Club rules

Clearly, the hottest day of the year thus far is the perfect night to go out dancing in rubber. Which isn't actually as silly as it sounds - I hate the cold and the latex chills are colder than cold in Winter. Sure, in the heat of a club on the dance floor you start to get slick very fast and sweat runs down your bare skin - but I never really saw a problem in that. I'm grateful to Offensive Charmer who persuaded me to actually go out to Torture Garden which is never a pick for a play club, but the dancing (and the eye candy) was pretty good. Bonus points for being able to meet up with Hedwig and her evil latex nun outfit. We danced for a while then settled into the play room with a small bevvy of other known perverts.

Offensive Charmer and I had a good chat about the continuing closing-down of kink over in New York, he's rapidly coming to the conclusion that London is the world's capital of kink. We also chatted about different sorts of clubs, both here and across the pond. What people would wear and do. Apparently "dressing up" is not seen as especially important in the states, particularly for men, out of a desire not to be seen to be trying too hard, which seems a shame as a well-dressed man always goes down well. The vast majority of activity at TG was couples either fucking or fondling. What seemed strange to me was the amount of straight sex on display, penetration as well as oral, which you would be a lot less likely to get in a more kink orientated club. The very limited play, majoritively orchestrated by our small group alongside Esinem, drew a crowd, which was to be expected and quite flattering, but most people seemed content to grind against their partner in a dark corner.

I sometimes get a little annoyed with the behaviour of people in clubs, and it's one of the reasons I generally don't go out dancing to vanilla clubs in particular. The whole "chatting up" thing, complete with unnecessary touches to my body is deeply offputting. I go out to dance, to play and to chat to people. I don't go out to look for someone to go home with. Whilst compliments are flattering and can be charming, they can also just be an opener to being pestered. Particularly annoying is when they are followed up with the natural assumption that either: I am alone so I want to go and do something with them; or that the man standing near to me must be my boyfriend so I don't want to go and do something with them. The fact that I might just want to do my own thing clearly doesn't enter into it. There is a world of difference between someone being friendly and saying hello, maybe spending a while talking or dancing - which I like, and basically being sleazed on, which I don't like. I especially don't like people I don't know pawing at me - certainly not without asking first - and you tend to get a lot of touching without asking at non-play clubs.

I had a few welcome surprise over the course of the night, aside from the usual crass and unwanted propositions. A pretty girl strained against her lead to be closer to me as I leant against the wall watching the dancing. I pulled her hair and pressed my rubber gloves against her face, wondering what it would be like to make her lick me until shiny. Tight torso muscle boys danced in the neon, getting sweaty and up-close to each other. I got to play tour-guide to a cute vanilla couple who had come out for their first fetish night. I met her in the bathroom whilst I was lubing up my dress and applying layers of black don't-fucking-think-about-kissing-me lipstick. She was nervous about her outfit, which she needn't have been because she was tall, blonde and beautiful. Clearly my ladies' touch is still firmly in place as she came to find me later to hurt her boyfriend and show her a few things. I didn't have any kit - I didn't even have any pockets - so was limited to a bit of basic chat and spanking, which demonstrated pretty quickly that the pair of them had a high pain tolerance. There's a limit to what one can do with a leopard print paddle borrowed from a rather stuffy looking Dom whose old-fashioned outfit (leather trousers and streetwear shirt, not really inspiring) matched his old-fashioned values and he naturally assumed that as a woman I didn't know what I was doing. Ahem. A few sharp words later and I was sat down with Hedwig watching practically everyone in the club line up to wallop her boyfriend's arse with a variety of implements. Which went from pink to deep scarlet and all without him even making much of a sound. It was quite funny, and sweet. I wish them both well.

Actually, I wish they were both with me and perhaps some of The Ladies' Who for an afternoon in Captain's studio, but that's for another day.