This piece was first published in As you like it: The Gerald Kraak Anthology (Volume 2) African Perspectives on Gender, Social Justice and Sexuality.
Ernest and I had just stepped outside Liquid Blue, the gay bar on 7th avenue. We were tipsy and trying to get a cab to go home. Cab drivers were yelling around to people as they stepped out of the bar, “cab to go home! Cab to go home!”. One cab driver wearing a brown leather flat cap and a black leather jacket approached us and offered to take us home at a discount. Instead of R80, he would take us home for R50. We looked at each other and agreed silently. Ernest sat in the front seat and I hopped in the back. A few minutes into the ride, I noticed that he missed the Enoch Sontonga Avenue exit.
“Where are we going? You were supposed to take the exit on Enoch Sontonga Avenue. We did say we are going to Braamfontein Centre you know,” I said, half nervous, half bitchy. “Relax I want to get beer,” he said looking at me through the rear mirror and flapping his arm in the air. He stopped further down on Solomon Street after missing the Enoch Sontonga Avenue turn. It was dark and the only light around that area was coming from the street lights, yet people were milling around, smoking. The beggars on the side of the street were still up, covering themselves with boxes and blankets.
“What is this? Where are you taking us? Why would you stop in the middle of nowhere?” I was suddenly wide-eyed and fearful. He stopped the car then looked at me wordlessly through the rear mirror. He asked Ernest to go inside the shebeen to go buy him beer, leaning out his hand with a R20 note and pointing at what looked like a closed door. Next to the door, three men stood smoking. Terrified by the thought of being separated from me in the middle of nowhere, Ernest nervously let out a, “no way”.
The driver looked at us through the rear mirror as if to check if the coast was clear. Then he got out, leaving us alone in the car. He came back five minutes later with two Black Label Quarts. He started the car and we were driving again. Ernest turned back looking at my face searchingly. I decided to break the tension and silence with conversation.
“We didn’t even get your name earlier,” I said feigning enthusiasm. “Jabu,” he said, letting out a chuckle which I thought was directed at my poor attempt to probe without seeming to.
“And where are you from Jabu?” I carried on, suspecting I might already be treading down the annoyance avenue. “I live in town,” he said pausing to open the Black Label with his teeth, “You have a nice big ass,” he added and gulped the beer. “And how long have you been in living in town?” I persisted, ignoring his comment. “I live with my wife and two children. I’ve been there for…” – he takes another a gulp and puts the beer in between his thighs – “I’ve been there for 3 years now. I was in jail for about 5 years before I moved to Marshalltown”.
“But don’t worry, I am not that dangerous.” He says looking at me through the rear mirror, sliding his hand from the back to caress my thigh, his eyes focused between the rearview mirror and the road. I politely push his hand back and say, “I am okay thanks” – scared that asserting myself further might be lethal. I want to beat myself hard for not having been more careful in choosing our cab. R50 is too good to be true, we should’ve known better, I lament in my head.
“Why are you acting all fresh,” – he says lighting up a cigarette – “as though you don’t want it”. Neither of us respond. “I am always picking up boys like you at Melville and they’re always keen. I don’t know why you guys are being like this. Look at how fresh you are. You mean to tell me I’m losing out on this fresh meat?” he says as he rolls down the window, kind enough to blow the smoke out. Neither of us respond. We drive for some time in silence while he smokes.
“Okay then. Let’s go have some fun at The Factory,” he says throwing out the cigarette bud out the window. He is now driving over Mandela Bridge towards Braamfontein centre. We calm down a bit as he heads towards our neighbourhood and we realise he’s taking us home. But still, we don’t respond. He pulls up outside our house and turns off the car. It looks like we are off the hook. He is not quite ready to let go though. He gives it one last try. “Okay then, fine. I’ll pay for your entrance,” he says.
Until this point, I have never met anyone who has admitted to having been to The Factory. It always existed as a mythical place with everyone having their own versions of what happened there. It was mainly known as a place where married men went to have sex with boys. This was home to male-only orgies with naked men everywhere. Almost every time The Factory came up, it was always spoken about as a place that ‘apparently exists’ like a mystical place that only existed ‘out there’. No one dared admit that they’d been, let alone laying an invite on the table.
Jabu begins to talk about The Factory and how often he goes. He is happy to share, hopeful that with each detail we might take up his offer. When he doesn’t find a boy to sleep with, he goes there for a quick fix. We decline politely and he makes it clear he is heading there now because we have turned him down. Sometimes he takes boys there to go have sex with when he can’t take them home because of the wife and children.
I spend the following few days coming up with my own versions of what goes on at The Factory. I was studying Anthropology at the University of the Witwatersrand and in need of a case for an ethnographic study where ‘participant observation’ was to be the research method. Participant observation is a mode of social inquiry that requires the investigator to be as immersed in the lived experience of the inquiry as the subjects of the study. That, in addition to my curiosity about the ways in which sex has been the central tool to the policing of queer people, was how I decided to explore and make sense of The Factory. So naturally, I headed out on my first site visit.
***
The Factory is an exclusively male nude bar located in Doornfontein Johannesburg. The Factory is advertised as the ultimate playground for men who want to leave their clothes and inhibitions at the door to indulge in their fantasies. From my experience, I found to be predominantly space that serves as an outlet for heterosexual identifying men to seek sex outside the heteronormative order.
I spent a few days at The Factory in Doornfontein Johannesburg. In that time I wondered about whether it was a queer space – whether what went on there was a function of heteronormativity, a release from it or a space that challenged heteronormativity as an institution. I became increasingly curious about whether and how it might be possible to find a place for The Factory and other similar places that exist across the continent – within the paradigm of queer culture and politics. In providing this detailed account of the connections and interactions at work in this exclusively-male nude bar I want to explore whether The Factory can be viewed through the lens of queer culture as a politically progressive space that transgresses the hetero-norm.
To do this, I want to examine The Factory through the lens of Counter Publics as outlined by Michael Warner and Lauren Berlant. In their paper, Sex in Public, they posit that the privatization of sex is where the policing of sex and morality begin. The idea that sex is an act that can only be accessed by a heteronormative couple in the bedroom has resulted in a public arrangement that is produced in every aspect of our social life. They posit that a range of assumptions about what happens in the privacy of the bedroom are made – and they permeate the public domain.
Warner and Berlant suggest that the best way to dismantle this kind of arrangement is through the development of Counter Public spaces that allow for queer people to enjoy sex while challenging the idea of sex being a private act that can only be enjoyed within the heteronormative institution. These spaces exist and ought to exist outside hegemonic practices of sex and sexuality and thus seek to challenge heteronormativity as the ideal sexuality. They create what Warner and Berlant call “new forms of gendered or sexual citizenship”.
In his book, The Trouble with Normal, Michael Warner has argued that the moral high ground that is assumed in our predominantly heteronormative world, is occupied by individuals or social groups that police the sexual choices, practices and lives of others. Warner argues that sexual shame and repression are dominant in a heteronormative society. He suggests that shame and sexual repression are crucial political tools used to determine who is included and who is excluded in society. To transcend shame and repression Warner posits that sex and sexuality must be viewed as political acts. I will use this idea of a Counter Public within the queer paradigm to understand how The Factory challenges or reinforces our understanding of sexuality.
***
My first visit is on a Wednesday afternoon. Because it was my first time, I thought I’d go on a weekday and at around 1 pm, when there would be fewer people. This would ease me into the escapade and not overwhelm the prude in me.
I embark on the long trip from Braamfontein to Doornfontein where The Factory is located. Walking there gave me a sense of how deserted and awfully quiet this area really is. I walk past Noord Taxi Rank which is almost always congested with traffic, pedestrians and street vendors. I walk past Elis Park Stadium and China City Shopping Complex, wondering who on these busy roads might be coming from or going to The Factory. I am later told by one of the bartenders that some of the busiest nights are those when there are matches at Ellies Park Stadium.
The area is industrial; occupied by factories and abandoned lots. There are men in blue uniform walking around, and seemingly workers on lunch break. It is extremely quiet. And there are about five cars parked outside. There is an old black man standing outside the entrance in a black security guard uniform. Above him is a sign saying, “The Factory Bar”. I walk up to him and ask awkwardly “so… is it open?” He confirms that it is, displaying no discomfort himself. He points me to the door.
“Do you know if it’s busy inside?” I ask as I head in the direction he has pointed. “It’s not that busy, Wednesdays at this time aren’t usually hectic… but there are a few people inside. Go up those stairs, and ring the buzzer when you get there”, he adds.
I do as he says. The door buzzes like a doorbell – ding dong. I realise later that the sound creates a sense of anticipation for the people who are inside; they know to expect a new body. I enter a poorly lit area. Even on a Wednesday at 1 pm, the lack of lighting creates the illusion that it is night time. Soft ballad music plays in the background.
A young black man, seemingly in his late twenties appears from the counter. He is completely naked, I peep to see his semi-erect penis as he approaches the counter. “Sixty rands”, he says impersonally even though he looks as though he is assessing me. I take out R100 and hand it to him. He doesn’t give me change. He explains that the balance is kept and each drink I order will be deducted from there. This makes sense because I will not have pockets for my wallet.
“So, are you having a busy day today?” I ask trying to seem nonchalant. “Not really. Take off all your clothes and hang them here. Leave your shoes on,” He says handing me the hanger with a string written “26”. “Where do I change?” I ask as I grab the hanger. He looks at me with what seems like an annoyance. “Right there,” he says walking away.
I think the number suggests that I am the 26th person of the day. Standing behind the counter, I start to take off my clothes. A young black man with a green string around his waist and an erect penis stands by and stares at me. I give him a blank look in turn, and then he turns and pretends to be reading something from the wall. I stop taking off my clothes to observe his brown skin glistening in the darkness of the room. He is reading a poster by Health4Men with pride colours across it that reads “no one should ever be discriminated against based on race, religion” and in capital and bold letters “AND SEXUALITY”. Health4Men is an initiative dedicated to eradicating and reducing the transmission of Sexually Transmitted Diseases through research projects and ensuring access to HIV & AIDS resources. They provide The Factory with condoms, lubricant bottles and sachets.
Two other naked men stand next to the guy reading the poster. They stare at me whilst he continues pretending to be reading from the poster. I hand the bartender my clothes and walk through a small passage behind a counter. At the end of the counter is a right turn into the area. There are heaters and some walls are mirrored. The effect is to create the illusion that the area is bigger than it seems. But it also serves as an interesting device for the body language that takes place. I glimpse people checking each other out through the mirror. Over the course of my visits, I will sometimes even see people admiring their own naked bodies and fondling their penises, looking at people through the mirror, as if to invite others to join in.
The place has a maze-like design, like an incomplete construction project. This is deliberate. It creates a feeling of mystery and intrigue; there is hardly an open space where everyone can see each other clearly, except for the bar area. Instead, it is full of corners, passages and little rooms with no doors. There’s one room by the bar area – the only room that has a lockable door and the only room without a bed. It is the only room where you can close the door while having sex, masturbating or kissing someone. At the bar area where people can see each other, you’ll find people standing around and watching porn on the television screens nearby. Sometimes people stand around as if they are waiting to see other people have sex – which, depending on the numbers, isn’t that often. If something starts people generally flock to go watch; to masturbate as they watch.
In fact, hearing people have sex creates anticipation, builds up the sexual tension for and between the people watching. It is as if they are hoping to take turns, to join in. Occasionally two people making out or having sex loudly can get other people to also start making out too. There are three screens in the bar area constantly playing porn. At almost every instance the first screen displays porn with black men, the second shows only white men and the third screen shows interracial porn. The bartender DJs the porn by constantly changing the DVDs. There is no sound; the images are there to create an ambience and to distract people who might feel overwhelmed by what is happening in the area.
To display sexual interest, people will generally follow you around and attempt to caress you. All of this is done very gently and subtly. When making a move, it’s almost as if there is a build-up that starts with a nod or a wink, a gentle touch and then a reach to your genitals. A sign of discomfort or disapproval is enough to send anyone off. The place is also very quiet. The low sound level creates a safety net because if anyone tried making a move on you against your will, a scream or a raised voice would be heard by almost everyone in the bar.
There are “glory holes” along the maze paths – apple-sized holes on the walls situated at an average height around the midsection-level, suitable for one to push a penis through to the other side for fellatio. There are also chains hanging by the bar area with handcuffs. During my visits, I did not see any sexual encounters taking place at either the glory holes or the chains during any of my visits.
The Factory has been running for 15 years this year. Rian Van Wyk, who used to be a regular says, “The Factory has gone through several changes. It has moved from being a predominantly white bar to predominantly black and rather representative of the demographics of South Africa.” He said the first time he visited The Factory was on Valentine’s Day when he was feeling “sad, lonely and horny.”
It would be the first of many visits. That first time he was overwhelmed. As a result, he did not engage in a lot of sexual activities, he says. He often visited when he was feeling horny and wanted to, at the very least, be around naked men. “My first few visits were spent trying to figure out the place and the activities that take place there,” he says. He started participating once he understood the signals, and the way everything worked. He says now he only visits occasionally because there are other spaces for gay men to meet. The Factory is mainly frequented by working-class black men. Although it is by no means a black-only space, black people represent the clear majority of patrons.
The only thing you are allowed to wear at The Factory, are shoes, your watch and the string with your number. In other social spaces where clothes are used as social markers, here the basis of judgement is the naked body. In addition, of course, I could tell a lot about class based on the shoes and watches that the men walking around were wearing. There is a spot in the bar area where you can see people as they enter and pay the entrance fee before they take off their clothes. Around 1 pm, there are men who walk in wearing suits, ties and formal wear and often rings on their left ring fingers. These men have obviously left their workplaces for ‘lunch.’ Almost all of them leave after an hour. In discussions over my visits, I learn that they sometimes knock off early and pop into The Factory before going home to their wives and children.
I visit one Tuesday afternoon. It is not too full. There are about ten men inside. None of them are engaged in any sexual activities that involve physical contact. They are just walking around, looking at each other and watching porn on the screens by the bar area. Two men start kissing and fondling upstairs, in a narrow passage with a leather mattress that fades into darkness at the end. As soon as they start making out almost all the men in the bar gathered around them – pleased to finally get some excitement. It doesn’t take long before the small crowd disperses. However, there is something about the encounter, that is too intimate to watch. There is no chance that this will become an orgy – no one else is invited. I walk away, surprised by how everyone knew to leave them alone – knew that they should not even be watching.
The Factory has a reputation as a sexually wild space. And yet what I have just witnessed is a moment of sensitivity and restraint. Over the course of my visits, I witness this repeatedly: respect of the intimacy of two people engaging in sex. In fact, most of the sexual encounters that take place at The Factory are very intimate in that they are about two people having a private encounter. I saw men holding each other and making conversation after a session of having sex, or simply holding hands and talking without any sexual contact.
Occasionally, like in the early hours on a Sunday morning, there would be a group encounter. This often involves several men taking turns to penetrate one person, often on the swing in the middle of the ‘darkroom’. Most ‘participants’ are passive – watching while masturbating.
Weekends are busier than weekdays. On weekends there are men everywhere. Some sit alone by the bar area, others walk around the bar, sitting in groups, around corners, chatting by the toilets. The darkroom is at its busiest during the weekends. The darkroom is one of the bigger rooms in The Factory, positioned at the end of the space – as though all the other hallways and passages lead to it. It is pitch black, so dark that I have to use my hands to navigate and ensure that I don’t walk into a wall. I use my hands to check before moving forward until I find a spot on the wall where I can stand and watch. After my eyes adjusted, the only thing I could see were shadows; the outlines of people having sex on the bed right next to the tinted window. The people who have sex here know that their identity is withheld, their acts are anonymous.
In the darkroom, there is something almost primal about the expression of desire. The idea of privacy becomes blurry. Sex is public and yet identity is not. There is always someone having sex, and there is often a gathering – a group of people watching the silhouettes. In the darkroom, it’s almost as if one is merely a body for sexual pleasure. Some people spot each other in less dark areas and once they have established interest, they head to the darkroom and make out or have sex, where they can be heard but not seen. Or seen but not identified. Others find one another in there – and have sex so that their identities are completely withheld even to those with whom they are temporarily having sex with. One married man I speak to says he is only willing to have sex in the darkroom, where he won’t be seen by the person he is fucking.
One of the bartenders I speak to mentions that “the notion of privacy remains extremely important to the clients”. Riaan, whom I quote above, agrees. “The people in The Factory have a “no-tell policy”, a form of camaraderie so that if you see someone who goes to The Factory outside of The Factory, you keep quiet about it”. “People look out for each other somehow,” he adds.
My site visits make me realise how important this distinction is. Some men – the ones who have sex in the open areas – sometimes simply want to have intimate sex without participating in any group activities. For them, The Factory provides a space to access intimate sex with men. Some of the men in the Dark Room are looking for a different sort of privacy. They need the sort of privacy required by people whose sexual lives must remain secret, particularly because they are engaging in an activity that doesn’t conform to heteronormativity. For them, privacy is the price they pay for their subscription to the heteronormative order.
It is precisely because of this that The Factory serves as a limited Counter Public. It provides an outlet to heterosexual identifying men by creating a space in which sex is no longer limited to the bedroom of a heterosexual couple. But it achieves this in private ways that maintain heteronormativity as the sexuality presented as ideal in the public. It locates itself both within and outside the heteronormative framework. The majority of people who go there, do so on the down-low. It is important to them that they maintain their position within a heterosexual society.
It is men like Jabu – the cab driver who introduced me to The Factory – who stand to be the ultimate benefactors of The Factory. They can enjoy The Factory while preserving their heteronormative lives as fathers and husbands. Many of the men who go to The Factory are married, closeted gay men and generally heterosexual-identifying men. They are men who insist on keeping their experience of The Factory a secret for the sake of their reputations within the heteronormative order.
The very existence of The Factory, and what it has to offer, can only be celebrated within the context of the kind of privacy that is linked to the shame of not confirming to heteronormativity. In other words, the privacy practised at The Factory does not function to deepen intimacy alone. The privacy mainly exists because its patrons are ashamed of what they do there. Its patrons get to enjoy an escape from the societal pressure of constantly performing heteronormativity. Yet this is done in ways that coopt queer spaces as mere outlets of heteronormativity and not alternatives that subvert heteronormativity as the ideal sexuality.
Although The Factory does not shake the foundation of heteronormativity, by providing an outlet for heterosexual identifying men to indulge in sex outside the heteronorm, it does put pressure on heteronormativity – rendering cracks that demonstrate that the heterodoxy is impossible to sustain. What The Factory’s patrons calls ‘privacy’ – but which is really a veil of shame – represents a form of moral panic. Yet there is scope for this shame to be transformed into a political tool of progress. Over time, spaces like The Factory can and will help foster queer culture the opportunity to create new economies of pleasures.
The Gerald Kraak volume in which this piece appeared won the 2019 Lambda Literary Award for best anthology.