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| St. Andrew's Cross |
The industrial goth birthday/fetish party was last night. Bet you thought I wouldn't go, right? Wrong. I somehow felt obligated to go and report back after I wrote about why I thought I shouldn't go. It makes no sense unless you're the kind of person who has no fetishes and yet decides to go to a fetish party anyway. My companion for the night, Alex, probably understands. He too has no discernible fetishes, and yet he went along, ready for whatever wild, unfettered fetishness we might encounter.
I didn't know what to expect, but I imagined almost anything could happen: quivering subbies earning their spankings on a St. Andrew's cross; doms in catsuits striding around snapping their whips; men (only men have foot fetishes, right?) on their knees gratefully licking black patent boots with 5-inch heels; maybe some fuzzy ears and tails and mitten paws, or maybe even a human hair butt plug or two peeking out from wherever such things peek out from ... oh! and maybe even some pony rides. My imagination pretty much stopped there because other than having watched a few HBO specials, I'm not really up on the hip fetishes these days. But anything could happen at a fetish party, right?
Well, maybe not anything. Alex broke the news that there probably wouldn't be orgy rooms. I hadn't considered orgy rooms, and then I was a little disappointed that the potential for orgy rooms had been stripped from the possibilities. In fact, Alex warned me it would probably be a night like any other Friday night at a club, but I was sure he simply lacked imagination.
Earlier in the evening I dressed like I usually dress and met the Architect downtown for some gallery hopping. On the first Friday of every month the galleries stay open and entice people in with crackers and cheese and wine. We strolled around and looked until almost 10:00, when things start to wind down and the bars take over.
As I was sitting in my van (shut the fuck up; it's paid for) waiting for Alex a little after 10:00, I realized I've never gone to a club before 12:30 and it was way too early. Only a few relatively normal people had gone in -- not a paddle or butt plug in sight. Strike one for my fetish coolness. Of course, the night was young.
Alex showed up looking quite industrial and goth and sexy in his vinyl duster with silver hardware, and his shaved head and black eye-liner. I surreptitiously checked out his backside, but if he had on assless chaps, his coat covered them. No ball gag either. What a tease.
The club we wanted is on the second floor of a gay bar, so we headed up the stairs, paid our $3.00 cover and got a wristband. One glance in the door told us we were among the first arrivals; only a few people were spread out around the bar. That's fine, I thought. It will be interesting to watch people as they come in.
Alex bought us some drinks and we wandered around looking at the space. We agreed it had potential: big dance floor, a cage (although it's fixed in place), long stainless steel bar, and a lounge area in the back with glass coffee tables and red leather couches. No pole, unfortunately. Three large screen TVs played the same adult cartoon throughout the night. It wasn't very sexy, and I'm sure being able to hear it wouldn't have helped.
The most interesting thing in the place was the St. Andrew's cross (photo above) in the corner of the lounge. It was just boards nailed into an X, not even secured to the wall, with some eye bolts fastened at the tops and bottoms of the arms. But it was missing cuffs or straps, which made it seem pretty useless. We later learned the guy who brought it forgot the cuffs. Ooops. Seems like a rather significant part of the apparatus to me, but I'm not an expert yet.
I'm dragging this out too much, huh? Tell you why. The fetish party ... the industrial goth birthday/fetish party .... I'm sorry to even have to write this but it was boring. I can't think of a better adjective for it. It really was just like any other Friday night at a club--without the pole-dancing and fog the other club has. Even at the peak of the night there was no juice running through the club, no current. Industrial goth ennui aside -- there was the requisite boy crying blood tears -- nobody looked like they were having fun. And not one furry showed up. Not one.
Oh, there was the old guy who looked like Santa Claus had been let out of the nursing home for the night. He came with his leather paddle and stood by the bar waiting for young women to let him spank them. A couple of Alex's friends joined us for a while. As we sat back in the lounge area and wondered why a dance club would have glass coffee tables and whether a person has to decide to be either submissive or dominant or if a person could just be neither, we heard a loud smack and noticed a heavy dark-haired woman in sensible shoes had somebody bent over one of the other couches and was giving a loud spanking. A small crowd had gathered, and Santa was sitting on the same couch, a tall blonde Amazon over his lap. He flipped up her skirt and spanked her with his hand. Some people took photos. It didn't last long.
That's the closest thing to fetish I saw all night. I did not see one boot being licked. Not one. Alex was definitely right about the dearth of orgy rooms. I'm not sure where the people with fetishes hang out but ..... they were obviously in another dungeon last night.
OK, there was one more spanking. As we stood at the bar watching the numbers dwindle and the few remaining dancers wiggle on the dance floor, Alex suggested I spank him on the cross. Really? I said. You want me to spank you? Really, he said. Let's go. Spank me.
I've never spanked someone on a St. Andrew's cross. It was the best offer I'd had all night.
So we went back to the lounge where the cross sat in its lonely red corner. Alex stepped up on the platform and turned to face me. Don't you need a paddle, he said. No, I'll use my hand. I said I thought most people would rather not have that side of their body spanked. He said you never know, but he turned around and spread himself on the cross.
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| If only I had a flash on my phone camera. |
That vinyl looked like it might hurt me more than it would him, so I told him to lift his coat. He held it up and well, what didyou expect? I spanked him for a while. And then I said that was enough and he hopped down and adjusted his coat. (I was right, by the way. He wasn't wearing assless chaps, although I could have made much more satisfying smacks if he had. I could have spanked it like Santa Claus.) As spankings go, it wasn't my best work, but since neither of us were really into it .... Hey, it would have been way different if there'd been pony rides.
After the spanking, we danced for a while (dancing is always good). As we passed through the gay club downstairs to the outdoor patio so Alex could smoke, a single drag queen was working hard for maybe three young men at a table on the floor and a couple of older guys at the bar. Even the fetish party was more lively. After Alex smoked, we gave up and left about 1:30ish.
Next Friday, the Friday before Valentine's Day, they're having a black hearts ball, where they will crown a king and queen and there will be suspensions. I asked Alex what suspensions were, and he said they hang people up by piercing their chest muscles. Remember A Man Called Horse? I think that sounds a little messy, bloody even. I imagine what they really do is call in a professional Boy Scout, someone who knows his knots, and he hangs people up by ropes. If the same crowd shows up as last night, I can't imagine they'll have many takers.
That's my fetish party experience. I could make up a better, sexier story, but this is the one I've got. It wasn't a bad night. I liked hanging out with Alex and spanking him. I saw a couple of people I knew there--one even surprised me. But the whole fetish party aspect fell far short of what I expected, just as Alex had warned me it might.
Would I go to another fetish night? I feel kind of cheated out of the experience, so yes, I'd give it another shot and go, especially at another club. Maybe the next time I'll have a better story to tell. If not, my fetish days will be over and I'll have to write about .... cookies or something.
