“Love Hurts” Torture Gardens 2010 Valentine’s Day Ball

You cant catch a boyfriend at a fetish club…or can you?

We were waiting in line to be married when he popped the question. After asking two lovely blonde burlesque girls we met a few minuets earlier to be our witness’s Malachi turned to me and asked, a bit nervously, if I would go out with him. Throwing my arms around him as we kissed, I think he knew my answer…

Let me explain. This was not your typical churchyard service. The “wedding” was to be held at Torture Gardens annual Valentines Day ball, the chapel was in fact a backdrop used for effect, and the only real standard wedding fare were the props, a ring, veil, and marriage certificate. However those paled in comparison to the empty alcohol bottle I pretended to swing as me and my new man posed on an upturned trashcan. “Will you love this man even if he gives you genital warts and goneria?” The priest (who with his spiky black hair and armloads of metal looked like he could have walked right off the set of a Motley Crue video) asked. “Hell’s yeah” I replied, trying not to laugh as he turned to Malachi. “And will you love, honour, and respect this woman when she gains 50 pounds and her hair falls out?” “Yup” he replied with a grin as a woman in a white netted ensemble and killer shiny PVC heels encouraged me to flash my garter belt as she snapped our pics.

After the deed was done, we wandered over to the striptease boudoir, a gorgeous large atmospheric room decorated with hearts, stripper polls on lifted podiums, and a wide flat screened TV playing old cinema clips of 50’s starlets, who seemed to be housewives by day and vixens by night. After checking out some of the burlesque performances as well as Kaori’s fabulous latex dreams show, The Velvet Underground’s “Venus in Furs” inspired me to do my own personal pole dance, leather whip included.

The music of the evening had something for everyone, each DJ having been a regular at TG for some time insured a good mix of Electro Clash, Glamour Trash, Neo Swing, Burlesque, RnB and Drum and Bass. Viktoria Modesta had a lovely live music set and the couples grinding in the Neon Love Ballroom couldn’t look happier. Other highlights included the alcoholic cupcakes for sale, a bargain at £3 when you consider the flavours ranged from absinthe to blueberry vodka and cherry bomb, plus you got the added fun of frosting. (Sophie’s chocolate baileys being my personal favourite).

Although the sheer size of the seOne venue and number of guests in attendance meant that TG could never achieve the closer, more friendly and welcoming environment as the smaller and more personal events such as Decadence and Subversion, the reason you attend Torture Gardens is for the sheer spectacle and broad range of events and equipment, and the Valentine’s Day ball had both in spades. The spinning circular suspension board attached to the shiny red PVC bed in the Striptease Boudoir provided me with some lovely lashings as couples embraced behind me, while meanwhile in the Dungeon, a large birdcage had been erected for some fantastic performances (both by professionals and armatures alike).

My advice for those planning on attending TG’s next event at Mass in March? Book tickets well in advance and arrive early. Events like these sell out fast and you don’t want to miss out on performances or wait in massive queue for entrance or photo booths. Besides, the wide range of activities and performances on display are guaranteed to keep you entertained until the wee hours of the morning.

Dungeons before Dancefloors: A Subversion Experience

How can I fully describe Subversion's Love at first bite event? So many feelings, sensations, emotions that I never felt at Killing Kittens or Decadence...it marked my first real submissive experience and one I will never forget. I attended the event with Malachi, my very good friend and play partner. I believe having someone there with me to have fun with made such a difference in the enjoyment of the club. Not that I didn't have fun being paddled by professionals at Decadence or enjoyed the company of some stunning latex and lingerie-clad women at both events, but theirs nothing like relinquishing total control to a person you completely trust.

Although a series of small disasters, including but not limited to having my handbag somehow laced into my corset, resulted in us arriving two hours late, we had no problem entering the club, as we later learned that some guests, especially gorgeously femmed up transgenders who put most natural women to shame, wouldn't show until up to 3, as their outfits required much more preparation than your standard latex ensemble.

And after being relaced by a lovely sir in assless leather chaps, I was ready to hit the Dungeon, but not before Malachi bought me my first real collar. Besides having a lead, it fit me perfectly, which chokers never have in the past. Feeling the tightness of it against my neck was thrilling, and it was wonderful to use in the photographs we had taken, some of which I was joined by a stunning Italian dominatrix, who with her dark lipstick and black net across her face reminded me of Sandra, Guido's alluring and mysterious mistress in 8 1/2.

Still buzzing from the Italians embrace and seductive lens of the camera, we make our way over to some recently freed equipment located in the middle of the room a short distance away. Dropping my bag, my hands are enchained above my head and I'm suspended, unable to move my wrists in either direction. As Malachi began whipping me, softly at first and then harder and faster, I become less aware of the people watching all around us and drift into subspace, which I can only describe as being a feeling like floating, feeling all sensations but as if your mind is detached from your body. The whip felt good at times, harsh at others, bringing tears to my eyes but at the same time I wanted the sensation to continue, craved the pain of the rubber against my bare back and shoulders as much as the pleasure of being stroked with a silken glove. I was completely relaxed, even as the rubber whip was switched to one of leather and later on, a paddle. The feeling was different with each piece of new equipment but that sensation of being separated from reality was the same, and as Malachi pulled my wrists free of their restraints, gently asking if I was feeling dizzy or would like a drink, I didn't want him to stop. But the rush to my head as I stepped off of the podium said otherwise, and I agreed, feeling light headed, exhilarated. I felt like for the first time, I understood what it was like to be truly submissive, willfully handing over complete control to another, and loving every second of it.


Nothing beat those moments on the podium, but the rest of the night definitely came pretty close. The whole atmosphere at the club was open and friendly, and relaxing with a drink, I got to talking with the lovely leader of a certain popular online fetish forum, and was thrilled when she recognized me. I also compared welts and lashings with a sexy Canadian who told me the success of a night can be (rightly) measured by the injuries sustained. We later had a wild thrashing on the dance floor, at which at certain points I found myself flung onto the ground itself.

All in all, the night was a success, and as I was putting some more dungeon equipment to good use, we were startled by the announcement that it was 5:00 and the downstairs portion of the club was closing, everyone had to leave or else wait in the room upstairs which stayed open for another hour for those in need of a hot drink and a warm place to wait till the opening of the 6:00 tube. Since we were having way to much fun to go just yet, we opted for the latter open, and that's how I found myself, at half 5 AM, drinking tea and discussing the history and origins of Communism and rise of Socialist society with Malachi in a cushion-lined cage (that I had been handcuffed too a mere few hours earlier), all the while being the recipient of an enthusiastic foot massage by a man who later on announced he was moving to Asia the following week to check out the Japanese BD/SM scene. A perfect end to an unforgettable night.

What face lurks behind the mask?

"Can you make it a bit tighter?" I asked, for maybe the fourth or fifth time. I'm standing in the toilets at Electric, the bar me and my friend Rose have just finished doing promo for. Well, maybe standing isn't the right word...more like leaning over gripping the sink as Rose and a woman who just happened to walk in and decided to help yank the strings of my leather corset. "I think that's about as tight as it will go" the woman says, and I peer into the mirror to admire their handiwork. I look thin, reduced by the full four inches, if not slightly cleavageless.

"I don't know about the bust line" I say, to which the woman replies "Oh, your fine. Mine would just fall out of that...100% silicone." "Did it hurt?" I asked. Boob jobs were something that always held an interest for me, being a mere B cup myself. "Oh, not at all. Definitely get tranquilized first...the surgery lasted a couple of hours, but I was out for 12. Didn't feel a thing. This hurt a lot worse" she said, showing me the guys name tattooed on her arm. "I'll keep that in mind" I agreed. "Where did you get them done?" "Essex. Best £4,000 I ever spent." The woman turned back to the mirror as Rose looked at me impatiently. "Alli, are you almost ready?" "Yup...just have to tie my mask" I slip on my full length gloves and grab my bag.

Let me explain. Me and Rose are on are way to a Renaissance masked ball hosted by The Last Tuesday Society at the V&A. The event only lasted till 10 and we were running last. Still, I cant help taking one last look at my reflection before leaving the toilets. My black glittery feathered mask stares back at me, and I'm reminded of the last time it was worn...

It's late November. Me, Rose, and a couple of other girls are out doing promo, and we leave the group to flyer "a bit further on Oxford St" (read: holiday cupcakes at Starbucks). As were licking frosting off our fingers Rose's mobile goes off. It's her boyfriend, James, and their conversation intrigues me. "I have to buy a mask...this is so crazy...no, I don't think Lucy can make it..." "What's this about?" I inquire when she gets off the phone. "Oh." She blushes, eyes darting around the crowded coffeehouse. "I don't know if I should say anything..." I lean closer, lowering my voice and touching her arm. "Come on...spill."

"Ok." She sighs and sits back, looking at me conspiringly. "It's called Killing Kittens. It's held at a secret London location, probably a castle or mansion. You don't find out till the very last minuet. There's free champagne, and you have to be attractive to be let in. It's £60 for girls, £90 for guys, but you must be vetted. This isn't your typical party, its very exclusive. There will be couples having sex there, but James says its aimed at woman, so mostly bi-curious girls."
"I want to come" I say, helping myself to more frosting. Mansions? Free champagne? Beautiful bi girls? Sign me up. "Are you sure?" she asks. "Its going to be wild." "Definitely" I reply, smiling wickedly. I'd been wanting to do something totally out there since moving to London the month before, and Killing Kittens sounded like it could be it. "Oh, and one more thing" Rose said, leaning closer. "You have to wear a mask."

On the night of the event, I met Rose's boyfriend for the first time. "I have a present for you girls" he said, passing me and Rose love eggs (remote controlled vibrators)On the way to the mansion, we swapped remotes, and it was definitely one of my more enjoyable cab rides...

How can I describe Killing Kittens? The night was surreal, like a fantasy straight out of a movie scene. Upon arrival, we were shown into a candlelit reception area complete with Victorian paintings, a piano and antique candelabra. Champagne flutes galore completed the scene, where elegantly dressed masked couples mingled and the conversation flowed with the achohol, everyone secretly eyeing each other up for later on.

As my intoxication grew, my awareness of my environment lessened so the rest of the night was a blur of wine glasses, white powder, woman, lips, caresses. Certain elements stood out, however. The small glass bowls of condoms in every room grew emptier as couples made their way upstairs to the massive bed, which took up the entire room and was an orgy of writhing, moaning bodies. Their was a jacuzzi as well, and a steam room, neither of which I trusted although the men who occupied them certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.

But every dream has its nightmarish elements, and at one point of the night I was lured away from the main party by a man who lived in the mansion and said he would take me to VIP. The room was beautiful, with a four poster bed, massive TV playing music videos, and a few other gorgeous couples sitting, talking, kissing. Even the toilet had a marble floor, clawed tub with golden feet. But as the man came in, took out some powder and slid the lock on the door I got scared and demanded to be let out. Even as wasted as I was, I knew a locked door meant trouble.

Stumbling out of VIP, I ran into Rose, who hugged me and said she and James had been looking everywhere. Our taxi was here...the night was over. As I slid into the airbed at James, which was far larger and more comfortable than my twin at halls would ever be, I could not help but wonder at the allure of a mask. Why, in this age of heightened freedom and sexual liberation do Londoners still feel the need to encloak themselves in fancy dress, to hide beneath a stick? What makes costume parties and masked balls so popular? Perhaps, even now, a stigma is still attached in being a bit to wild, a bit to free. Maybe the only way to true personal liberation is hidden behind a mask.

So, I've finally done it.

As a journalism student and inspiring writer, its pretty much expected of me to have a blog. But, although I'm your usual facebook checker, fetlife follower, and active on several forums, I put off starting a blog for almost 6 months now. I know you could post one about basically anything, but lets face it: I'm not a secret prostitute with a double life as a research scientist, I can't cook anything even remotely resembling a Julia Child recipe, and although I would love to trade One Red Paperclip for a house or my own private island, lets face it, it has already been done.

I needed a niche, a story, a catchy title. Blogging about being a foreigner in London seemed to obvious, a student, to boring. Besides, I'm almost never in my flat and don't lead much of a typical student's life, anyway. I hate living in halls. I hate how my flatmates steal my milk and put pizza in my toaster, hate the constant 7AM fire alarms after just crashing in a tiny twin bed a few hours previous, hate the R&B music currently blasting out of the flat next to mine (how can a repetitive strain of "Ink my whole body I don't give a motherfuck" possibly be classified as music?) Hate how you cant sign in guests after 8:00PM, and how I oftentimes feel like I'm living in a metal and cement prison. (My view out my window is the lovely and inspiring site of the residence courtyard, identical blocks complete with massive dumpsters and chavs huddling over their cigarettes.)

But enough on my views of halls. I'm not very active in student activities either, I'm afraid. I belong to no groups, try and avoid as much as possible going out to places like Ministry of Sound, Fabric, Egg, or, perhaps worst of all, our hole in the wall Student Union. Even mid-range clubs like Tiger Tiger, OnAnon, and Zoo lost any possible appeal (although I do have to work in them), and only occasionally will you find me there on a student night, and only when I knew a promoter can get me in VIP. I'm not posh. On the contrary, I believe raving in grimy goth clubs is one of the best ways to spend a Saturday night. I just don't enjoy "dancing" with several hundred sweaty, drunken, non-interestingly dressed students and bankers shoved in my face, some guy grabbing my ass or girl falling on top of me (and not in a good way). Sorry, but I get enough of that at work, and theres no way I'll be putting up with it without a paycheck.

So in summary, I might not be a good cook, trader, or student. But I do have a wallet with membership cards for both Metparties and Slimelight. (One gets me and friends free entry to any Mayfair club, the other gets me into London's longest-running and largest gothic/wave venue.) On any given night, I could be somewhere like China White or Funky Buddha, barelegged and in heels, at a table I didn't pay for, drinking grey goose and talking to royalty from places like India or Italy, all of which didn't cost me a thing. Alternatively, I could be raving on a smoke-filled floor with a cage dressed in PVC and knee-high demonias. Recently involved in the fetish scene, I could also be in a jacuzzi or dungeon in Portland Place.

What I have is adventures, achohol, sex and crazy friends, along with some pretty awesome clothing. And, quite hopefully, the makings of a story.