Entering the Scene

I got into Fetish Clubbing by starting with some vague interests in that sort of thing and being aware of the existence of clubs like TG but not knowing any specifics.  I had walked past the few specialist fetish shops that were available in London but it had taken me a while to build up the courage to go inside one. I soon left but not before I noticed the various flyers for clubs. I didn’t do anything about them that time but it was the start of my interest in the area.

A long while later I had built up the bottle and cash and had just got a new tattoo at Tribalize. I had seen flyers and t-shirts for TG while I was there and had mentioned it to Richard, a friend of mine. He must have stored it away in his head because a few months later he introduced me to Lara at a party of his and we managed to hit it off thanks, in part, to a mutual interest in going to a fetish club.

Before I met Lara she had planned on going to the Sex Maniac’s Ball, but the event was closed down by a police raid on the night before she ever got to go. After we had going out for a while she asked me if I would be interested in going to a fetish club along with her and some friends. I was curious as I had read a little about fetish clubs and seen some posters in the darker corners of London but had never gotten round to doing anything about it.

Our first time was at TG when it was the Crash theme back in the late nineties at some arches near London Bridge (now it’s the Car Wash club?). Everybody was very friendly even though I was gawping like a tourist at all the semi-naked people.

The club was housed, like several in London, in a series of interconnected railway arches. We made our entrance through one arch, handed bags and coats in to the cloakroom, and then entered the club proper through a narrow passage between the arches. Someone had piled three wrecked cars into a portal the middle of the arch and a constant stream of fog flowed from the uppermost car concealing the loud music and lights beyond. Burning barrels on either side provided the only illumination.

Stepping through the portal were greeted by a doctor and nurse in rubber outfits lounging by an old ambulance, they made sure that we weren’t too healthy by applying wounds and makeup to help us fit the theme. Further in was a large bar crowded with fetish freaks and then a dance floor and stage area. Down the side of the stage was the entrance to a dark room lit by firelight and filled with devices of torture. As we came in there was a metal clad woman on the crude stage who was rubbing an angle grinder against her crotch and throwing off a fan of sparks to a heavy beat while a variety of half naked or rubber clad folk were watching the performance with interest.

Stepping up to the bar I stood next to a man dressed in a tuxedo and with the skin peeled back from his face with surgical precision, the flaps neatly stapled down and the muscles under the skin glistening with blood. I naively hoped that it was makeup after my heart started beating again.

The remainder of the night went by in a blur of semi naked women, rubber clad dominatrices, leather bikers, techno music, bright lights, and heavy petting with a turned on Lara. Despite the fact that the club was no more than a few packed rooms we lost our friends within the first half hour and didn’t find them again all night. Fortunately they had had adventures of their own and hadn’t missed us at all.

Our next visit to a fetish club was just in the company of Lara, my then girlfriend. Lara was a gorgeous brunette with a buxom figure, great smile, and very accommodating. Our first visit to a club had been uneventful but very interesting; however on our second visit to TG we had quite an impressive encounter.

Our second visit to TG had no theme and was held at another venue, also under a railway arch, this caused a little confusion as I drove us to the wrong venue at first so we managed to arrive fashionable late.

Between visits Lara had seen a necklace in a shop of a girl being serviced at both ends and this had fired her imagination and provided the basis for the encounter at the club. On this visit Lara was dressed as a kinky tomb raider, very short shorts, big boots, a PVC tank top, and a pair of pistols attached to her belt. Lara’s outfit suited her very well as she had the perfect figure for imitating Lara Croft and she drew some attention from various people at the club, including a tall Amazonian woman in a corset, peaked cap, and with a large strap on.

I saw Lara talking to the tall woman with the strap on and making various gestures but as the club was dark and noisy I had no idea what was going on until Lara came back and dragged me over to introduce Jane. The three of us wandered off and Jane showed us to a quiet space in a small archway where she sat down straddling one end of a bench. Lara directed me to the other end where I sat down facing Jane, puzzled as to what was going to happen.

Lara stepped over the bench her bum towards me and slowly slipped out of the shorts and tiny thong she was wearing while Jane and I watched her avidly. Lara sat on my lap her bottom hot through the leather of my jeans; she twisted round and whispered for me to open them. While I undid my belt and unbuttoned my jeans Lara leant forward her hands resting on Jane’s thighs and giving me an unforgettable view. Lara’s pony tailed head started bobbing up and down as I managed to get my erection out. Within a few moments Lara’s moved up into a kneeling position on the bench, bent over with her head in Jane’s lap and her lovely posterior facing me. Needing no further prompting I stood up and rapidly entered Lara’s wet and willing pussy. A little while later Lara shuddered and stopped what she was doing in Jane’s lap; lifting her head up she stood up again and turned around to face me her lips and chin wet with saliva.

Lara leant forward and took my member into her hot wet mouth, behind her I watched Jane stand up and take a firm grip on Lara’s hips, pushing her feet wide apart before moving into place. Looking down at Lara I saw her eyes open wide as Jane thrust heavily into her, the force of the move pushing me deep into the back of her mouth. Lara’s eyes closed and she shuddered again, her legs twitching and going weak, her mouth squeezing hard on my penis. Jane held Lara up and slowly started a back and forth movement, taking her time while Lara recovered.

Jane continued her thrusting, slowly getting faster and harder while Lara used her tongue and lips like a woman possessed, desperate to drag every element of sensation out of me. Jane continued her pounding  and Lara soon starting to shudder on every thrust, her eyes screwed up, her hands gripping me with wild passion, sweating and flushed. I didn’t last long like that and Lara pulled every drop from me, swallowing it down with abandon. Sensing the end Jane pulled Lara back towards her, holding her up by the hips her legs off the floor as she furiously thrust in and out of Lara’s entrance until Lara screamed her way to a profound orgasm, licking her fingers and the dribbles of white around her mouth.

Those early encounters would set a theme for some of the better club nights I would attend with whoever I was lucky enough to hook up with. Not every night was so intimate; some were quite worrying like the Black Mass event TG held that year.

I noticed as soon as I entered the club that the crowd for this event was considerably different than the usual mix of fetish clubbers. These folks were less fashionably dressed but looked much more serious with a number of ‘masters’ in a variety of uniforms and robes. The mass itself occurred at midnight on the stage over the dance floor. It started with sinister fog flowing around a carved stone altar to the sound of deep drums. The music continued to slowly rise and eventually a couple of women dressed in rubber nun’s outfits walked onto the stage carrying several large black candles. They proceeded to place them across the front of the stage and light them while a third figure in a hooded robe rose behind the altar.

The music died and the hooded figure threw his arms wide and started chanting in Latin as a new steady beat began. The nuns pulled aside their skirts and began masturbating, rubbing the last of their black candles against their crotches. After a few moments a burly figure in a leather mask dragged a slender red headed girl clad in a white nightgown onto the stage. He shoved her roughly over the altar and proceeded to tie her into place while she struggled weakly as if drunk or stunned.

The hooded figure drew a wavy bladed knife and proceeded to cut the girls clothes off while chanting in Latin as the music got louder and louder. Within a minute she was dressed in nothing but some rags. The girl was lying belly down on the altar facing into the crowd and she was quite clearly crying, her makeup in streaks down her face. As the music and the chanting rose to a crescendo the lights flickered and went out and the stage was lit only by candlelight. A dark silhouette rose from behind the altar, horns rising from its crown and great bat like wings behind. It paced forward into the candlelight and the crowd hushed as a demonic goat face loomed out over the stage.

The beast placed great clawed hands on the red headed girl’s hips and she startled, trying to look behind her. A look of shock came across the girls face was the enormous figure manoeuvred itself behind her, lifting her hips up effortlessly. The beastly creature thrust forward and the poor girl let out a scream of agony as she was violated. A sudden blast of music overpowered her cries and the lights came back on whirling red and madly as the great figure slammed its hips back and forth while the girl grunted, howled, and sobbed.

Other events we covered were rather more commercial in nature like the Erotica weekend, a sort of free form bazaar, art gallery, and performance piece held at Olympia. Practically every person involved in organising or working on the scene was either attending on contributing to Erotica. We had blagged a number of press and photo passes for the website and I went on the Saturday with Oz and his entourage.

Oz was bold, charismatic, lovable, independent, and audacious. He would play the odds and win regularly. With charm, style, and an understanding of the human psyche, he could play people’s emotions like a piano and often come up smelling of roses afterwards.

I met Tempest at Erotica, naturally Oz had spotted her first and gone straight up to her, drawn unerringly to her magnificent boobs. As was his way he made friends with her and her manager within about three seconds flat.

Tempest was a tall pale skinned beauty with an hourglass figure and shoulder length dark brown hair. She was wearing a micro bikini and tall ‘stripper’ heels making her legs look longer than my motorbike.

Dave her manager was a short chubby bloke with an Irish accent. He was dressed in t shirt and jeans but was accessorised with an expensive digital SLR camera, a small video camera, and another larger video camera, all slung from straps around his neck. He would grab one every now and then and take shots of Tempest and anyone else nearby.

It’s a terrible snobbish prejudice of mine but I can’t help being influenced by all the carry on films of the seventies, where anyone with an accent was a scoundrel or rogue of some sort, unless they were women of course, women with foreign accents were always very sexy in carry on films.

This time though I think my prejudices may have been spot on. I’m not sure if Dave was a genuine bad man but he was certainly driven, and that made him push and push and push until people were exhausted. I remember seeing Tempest afterwards and she was absolutely wrecked. Apparently posing in high heels and a bikini all day when you’ve got your period is a lot more tiring than I had thought possible.

It was Dave who told me the fundamental truth that porn is not about making porn. Anyone with a couple of hundred quid can make porn, that’s not the difficult bit. The hard part is all down to distribution. You need to get your product out there with people buying it. That’s why he pushed so hard, he needed to get things moving, and it was an uphill struggle without let. Like me he was fond of the big Jags so I cut him some slack.

Yes, I have a car. Obviously I ride a bike day to day but it’s vital to also have a car, and a good one at that. It’s quite simple to work out why. Besides the useful practical aspects of being able to lug a bunch of photographic equipment and a couple of models around, when it comes to the end of the night at a fetish event and you can offer either a ride home on the back of a bike or a lift home in the back of a luxury saloon there’s only one option that any sensible woman (and sometimes her friend) will go for.

You can’t just have any old car either, sporty hatchbacks are all well and good for impressing fifteen year old wannabe racecar drivers but if you want a woman to feel safe, pampered, and aroused when you get her back to her place there’s nothing quite like a big car with indulgent leather seats, soft suspension, and a big engine.

That leaves you with a limited but entertaining selection. BMW and Mercedes are quality of course but too dull and German for an acceptable arousal factor. Lexus make some very good quality cars with luxury built in as standard but they’re not as well known. So if you’re British, live in London, and want a stylish luxury saloon, that won’t break the bank there’s no other choice than a Jag.

Jaguars tend to be pretty crap in many respects, they’re not overly reliable like Japanese cars, not always solidly built like German autobahn cruisers, but they have excellent interiors and a certain cachet amongst the perverati because a person willing to take some punishment has the right mindset to own a big Jag.

Oh and don’t forget the blacked out windows, it was Oz who pointed out to me that blacked out windows were very good for encouraging naughty behaviour.

At the time I didn’t really believe what Dave was saying, after all he seemed such a little oik, pushy and pugnacious. My methods were more laid back, and naturally I thought that my way was the best way. But, like arseholes, everyone has an opinion. Thus far my way had worked for the website. We had become fairly well known and things were gathering pace nicely. It wouldn’t always be like this.

Our early reviews of club nights showed our lack of journalistic experience but fortunately people were more interested in seeing photos of themselves appearing on this new-fangled internet thing that everyone was talking about.

Our first bit of publicity to increase public awareness of our web-site, and meet the people who have already been there, we thought it would be a nice idea to do a public display. It was pretty good fun, but also a bit nerve-wracking when we took my development PC, with the only copy of the whole website to TG at Mass.

We setup the server, a couple of PCs and a trio of hugely heavy 17” CRT monitors on a rickety table right next to the dance floor. Which was filled, for most of the night, with about five hundred extreme clubbers, most of whom just wanted to dance to the techno tunes blasted out by the sound system, but a few who wanted to browse as well. They danced, the floor shook, and the table joined in with a wonderful resonance technically known as a wobble. It was a bit like being on a boat at sea.

We had to keep removing beer bottles and glasses, and even the occasional drunk punter. Two of the monitors were showing a rolling demo of pictures from the Photo Gallery of previous events, and it was fun watching people staring at the pictures as they danced. The computer in the middle was set up for browsing, and was also quite popular. I had to explain to quite a few people that they couldn’t browse the rest of the internet from our setup as we weren’t connected to the outside world.

With that public exposure and, bizarrely, a huge following in Brazil, the website went from strength to strength. Like a movie montage the following year would be a blur of photographic flashes, late nights coding, and socialising all set to a pumping techno soundtrack.

Crash: The club was hidden in some railway arches in a rundown part of Southbank. The organisers had dragged two wrecked cars into the first arch to form a crude stage where a metal clad woman was rubbing an angle grinder against her crotch and throwing off a fan of sparks to a heavy beat. A variety of half-naked or rubber clad folk were watching the performance with interest. I felt badly outclassed in my cheap ‘Carry on Doctor’ outfit.

The Dungeon: Once we’d got through the door we came straight into a large arched area with a bar and a stage at the far end. We were just in time to grab a drink and catch the start of a stage show wherein two slender bald men were simultaneously fisted by a skinny bald girl.

The Gate: The club was upstairs above a dingy wine bar, a single room dominated by several heavy duty pieces of equipment was crowded with a dozen dominatrices and a similar number of male and female slaves.

Bagleys: The venue was huge, like a warehouse packed with kinky people. The first room was a bar and seating area, the second was a music stage with a band playing, and the third a huge dance floor with an enormous stage. At the back of the venue were stairs leading down into a labyrinthine two level dungeon dotted with secluded corners and sundry dungeon furniture.

TG: Staring at the infrared porn film on one of their projectors or screens. The false colours of the man and women engaged in congress were hypnotic, detail was submerged into the riot of colour and your eyes fooled. Like watching a lava lamp with the lights turned out it was hypnotic and strange.

Club Flesh: Following a man dressed as an enormous tin robot down Tooley St. His metal box-like feet were so ungainly that he was unable to actually take the small step from road to pavement. Luckily Alan TG was on hand to help him negotiate this difficult obstacle. Because we weren’t sure where we were going we followed mark zero iron man and were soon at one of the most intensely themed bars in London: Cynthia’s Cyberbar.

Medieval Fetish Fayre: The old London pub was awash with blaggards, rascals and rogues, wenches, witches and wizard’s sleeves. Fortunately we soon recognised the usual familiar faces through the veils and disguises and settled down with ye pintes while we got our bearings. A piercing demonstration was just coming to an end in the other bar. We knew it was over when several burly serfs dragged large mops and troughs through to collect the blood, innards and limbs that had been given up in the name of performance.

TG: Having barged, bullied, and begged our way to the prime photographic spots then having the long, long waits for shows at the Torture Garden.

The Boat: The TV maids served up a light buffet with chicken for the carnivores and humus for the veggies. Their service topped off the whole atmosphere really well and gave the event that special ‘Firm’ factor, i.e. not just dancing and playing, but tongue in cheek roleplaying too. Ishmael Skyes had briefed the assembled maids on how to serve, and Butler was so impressed by them, he was wondering aloud whether to reach for his crop by way of thanks, but soon realised that that would have delayed their distribution of strawberries and cream.

TG: ‘Techno Castrati’ by Ernesto Tomasini This started off with a beautifully dressed young loony who slowly transformed into a mad multi-breasted creature all the while singing arias to a techno backing track.

Miss Behave swallowing swords and cracking jokes, Vivid Angel dripping in blood, Esme dripping with cream, men hanging on hooks through their knees, women hanging on hooks, dwarves hung on hooks like puppets, Luci Fire grinding her crotch with an angle grinder and when that got boring switching to an erotic fire breathing act.

People and costumes in endless variety and style, Emperor Ming the Merciless, Lycraman clad entirely in Lycra, penis and all, transvestite French maids of all shapes and sizes, hug fat men wearing nothing but a pink teddy, endless realms of great looking women in lingerie, skimpy rubber outfits, or just body paint and attitude, legions of strict schoolmistresses and adult schoolboys and girls, Marilyn Manson, Marilyn Manson clones, Marilyn Manson impersonators, Marilyn Manson fans, bikers, tuxedos,  wedding dresses, enormous unwieldy strapons, and one guy wearing a toilet helmet (don’t ask).

Such was the first year of the website.