How I Became A Great Big Hero

It is 1992 and I am 35 years old. My friends Mike and Susan have invited me to a kinky bondage party in a big house in the Home Counties. I have never been to a bondage party before so I accept the invitation. I am not into kinky sex or bondage (despite the rumours) and I don’t have any gear.

They lend me some leather jeans but I can’t squeeze into them. Instead I decide to wear ragged linen shorts, a Hawaiian print shirt and a frayed straw hat. It seems like a reasonable compromise.

I really didn’t know what to expect from a kinky bondage party but it was nothing like what I expected.

To start off with everything is consensual and you don’t have to do anything with anyone if you don’t want to, which seems to me, somehow, to defeat the object.

Also, and I don’t mean this in an overly critical way, none of the participants were what you might call “Ripped” or “Buff”. What I mean is: If you were at a club, for example, looking to hook up with someone for the night, none of them would be at the top of your list for an evening of energetic coitus. I am sure they were all lovely people deep down inside where it matters, but for those of us with a shallow and superficial disposition you would need to be wearing a really powerful pair of beer goggles before you made your move.

The other surprising thing was that there didn’t seem to be much in the way of nibbles or drinks. A number of people were passing joints around, which I thought was most generous. I am still a bit prudish about the whole drug thing, but I try not to be judgemental, and gratefully accept a few turns. One girl, very charmingly, had made some spiced, honey and saffron cakes. I had the munchies and scarfed down four of them before someone took the tin away. They were very spicy. They had a very odd flavour.

Later, someone else gave me a glass of orange juice which, judging by the taste, was definitely past it’s sell-by date. And that had an odd aftertaste.

A bit later, Mike came and asked me how I was doing. I was sitting with this podgy girl in a leather bustier who was trying to show me how to do the Macarena. I told him I felt odd. He gave me some pills and said they would sort me out.

I remember spending some time in the hallway studying the ceiling mouldings and the frame of the mirror. Then I really, really needed to go outside for some fresh air, forgetting it was early January.

Susan came out to find me and asked what I was doing:

“I am looking into the abyss,” I told her.

“Is it looking back?” She asked.

“Oh, yes. We are having a staring contest. I want to see if I can make it blink first.”

Bonding with the abyss

Much later we are all in the basement. I am sitting on a daybed and there is some half-hearted conversation. Someone has decorated the room with tie-dyed cloths and there is a multi-coloured light rotating in the corner.

I feel a panic attack coming on. I need to do something. I really, really need to focus and try and get things under control.

Eventually I summon up as much moral fibre as I can and sink down onto my hands and knees. I screw my eyes as tightly shut as I can and, ignore the obscene writhing and undulating of the carpet. I crawl across the room. I turn the light off.

There is a huge chorus of relief around the room and people sigh and release their breath.

“Thank God for that!” Says someone.

I am a Great Big Hero!

Five minutes later someone finds chocolate and then they are the great big hero.

Kids! Don’t do drugs.

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