He is tall and pudgy and carrying a yellow and black sports bag on his arm.

'Ready to play?' says Lenny to a young, fat, bored whore in black pleather rigging. I come here in between girlfriends, when I've got nothing else to do.' John continues, 'I would never bring a girlfriend here. His studded dog collar peeks out from beneath a Brooks Brothers shirt. 'She was very mild,' says John, discussing the dominatrix who has just finished whipping him. His Docksiders and cotton leisure wear have a yuppie feel. Tony is 6-foot-1, slim, with mocha-colored skin, wavy black hair and a friendly smile. He is 27, born in Puerto Rico, transplanted to Manhattan 20 years ago. Tony, a computer analyst at IBM, could not look less like a freak. Darkening, he adds, 'I'm here, so I must be some kind of freak too.' And I'm not just talking about underwear.' Tony pauses and laughs at his joke. They're lonely, they are all missing something in their lives. 'Coming here instead of going home proves these guys are trying to fill an emptiness. Which is maybe why the lights are always low at the Hellfire Club. The dread of running into an acquaintance is overcome by the obsessive need behind the deed.

Naked except for an expensive pair of loafers or a button-down shirt, or merely a high-end watch, these are clearly men of substance decent upstanding citizens with a penchant for deviance. Most of the naked men shuffling about with penis-in-hand are clean-shaven preppies and Wall Streeters. It is after midnight on a Saturday at Hellfire, a 20-year-old fully equipped S/M fetish dungeon in Manhattan's meatpacking district.

To helfire and back