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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Wednesday, 8 October 2008

Performance piece

The Photographer and I had a marvelously kink heavy weekend. On Friday, we went to Subversion. We met a few folk we knew there including Ethical Hedonist, Hedwig and the lovely Kiss Curls, who was clearly up to no good, and loving every minute of it.

The main room was large and full of lots of interesting equipment, but somewhat spoilt by the fact it was also the cabaret room and therefore full of people watching the various "acts". I am a bit undecided on performance pieces in clubs, I like the idea of specific demos such as needle play or intricate rope work, but mildly kinkified strip teases and such like do nothing for me.

Watching other people play is different from watching a set piece, to my mind, there's more of a sense of being a voyeur than an audience member. It's fine to wander off and go and look at something else, or do someone else. There's no compere bigging it all up or any obligation to applaud, it's more intimate, more real. It's possible also a mindset thing.
I think it's that if I'm in a mood to go out and watch a performance, I'll go to see a show. If I want to play, then I prefer to have the space to do so, and whilst I have no qualms about moving people off kit, I'm an exhibitionist so having people gawping somewhere else is a bit offputting.

Amidst this, then, The Photographer and I are looking for something to play on and come across a winch on a gallows frame. I love this type of kit. Two cuffs, spread by a metal bar and the clank of the chain as you are pulled more and more taut. I end up partially stripped, standing on my tiptoes in a gag and hood, shifting from one foot to the other as I turn lazily around, not quite able to control my own balance. I can't see the crowd, I hope they are watching, and the thought makes me wet. The Photographer, and later Kiss Curls flog me, the latter as some kind of training exercise. Whipping girl. Practice. I start to feel a little floaty, both as I lose feeling in my arms, which later means I have to stop sooner than I might like, and also as the blindness becomes more palpable. I'm losing my place in the world - disappearing into the sensation, the darkness. Hanging there, suspended by the chains that bind and they eyes that are watching me.

Dangling on a hook. I feel delectable.

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