Sex Parties: That time I went to a fetish night.

“woman with pink lipstick on hole of pink paper” by ian dooley on Unsplash

Let me start by providing some context. Despite what you might think, I am by no means a saucy, sexual deviant. I am, in fact, rather vanilla in my sexual appetites….or at least, I was until last weekend.

You see, in the spirit of ‘try everything once’, I decided to don a very risqué latex dress and attend a fetish party by myself. You read that right — by myself, on my tod, Belinda-no-mates. And it was, to say the least, an experience.

As a public service, I’ve decided to recount the events of that night, so all of you want-to-be nymphos can live vicariously through me. You’re welcome!

So, I hope you’re sat comfortably…or on some kind of vibrator. I shall begin.

Plucking up the courage to go.

After a good three hours of procrastinating in my pjs, I finally lubed up (yes, lubed up) my latex dress, put on my sexy war paint and fixed papier-mâché horns to my head. A short taxi ride later, I was in a queue surrounded by fellow revellers, many of whom were hiding their kinky outfits beneath long coats. It all felt very naughty.

Inside, coats were flung off to reveal some of the most outrageous looks I’ve ever seen. The club was a sea of gimp masks, latex thongs and nipple tape. One older gentleman gave up on clothes altogether and instead had his meat and two veg pinched in a genital clamp, creating a strange pendulum effect that he enjoyed swinging around the dance-floor. Everyone was shaking what their mothers gave them. It was riotous and, frankly, fantastic.

Embracing the madness of it all.

Gripping my amaretto on ice, I made my way to the second floor balcony. This was where all the voyeurs were hiding, peeping down at the dance floor below, eyes fidgeting from butt to bulge to breast. Behind me, one lady, who’d clearly gotten bored of looking, politely asked a busty woman in a boob harness if she could lick her ‘beautiful nipples’. The compliment went down incredibly well, received with a certain bashfulness as if the lady had just praised her baking skills. It was oddly mundane. I turned back around as the nip-kissing began — it was still early and I hadn’t quite adjusted to staring.

Fortunately, the stage show was about to begin. Out flounced a devil singing cabaret songs. It was rather jarring — a wild diversion from the techno music being played before. After he warmed up the crowd, he introduced the next act. Now, I do not know what heroin-fuelled wet dream this troupe came out of, but I certainly hope never to go there myself. Picture this: a balding, tattooed man comes out with fire sticks and starts waving them about, while a lingerie-clad acrobat writhes around on a giant polar bear. And that was only the start. After some jumping around on broken glass, a man dressed in a pink furry mouse costume and gas mask, with a comically large fluffy pink penis creeps onto the stage to the Pink Panther theme song. Then Tattoo Man mimes giving him head, at which point, a white, spunky liquid comes shooting out of his costume onto the stage. And if that wasn’t enough — out returns the acrobat with a giant knife, which Tattoo Man stabs through Pink Panther’s chest, pulling out a real sheep’s heart which he waves around like Magua from ‘Last of the Mohicans’.

So… that was fun!

‘Whatever next?’ you ask. Why, the sex dungeon of course!

Investigating the infamous dungeon room.

You can’t go to Torture Gardens without seeing a little bit of said torture. Presided over by Dungeon Mistresses, this makeshift marque is like a student fair with extra fannies. The first stall, shall we call it, had a man jerking off on a dentist’s chair. But these are not paid performers — these are attendees with a fetish for exhibitionism. While observing this man tug at his flaccid penis, another gentleman, decked out in leather, came over to talk to me. We had a lovely conversation about ‘Sixteen Candles’ and the brilliance of filmmaker John Hughes, finishing just as a new couple got up on stall two for some rough doggie. We made our way around the room, sampling the sights. Bodies were pink with whipping, and the sound of paddles meeting butt-cheek was strangely hypnotic. However, my new, 80s film-loving companion became a little too flirtatious, so I got out of there like Ross Kemp in a war zone. Or, at least, I tried to, when my horns got tangled in one man’s extravagant headpiece and we danced around for a few seconds like rutting stags. It was hardly the subtle escape.

As I neared the exit, a small man jumped out in front of me. He had a smile that creased his whole face, everything folding like filo pastry.

‘Are you a naughty girl?’ he asked. ‘Do you like being spanked?’

I could only laugh. I was, after all, a sex tourist. I couldn’t hope for ‘Sixteen Candles’ conversation all night. But then something hilarious happened that saved me. On the final stall, a woman was tied up in rope — suspended in mid-air so her man could have his wicked way with her. Unfortunately, however, having successfully got her up there, he now couldn’t get her back down. Much like someone who has tied their shoe laces too tight, he was fumbling about trying to detangle her. But then he pulled the wrong rope and she fell forward, suspended upside down with her head near the floor. She dribbled as she tried explaining which rope to pull next. They all tried to stay calm and sultry — this was meant to be erotic, remember — but I saw a few little smiles in the audience. Sadly, the spectacle was over far too quickly for my liking so I went back to the dance-floor.

Enjoying a last hurrah!

Having explored all the dungeon room had to offer, I thought the balcony might provide a tamer experience to close out my evening. How wrong I was. At the sides of the room, couples were in full swing, fucking to the heady sound of electro music. Stranger still, a skeletal, naked man had plonked himself down on the sofa next to one of those couples and was leaning into them, as if to smell the sex funk coming off their bodies, as he pleasured himself. Well, I thought, clearly this is working for some. But I’d had enough for one night. At 3:30am, I grabbed my coat and strutted out of there, head held high. I’d officially attended a fetish party by myself and marvelled at wonder of it all.

Though I may not have found the experience erotic, I will say it was eye-opening.

So, if you want to be whipped or have an onstage shag, or if you want to dance to techno, watch Pink Panther receive head, talk about 80s films and wear truly outrageous outfits, Torture Gardens is the night for you.

It’s well organised and every person there, whether they live the fetish life day-to-day or are just dipping a sexy toe, gives it their all.

Strangest of all, when everyone’s out to shock, nobody is shocking. In this little kinky haven they’ve created, fetish is the norm. It’s celebrated. And though I may not be adorning a gimp mask any time soon, my vanilla life just doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.