that night too. Recognition. Guys telling me they read my Substack. Guys telling me they follow my X. Guys telling me what they’ve enjoyed. That part still gets me. I like being approached. Which is funny considering I’m wandering around Wellington nightlife wearing a black dog mask looking like something that escaped from a very gay horror film.
Apparently I look intimidating. I don’t feel intimidating. Come say hi. The Woulf doesn’t bite. Unless requested. Eventually I needed another drink and a break. That’s when I met Kate. Late 60s. Maybe early 70s. Old-school Queen energy. Pre-Drag Race. Pre-Instagram.
Pre-everything. Just fabulous. I’m always drawn to the most interesting-looking person in the room. Smokers’ areas, dance floors, bars, bathrooms — some of the best conversations happen at stupid hours with people you would never normally meet. And Kate had stories.
An old-school raver from the 90s. Still out. Still dancing. Still showing up. At a queer circuit party surrounded by people decades younger. Iconic. I loved them immediately. And perhaps I recognised something familiar. You probably won’t catch Woulf Ryder wandering around the supermarket at 2pm in full gear.
Yet. But after 10pm? Different fucking animal. We talked. I finished one of the two drinks I had somehow acquired. I hugged Kate goodbye and kissed them. And afterwards I wished I’d taken a photo. Because weirdly, of everything that happened that night, that tiny interaction stayed with me.
That’s nightlife. Sometimes the thing you remember isn’t the outrageous part. It’s someone’s story. Around 1am, things became chaotic again. More bathroom nonsense. More dancing. More adrenaline. And while I was standing there thinking about it, I realised something else.
I’ve always liked the thrill of public hook-ups. That connection between sex, risk and adrenaline has been there for years. One of my earliest sexual experiences happened when I was 17, and looking back now, I can see how some of those early experiences probably helped wire that excitement into me.
It actually reminded me of something from when I first met my husband. We were at a BBQ in Petone meeting his friend group. I’d barely been introduced when the guy whose house we were at asked: “Ohhh, are you the gay who hooks up in the toilets at the mall?” Fucking hell.
Savage. I went bright red. Mortified. Denied everything. Wolfie behaviour. Ask Woulf that question now. Go on. Although to be fair, I don’t really do that anymore. Mostly because travelling from Upper Hutt makes spontaneous mall cruising logistically inconvenient.
Growth. Back on the dance floor, I suddenly realised everyone had disappeared. Friends scattered through every corner of the bar doing God knows what. And I was alone. Sweaty. Overstimulated. A little anxious from everything I’d consumed. Then I found Will. We grabbed each other.
Held each other. And just danced. Bodies wrapped around each other. Music pounding. Lights flashing. Senses turned all the way up. For a few minutes, nothing else existed. That’s one of the reasons I love partying. Those tiny moments where your brain finally shuts the fuck up.
Will is someone I’ve become really fond of. He’s kind. Interesting. Massive book collection. Fascinating job. Every time we go out I learn something else about him. And every time I think: Yeah. More people like this please. I’m lucky with the people around me.
I know that now. At 1am, the boys started handing iceblocks out to everyone. Because apparently the Wellington Party Boys understand nightlife logistics better than most governments understand infrastructure. Honestly. Go to one of their parties. I keep getting messages from guys who want to go but are scared.
I understand that. I used to be one of them. But eventually you have to walk through the fucking door. One guy that night — Michael — had never met me before, but two mutual friends who couldn’t attend had apparently given him instructions to find me if he needed someone.
Their description? The overpowering guy in the black dog mask. Overpowering. Interesting choice. I’ll fucking take it. But what I liked more was being trusted to look out for someone. That is probably one of the strongest parts of Woulf. Yes, I’m chaotic. Yes, I’m sexual.
Yes, I’ll probably be half naked. But I notice people. I check in. I talk to the person standing alone. Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had started because I realised someone needed someone beside them. That matters to me. By nearly 2am, I was completely in it.
Dancing. Kissing. Poppers on the dance floor. Full Woulf. And still… The only pup. Seriously. At an underground leather party? Where the fuck were you all? Next time I expect backup. If you’re reading this and you’ve been too nervous to go out in your gear: Come.
You might find me. 2:45am. Party over. Time for… Afters. After the party. At Afters. Called Rave Cave: Afters . Which means technically we were now going to the afters after Afters. Keep up. Arwoooooo 🐺