You have to read The Safeword. No, I mean it. Now. Stop staring at my tits and go read it!!!
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Rubber Ball trip, Day 4 (events originally occured on Oct. 4): Once our lovely dinner was complete, Kali, Liebling, The Mountie and I made a mad dash back to The Mountie's apartment to dress for Torture Garden that evening. Torture Garden is a major monthly fetish event and this year it was the opening night party for the Rubber Ball weekend. This year it was being held in new venue near Islington, not the usual crowded former-church venue way down in the south of London. If you know anything about London, you'll know that south London is a bit sketchy, not always the safest place for young lovelies in corsets to be bumping around, and quite difficult to get a legal black cab late at night (there's usually off-license mini-cabs, but sometimes you're taking your chances with those). We had high hopes for the newer venue being at least better ventilated than the old one.
A major expense for attending a weekend-long event is having enough wardrobe for all the parties. I've never really made extensive additions to my fetish wardrobe, mostly because I've fallen prey to the "Just 10 More Pounds" disease. I keep telling myself I'll get some really nice things, "if I can just get 10 more pounds off." Well, we all know how that story goes. This is also a leading reason why my fetish wear of choice is corsetry. Even if I can't get 10 more pounds off, the corset will force me into the shape I want to be. Yes, it's cheating, in a way, but fuck it. I was never meant to be a size 2 and that's just a genetic fact.
So, I basically had two good outfits and one kind of half-assed one. The half-assed one involved wearing a purple corset over a purple skirt, with a punky kind of t-shirt, and a rhinestone collar. It's my "casual" look, I suppose. The risk in this is the potential for flouting the dress code of the venue one will be attending, as will be demonstrated shortly.
Kali dressed in a stunning ensemble of a custom pink-dyed leather corset with black lacing, a matching collar, and matching wrist gauntlets, over a black crinoline skirt and some black ruffley panties. She looked like a little, leather-clad china doll. Liebling paired a nice black corset over a couple of vintage slips, some black and white striped tights, and some black and white hair extensions. I certainly paled in comparison to their gorgeousness, but, to toot my own horn, my ass looks pretty damn kickin’ between the corset and the purple stretch skirt. I could hold my own, just in a more downbeat way.
However, Dress Code Nazi Dude at the club had different plans for me. The standard drill for gaining access to such clubs is first showing the doorman your outfit, which involves “flashing” him by opening your coat just enough for him to peek. Upon seeing my t-shirt, Dress Code Nazi Dude sniffs and declares me unfit to enter. “This is Torture Garden” he pontificates in his faintly Eurotrashy, Germanic accent. “The t-shirt is too ‘street’.” I roll my eyes and look at Kali and Liebling imploringly. They step in to plead my case, at which point, Dress Code Nazi returns his gaze to me.
“Do you have anything under the t-shirt?”
Oh. Right. I see how this is going to go.
“Yeah. A black bra.”
“Would you be comfortable wearing just that in the club?”
Suuuuuuure. Whatevaaaaahhh. Christ. And then, he gets all proper when he thinks I’m preparing to take my shirt off while standing out on the sidewalk, reminding me that I can “just do that in the cloakroom.”
After finally making it past Checkpoint Charlie, we make our way down to the coat check room to endure the nightmare that is fetish-club-coat-check, and get me out of my t-shirt. Actually, it wasn’t a bad option, since I ended up being cooler and more comfortable in the crowded club. However, not 30 minutes later, I see a few guys completely dressed “street,” in jeans, wife-beaters, shearling or jean jackets, and cowboy hats. Oh, so, what is that? Rockabilly fetish? Torture Garden door people are full of crap, don’t let anyone tell you differently. If you’re a guy and are acquainted with the Door Nazi, you can wear whatever you like. If you’re a girl—and more importantly, an American girl—you better be flashing some skin. That’s the true dress code.
Typically, I and the ladies don’t hang out much in the dungeon area of Torture Garden. Torture Garden tends to run some really dark, dark dungeons, and by “dark” I’m referring entirely to the illumination situation. It just doesn’t seem safe to be engaging in serious play in a seriously dark space. Plus, if voyeurism is your kick, it’s just plain hard to see anything!
The club was multi-level and almost all of the dance floor areas and dungeon areas were crammed. One staircase that connected two levels appeared to be made of old brick or stones and was becoming slick with spilled beverages. This is dangerous under any circumstance but about ten times more so in a fetish situation—slick flooring and six inch heels being natural adversaries. I did witness one or two high-heeled persons take a tumble.
Along towards 1am, Liebling noticed an overall shift in the attitude and behavior of the crowd. The general frivolity and camaraderie of the crowd seemed replaced by something a touch more frantic, more imperative.
“I think everyone’s drugs have just kicked in,” she whispered.
Not much longer after that, I and the ladies were standing about, contemplating a last drink. Up came a man who was much worn by club living, and most likely a junkie of some stripe. All that gauntness—like tanned leather stretched over a metal frame—it’s kind of a giveaway. His attempts to yammer conversation at us in the deafening club just leads to patronizing smiles and head nods from Kali and Liebling. I decide that ignorance is the better part of valor and simply allow my attention and eyes to roam as they will. Finally, the club guy grabs my hand in a gentle, yet persistent way. With his free hand, he unfolds my palm and gently deposits four white pills there. Talk about nostalgia! It had been awhile since a total stranger threw drugs at me! Uncomfortable with this display of largesse, I ask Liebling if I can just put the pills in her purse. It would be rather ungracious to simply throw them away in the man’s presence.
“I don’t know what he gave you,” Liebling says “But he charged that other guy 10 pounds for them!”
Ahhh…nothing like being cute and female!
A major expense for attending a weekend-long event is having enough wardrobe for all the parties. I've never really made extensive additions to my fetish wardrobe, mostly because I've fallen prey to the "Just 10 More Pounds" disease. I keep telling myself I'll get some really nice things, "if I can just get 10 more pounds off." Well, we all know how that story goes. This is also a leading reason why my fetish wear of choice is corsetry. Even if I can't get 10 more pounds off, the corset will force me into the shape I want to be. Yes, it's cheating, in a way, but fuck it. I was never meant to be a size 2 and that's just a genetic fact.
So, I basically had two good outfits and one kind of half-assed one. The half-assed one involved wearing a purple corset over a purple skirt, with a punky kind of t-shirt, and a rhinestone collar. It's my "casual" look, I suppose. The risk in this is the potential for flouting the dress code of the venue one will be attending, as will be demonstrated shortly.
Kali dressed in a stunning ensemble of a custom pink-dyed leather corset with black lacing, a matching collar, and matching wrist gauntlets, over a black crinoline skirt and some black ruffley panties. She looked like a little, leather-clad china doll. Liebling paired a nice black corset over a couple of vintage slips, some black and white striped tights, and some black and white hair extensions. I certainly paled in comparison to their gorgeousness, but, to toot my own horn, my ass looks pretty damn kickin’ between the corset and the purple stretch skirt. I could hold my own, just in a more downbeat way.
However, Dress Code Nazi Dude at the club had different plans for me. The standard drill for gaining access to such clubs is first showing the doorman your outfit, which involves “flashing” him by opening your coat just enough for him to peek. Upon seeing my t-shirt, Dress Code Nazi Dude sniffs and declares me unfit to enter. “This is Torture Garden” he pontificates in his faintly Eurotrashy, Germanic accent. “The t-shirt is too ‘street’.” I roll my eyes and look at Kali and Liebling imploringly. They step in to plead my case, at which point, Dress Code Nazi returns his gaze to me.
“Do you have anything under the t-shirt?”
Oh. Right. I see how this is going to go.
“Yeah. A black bra.”
“Would you be comfortable wearing just that in the club?”
Suuuuuuure. Whatevaaaaahhh. Christ. And then, he gets all proper when he thinks I’m preparing to take my shirt off while standing out on the sidewalk, reminding me that I can “just do that in the cloakroom.”
After finally making it past Checkpoint Charlie, we make our way down to the coat check room to endure the nightmare that is fetish-club-coat-check, and get me out of my t-shirt. Actually, it wasn’t a bad option, since I ended up being cooler and more comfortable in the crowded club. However, not 30 minutes later, I see a few guys completely dressed “street,” in jeans, wife-beaters, shearling or jean jackets, and cowboy hats. Oh, so, what is that? Rockabilly fetish? Torture Garden door people are full of crap, don’t let anyone tell you differently. If you’re a guy and are acquainted with the Door Nazi, you can wear whatever you like. If you’re a girl—and more importantly, an American girl—you better be flashing some skin. That’s the true dress code.
Typically, I and the ladies don’t hang out much in the dungeon area of Torture Garden. Torture Garden tends to run some really dark, dark dungeons, and by “dark” I’m referring entirely to the illumination situation. It just doesn’t seem safe to be engaging in serious play in a seriously dark space. Plus, if voyeurism is your kick, it’s just plain hard to see anything!
The club was multi-level and almost all of the dance floor areas and dungeon areas were crammed. One staircase that connected two levels appeared to be made of old brick or stones and was becoming slick with spilled beverages. This is dangerous under any circumstance but about ten times more so in a fetish situation—slick flooring and six inch heels being natural adversaries. I did witness one or two high-heeled persons take a tumble.
Along towards 1am, Liebling noticed an overall shift in the attitude and behavior of the crowd. The general frivolity and camaraderie of the crowd seemed replaced by something a touch more frantic, more imperative.
“I think everyone’s drugs have just kicked in,” she whispered.
Not much longer after that, I and the ladies were standing about, contemplating a last drink. Up came a man who was much worn by club living, and most likely a junkie of some stripe. All that gauntness—like tanned leather stretched over a metal frame—it’s kind of a giveaway. His attempts to yammer conversation at us in the deafening club just leads to patronizing smiles and head nods from Kali and Liebling. I decide that ignorance is the better part of valor and simply allow my attention and eyes to roam as they will. Finally, the club guy grabs my hand in a gentle, yet persistent way. With his free hand, he unfolds my palm and gently deposits four white pills there. Talk about nostalgia! It had been awhile since a total stranger threw drugs at me! Uncomfortable with this display of largesse, I ask Liebling if I can just put the pills in her purse. It would be rather ungracious to simply throw them away in the man’s presence.
“I don’t know what he gave you,” Liebling says “But he charged that other guy 10 pounds for them!”
Ahhh…nothing like being cute and female!
Sunday, November 02, 2003
You know you're comfortable in your neighborhood when you walk 1/2 block in your pajamas to the local bodega because you have to have some coffee and Motrin and you're too menstrual and pissy to give a damn about such niceties as proper pants or wearing a bra under your t-shirt.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
I finally got back into the gym this week and was quickly reminded of how long I had been away and how out of shape I had gotten again. Tuesday night was Russian kettlebells class and I had the fortune (or misfortune) of being the only student. This meant I got a private class at a group rate, but it also meant the instructor had the time and attention to devote to me. This resulted in completing five hard circuits, with my Mexican lunch attempting to assert itself.
The following night was my second Brazilian jiu jitsu class in as many months. This was equally strenuous, if not more so. I was paired off with another new BJJ student, a petite girl who was about 21 years old, who proceeded to whup up on me. Why is it that little people can be so damn aggressive?
A few days afterwards, I'm now sporting numerous handprint bruises on my upper arms, scrape marks on the tops of two toes, and knees that feel like they need mechanical replacements. It's great to be physical again and rededicated to my workout efforts, but damn, I wish I still had some pain killers in the house.
The following night was my second Brazilian jiu jitsu class in as many months. This was equally strenuous, if not more so. I was paired off with another new BJJ student, a petite girl who was about 21 years old, who proceeded to whup up on me. Why is it that little people can be so damn aggressive?
A few days afterwards, I'm now sporting numerous handprint bruises on my upper arms, scrape marks on the tops of two toes, and knees that feel like they need mechanical replacements. It's great to be physical again and rededicated to my workout efforts, but damn, I wish I still had some pain killers in the house.
