I woke up today from a very bizarre dream that resembled something akin to the Rocky Horror Show but with more perverts and less dancing. Only, it wasn’t a dream. I had, in fact, spent Friday night taking in my very first fetish club.
Please don’t get excited thinking that the following is going to be a grimy tell-all of what I saw there (some things need to be left etched onto the backs of my shocked retinas and not inflicted on others) and please also don’t think that I’ve suddenly converted to the church of S&M and will be trying to persuade you to join the choir. I’m broad minded but I think I’m a long way off being that broad minded.
My night started off with some very civilised drinks and nibbles hosted by a transvestite and her girlfriend who had decided to deck themselves out in matching floral 50’s style dresses (well, if it’s good enough for Posh and Becks…) and after sufficient small talk, the relocation of our group to a fetish club was suggested and I, rather nervously (hugely curiously and incredibly nosily) agreed to tag along.
Now, I considered my outfit to be verging on slutty as I left my house yesterday evening but on arriving at said club, it became glaringly apparent that I was hugely overdressed and may as well have turned up wearing a track suit. It was suggested by the very helpful and wonderfully informative pot-bellied middle-aged cab driver, dressed in ladies underwear and a dog collar that I should lose the hot pants – as if you could get any more of me on show without people seeing what I’d had for my dinner!!!!! I was also informed that it was incredibly obvious to one and all that I was “vanilla” through and through. For those of us not down with the “scene” lingo, vanilla means that you’re plain and boring – and there was I thinking I was a bit edgy in my leopard print top!
My new chum assured me that my vanilla status wasn’t a bad thing and that no one was going to think any less of me for being a blatant prude but that if I had tried to get into the club without my gaggle of trannies, I would most likely have been turned away. On a wardrobe plus-note, my shoes were greatly admired by the foot fetishist. Um, thanks, I guess.
Whilst mingling, I quickly developed a bit of a fan club. A bizarre collection of middle-aged men in various get-ups (rubber boots, lingerie, wigs, corsets…) who were looking for a girl they could spend the evening adoring and carry out her every whim. If you take away the rather unique attire, these guys are pretty much what every girl is looking for!!!
Having gently let down my newfound friends (I’m sorry boys, it’s hard to believe it but I just wouldn’t know what to do with a slave), they became obliging tour guides and were only too happy to take me to see all the various rooms of the club and to explain all the social etiquette requirements, dos/don’ts etc, and trust me, us vanillas need a few pointers when faced with such sights as topless lesbians in rubber panties and transvestites taking a gratuitous spanking from a Dita Von Teese-esque dominatrix.
In spite of the plethora of freaky business I witnessed (MY EYES, MY EYES!) I can honestly say I have rarely felt so safe and so unjudged in a nightclub in all my days of drinking. Every person I met there was so friendly and open to having a non-sexual chit chat once they had, in a very direct manner, established your boundaries (somehow I ended up chatting current affairs with a man dressed head to toe in red fish net, as though we were stood in line at the bank) and because of the very nature of the club, all judgement is reserved. All judgement. I mean, let’s face it, when you go somewhere to openly flout your perversions, it would be rather narrow minded to then mock someone else because of their own particular brand of freakery!
The other thing about partying with pervs that’s a vast improvement on the run-of-the-mill nightclubs we vanillas frequent, is that you don’t get hassled or groped like a questionable melon on the supermarket shelf (unless that’s your thing) by would be suitors. Sure, people approach you but they very quickly lay their cards on the table and if you’re not buying what they’re selling, they politely move on and bid you a pleasant night without trying to shove their hand down your blouse. It’s all hideously civilised.
I thoroughly enjoyed my time as a tourist in a fetish club and I was hugely grateful to the folk there who accommodated my at-a-distance-curiosity (which has been well sated, I promise you) and I now have a huge respect for those people who are putting their unique tastes out there. I still feel that wearing hot pants is kinky enough for me though…
Pretty Feet, Pop Toe 