Get Your Kinky On
Note: This is the first of two posts in which Eliza talks about her trip to a kinky party. If it's likely to offend you (it's really not offensive - it's about her, not the sex) then I'd encourage you to watch Tom Hiddleston teaching the Cookie Monster about delayed gratification instead.
Writing this is a challenge.
Not because I am a prude, you will imminently understand why I say that, but mainly because my Mum will read this. And she is likely to ask a lot of questions. Probably, ‘when’s the next one?’ My Dad has already seen a photo of my bunny costume and asked what it was all about. Well Daddy Dearest, I went an arty-farty sex party (whoop there it is!), dressed as a lab test bunny. A costume choice I would come to realise was a rookie mistake.
The problem with writing this is that I’m not actually allowed to write about the event itself. I can’t name names or detail the ins and outs (‘scuse the pun) of what goes on there. It the sex version of Fight Club in that regard, but basically it was part fancy dress party. Part dance party, part cabaret, part let’s all live out our sexual fantasies…together. And because we can’t talk about Fight Club, the names in this story have been changed to protect the guilty.
I’d hung out with fetish folk back in the early naughties, I mean noughties, as a couple my close friends were professional dominatrices (insert whip cracking sound effect here). But this party was very different to other fetish/kink events I’d attended, mainly in that its numbers were restricted and it was significantly less pretentious. Even so, I was apprehensive and, although I regard myself as pretty comfortable with my own and anyone else’s sexuality (Tony Abbott was obviously never a theatre student like me), it had been a while since I’d been around the scene. I was now on the other side of the world and in a relatively new relationship, not knowing what to expect or, more importantly, what was expected from me.
Fortunately, I live in a house with someone who has been to these events before (we’ll here on refer to him as No.2), and who described the playroom (I’ll come back to this) as no less than ‘fucking terrifying’. Helpful.
First things first, and that’s being approved to enter, which involves submitting a photo and identifying who your buddy is (again, more on this to come). Then the day before the event you receive a you’re in email. When I got mine I was struck by all the rules. I don’t usually like rules. I don’t like being told what to do (a symptom of youngest-child-syndrome, not to be confused with bedroom domination, no no, I’m definitely…I digress), so my initial reaction was one of resistance.
Things you can do: Dress up! Contribute where you can. Know your boundaries and state them. Play consensually and safely. Practice safe sex. Respect the space and others. Clean up after yourself.
And the don’ts: Linger unaccompanied in the play spaces. Cruise aggressively. Get too intoxicated. Photograph. Gossip about goings on.
Everyone has to have a buddy. Your buddy must be someone that you know and trust, they can be the same or opposite gender, or even a couple. You are responsible for your buddy’s behavior and they are responsible for yours. If either of you violate the rules you will both be held responsible. You must arrive together and it’s recommended that you also leave together.
If you haven’t arrived by 10pm you won’t be let in. There’s a consent workshop from 9pm, specifically aimed at first timers, like me.
Honestly, these rules seemed so straight forward, and based on common sense, that I didn’t really understand the need for them. So at a-rosé-past-a-cosmo-o’clock when I rocked up at home having stewed on this all day, I raised it with No.2, and it went something like this:
Me: What’s with all the rules? You only need rules like that if there are a lot of wankers.
No.2: *giggles*
Me: And I’m not going to that bloody consent workshop! Why do I need to go to a consent workshop?! Just don’t fucking touch me and we’ll all be fine.
No.2: *laughs* You sound like me.
Me: Yes, but you can also be a bit desperate.
No.2: It’s basically to teach you that it’s okay to say no.
Me: Oh.
No.2: Do you need a spliff?
Beyond that point I don’t remember the specifics of the discussion, but my apprehension dissipated and No.2 actually managed to make it sound like it could be fun.
‘If you want to go into the playroom you can, otherwise the party continues like any other party’, or something to that effect. He had a vested interest me going along, as he needed me as his wingman while his best mate, DJ Tyler Durden was on the decks. Retrospectively, I can’t emphasise the word needed enough, and believe the phrase couldn’t organize a root in a brothel was coined off the back of No.2, bless him.
The theme was science, or something like that. DJ Tyler Durden and I decided we would go as lab test bunnies. Bunnies are cute and subject to scientific testing, which met the theme. More importantly, onesies are all the rage and therefore both cheap and easily available. It also meant I could get away with wearing a flesh baring outfit. Win!
Off we headed to Primarni (Primark – Supre on steroids). According to the coat hangers they only had one size left – large. Perfect for my six foot two beau and my size 14-ish hips. The lines to the change room were long, so behind a pillar in Men’s Shoes we tried on the onesies, over our clothes mind you. DJ Tyler Durden’s seemed to fit him, while mine was a bit snug, but I figured it would loosen up once I had not much else underneath.
As we were getting ready to go, I was pleasantly surprised that without my tights and skirt my onesie was baggie, very baggie. DJ Tyler Durden’s, on the other hand, was not so. His was tight! With only his board shorts on underneath, he stretched it under his long limbs, zipped it up in front and created an attractive camel toe effect that would make Miley Cyrus blush. Fortunately, the weather had turned so we donned long coats over the top for the 30 minute journey on the over-ground train.
The venue is tucked away on a London back street. At 9.45 we joined the long line of corseted and PVC-clad kinksters and awaited the obligatory pre-entry briefing.
The tightness of DJ Tyler Durden’s suit continued to bother him, concerned that it wasn’t up for a night of partying or, more importantly, that it might be too restrictive for him to get through his hour-and-a-half set. In the comfort of my roomy onesie, as the thought came to my mind that we might not have bought the same size, it also came out of my mouth. Panic struck his face, ‘check the tag’ he demanded. I obliged, gasped and shrieked with hysterical laughter. My broad shouldered, tall and reasonably well built man was wearing and XS women’s onesie!
‘We’re changing. I’m putting my foot down on this one’. He obviously wasn’t enjoying this as much as I was. Well, at least for the rest of the night we could both say this wasn’t the costume we’d showed up in. That’d certainly have impressed the crowd.
In Part II I’ll take you behind the closed doors to discover what happens, and more importantly, what doesn’t, at a sex party.
Writing this is a challenge.
Not because I am a prude, you will imminently understand why I say that, but mainly because my Mum will read this. And she is likely to ask a lot of questions. Probably, ‘when’s the next one?’ My Dad has already seen a photo of my bunny costume and asked what it was all about. Well Daddy Dearest, I went an arty-farty sex party (whoop there it is!), dressed as a lab test bunny. A costume choice I would come to realise was a rookie mistake.
The problem with writing this is that I’m not actually allowed to write about the event itself. I can’t name names or detail the ins and outs (‘scuse the pun) of what goes on there. It the sex version of Fight Club in that regard, but basically it was part fancy dress party. Part dance party, part cabaret, part let’s all live out our sexual fantasies…together. And because we can’t talk about Fight Club, the names in this story have been changed to protect the guilty.
Fortunately, I live in a house with someone who has been to these events before (we’ll here on refer to him as No.2), and who described the playroom (I’ll come back to this) as no less than ‘fucking terrifying’. Helpful.
First things first, and that’s being approved to enter, which involves submitting a photo and identifying who your buddy is (again, more on this to come). Then the day before the event you receive a you’re in email. When I got mine I was struck by all the rules. I don’t usually like rules. I don’t like being told what to do (a symptom of youngest-child-syndrome, not to be confused with bedroom domination, no no, I’m definitely…I digress), so my initial reaction was one of resistance.
The Rules
Things you can do: Dress up! Contribute where you can. Know your boundaries and state them. Play consensually and safely. Practice safe sex. Respect the space and others. Clean up after yourself.
And the don’ts: Linger unaccompanied in the play spaces. Cruise aggressively. Get too intoxicated. Photograph. Gossip about goings on.
Everyone has to have a buddy. Your buddy must be someone that you know and trust, they can be the same or opposite gender, or even a couple. You are responsible for your buddy’s behavior and they are responsible for yours. If either of you violate the rules you will both be held responsible. You must arrive together and it’s recommended that you also leave together.
If you haven’t arrived by 10pm you won’t be let in. There’s a consent workshop from 9pm, specifically aimed at first timers, like me.
Honestly, these rules seemed so straight forward, and based on common sense, that I didn’t really understand the need for them. So at a-rosé-past-a-cosmo-o’clock when I rocked up at home having stewed on this all day, I raised it with No.2, and it went something like this:
Me: What’s with all the rules? You only need rules like that if there are a lot of wankers.
No.2: *giggles*
Me: And I’m not going to that bloody consent workshop! Why do I need to go to a consent workshop?! Just don’t fucking touch me and we’ll all be fine.
No.2: *laughs* You sound like me.
Me: Yes, but you can also be a bit desperate.
No.2: It’s basically to teach you that it’s okay to say no.
Me: Oh.
No.2: Do you need a spliff?
Beyond that point I don’t remember the specifics of the discussion, but my apprehension dissipated and No.2 actually managed to make it sound like it could be fun.
‘If you want to go into the playroom you can, otherwise the party continues like any other party’, or something to that effect. He had a vested interest me going along, as he needed me as his wingman while his best mate, DJ Tyler Durden was on the decks. Retrospectively, I can’t emphasise the word needed enough, and believe the phrase couldn’t organize a root in a brothel was coined off the back of No.2, bless him.
Rule Number 1: The Costume
The theme was science, or something like that. DJ Tyler Durden and I decided we would go as lab test bunnies. Bunnies are cute and subject to scientific testing, which met the theme. More importantly, onesies are all the rage and therefore both cheap and easily available. It also meant I could get away with wearing a flesh baring outfit. Win!
Off we headed to Primarni (Primark – Supre on steroids). According to the coat hangers they only had one size left – large. Perfect for my six foot two beau and my size 14-ish hips. The lines to the change room were long, so behind a pillar in Men’s Shoes we tried on the onesies, over our clothes mind you. DJ Tyler Durden’s seemed to fit him, while mine was a bit snug, but I figured it would loosen up once I had not much else underneath.
As we were getting ready to go, I was pleasantly surprised that without my tights and skirt my onesie was baggie, very baggie. DJ Tyler Durden’s, on the other hand, was not so. His was tight! With only his board shorts on underneath, he stretched it under his long limbs, zipped it up in front and created an attractive camel toe effect that would make Miley Cyrus blush. Fortunately, the weather had turned so we donned long coats over the top for the 30 minute journey on the over-ground train.
The venue is tucked away on a London back street. At 9.45 we joined the long line of corseted and PVC-clad kinksters and awaited the obligatory pre-entry briefing.
The tightness of DJ Tyler Durden’s suit continued to bother him, concerned that it wasn’t up for a night of partying or, more importantly, that it might be too restrictive for him to get through his hour-and-a-half set. In the comfort of my roomy onesie, as the thought came to my mind that we might not have bought the same size, it also came out of my mouth. Panic struck his face, ‘check the tag’ he demanded. I obliged, gasped and shrieked with hysterical laughter. My broad shouldered, tall and reasonably well built man was wearing and XS women’s onesie!
‘We’re changing. I’m putting my foot down on this one’. He obviously wasn’t enjoying this as much as I was. Well, at least for the rest of the night we could both say this wasn’t the costume we’d showed up in. That’d certainly have impressed the crowd.
In Part II I’ll take you behind the closed doors to discover what happens, and more importantly, what doesn’t, at a sex party.
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I can only assume the next instalment comes after the PTSD therapy to deal with the impact of the party.
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