September 10, 2007
Fetish Club Field Trip


cydytame202.jpgMy very close friend Becky appears to be going through a sexual renaissance, of sorts. Perhaps it is that her kids are now old enough to if not fend for themselves, at least be totally copasetic with being placed under the tremulous care of Daddy. Perhaps it is that she is inching toward her fortieth birthday and all the tectonic shifting that birthday produces in us women folk.

Whatever the reason: I’m loving it. And so when she texted me last week to ask if I wanted to accompany her to a fetish party I wrote back a single word: sure.

Originally, Becky was supposed to bring her eighteen year-old babysitter whom she’s corrupting with glacial rapidity and inexorableness. That would have been interesting. However, he bailed due to a baseball game, which is just lame. What is wrong with kids today? No chains, whips, chips & dips? What happened to our usual teenage fanfare?

Becky and I spent some time during the week discussing what we were going to wear to said fetish party, but that was about it. We went with no expectations, and that, actually, is a good thing.

I live in New York City, a place renown for its 24/7 accessibility to a panorama of vices. My city, if right-wing conservatives are to be believed, is going to hell in a Balenciaga handbasket, and all because of its unquestionable moral depravity. One would logically expect, then, that if a hot fetish party were going to be found anywhere, it would be here.

One would be wrong.

But I get ahead of myself. I had thought, initially, that in accordance with the party’s theme-summer of love! the e-vite proclaimed, dress in tye-dye! think neon! neon! neon! or wear your best Alice in Wonderland fetish attire!-I would wrap my boobs in hot pink bondage tape and wear this pair of 60’s fluorescent lounge pants I bought for $1.50 at the Salvation Army a few years ago. But I couldn’t find the bondage tape, and so I wore this be-jeweled, be-flowered, and be-sequined bra I had from my stripping days.

Becky wore a gorgeous pair of leather pants and a white and blue polka-dot halter. She is a Semitic Goddess.

We had dinner and drinks, stopped by my apartment to garb up and headed off to the club, located in the East Village.

The first thing we noticed, aside from the lame “Periodic Table of Sexual Positions” poster on the wall and the hard-core vinyl porn on two televisions placed on the bar, thereby apparently signifying fetish party, was a party spread of geometrically laid-out snacks: cheese cubes, fudge stripe cookies, Neapolitan wafers. These snacks on their waxy paper party trays assumed a military formation. I feared to touch them, even if I wanted. Which I didn’t.

I mean, cheese cubes? What part of cheese cubes says fetish party?

Becky and I were a big, big hit, judging by the attention we garnered walking in. Not that it was all that difficult. Surrounding us were a bunch of people who looked to my dilettante eyes as if they had squeezed in a viewing of Star Wars episode III just before changing into their rubber suits to head off to the fetish party where they could mix Mountain Dew and Gin and pop free unlimited cheese cubes, all while scoping for dominatrixes. In short, they all looked as if their Yahoo screennames were “Bobafett.” Not that that’s a bad thing.

Becky and I got our Juicy-Juice and tequila and started walking around the small club. Punctuating the dark space were giant wood “X” stands, painted black, and looped with white rope, some with people already tied into the structure, others standing around, swatting the bound people’s exposed naughty bits with affected nonchalance. There were two booths, empty when we first walked in, that could accommodate semi-private fetish sessions. There were more black lights. There was house music. There was a stripper stripping poorly.

It hurt me. Nothing hurts me quite like a bad stripper. Becky urged me to show her how it’s done, but I begged off.

A very good-looking man approached me, tapping me on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m very nervous. Can I rub your feet?”

I must have looked at him blankly.

“It’s a fetish thing.” He explained. “You know, a fetish?”

I said I did know. Sure, I said. I like having my feet rubbed. I grabbed Becky by the elbow, and the good-looking dude appeared with a second chair, leading us into one of the cubicles. As my good-looking foot fetishist began to strip my feet naked, a second, diminutive AARP-member-looking man appeared out of nowhere and began doing the same to Becky’s.

It was divine. This man was hot, and he was into my unpedicured feet, rubbing them with knowing hands, sucking my toes like a cumwhore on a big cock, pressing my feet into his face, which I love.

The diminutive AARP fetishist was doing the same to Becky, and I couldn’t help think I was getting the better part of the deal. Eventually, though, they wanted to switch, but I said no, because as I’ve always said, it’s important to have standards, no matter how low. And my standards hover somewhere above septuagenarian foot lovers.

Becky’s, however, don’t, but I love her anyway.

It was hard to say tell our foot fetishists to stop, but we were getting bored, even though it felt good. I composed a haiku, though, to bid them good-bye. It went like this:

Dear foot fetishists,
our feet must go and we must
go with them. Bye now.

We wandered around the party more. We paused to watch a rather overweight Latina mistress lead her fit sub around by his erect cock; we looked with amazement at a riveting 6′ plus mountain of a woman with a Basque corset exposing her surprisingly lovely breasts, and we made fun of a man who looked as if he had taken his sartorial inspiration from Flava Flav, given his outfit of pajama pants, an oversized t-shirt and what looked like a giant clock around his neck.

Time’s up for the white race, I told Becky.

When we got closer, we saw that it turned out that he wasn’t wearing a clock after all; it was a peace sign.

There was a gorgeous round woman with her gorgeous round glories straining at the limits of her breast-less rubber suit. There was a hot brunette in a black bikini and jeans whom I would have happily gotten on my knees and slurped like an Italian ice, given half a chance. There was a weak girl/girl Domme/sub act involving a hot jackknife and a surplus of ennui and histrionics. There was a man with an indefinable Eastern accent who was very proud of his latex-shiny shirt and pants with a plethora of zippers.

“It’s sad,” said Becky, “when a hot man is defined by how little he looks like a homicidal maniac.” I agreed.

We stayed for about an hour, despite the attention and the compliments; we left just after a man said that he needed to put on his face mask and lie where we were standing, but we were welcome to stand on him once he laid himself out on the floor.

But, really, it was fun. Very fun for the $10 we paid to be there. I mean, a movie is almost that much and it doesn’t make your feet sing the hallelujah chorus and tell you your outfit is gorgeous.

And I’m actually happy to know that there is a place where it is not merely ok-but actually expected-that giant women walk around in booby-bearing corsets and mounds of red tulle. Somehow that thought alone gives me hope for the future.


Comments

2 Responses to “Fetish Club Field Trip”

  1. Curvaceous Dee on September 10th, 2007 3:06 am

    That was a fantastic post - what an experience! Not something to be missed, that’s for sure…

    “It’s sad,” said Becky, “when a hot man is defined by how little he looks like a homicidal maniac.” I agreed. I’m right there with Becky.

    Loved your haiku :)

    xx Dee

  2. chelsea g on September 12th, 2007 6:15 pm

    Thanks, Dee.

    It was a fun night. Haiku, cheese plate and all.

    kissykiss,
    chelsea g

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