BY Anthony Gilét

‘Fetish’ and ‘virgin’ aren’t usually two words you’d expect to find together, but here I was, a Fetish Party virgin. And I think you’ll agree that at some point, it’s a cherry that just has to be popped, albeit out of curiosity, if not pleasure.

Firstly, when you have the rep of a fabulous London blogger you can’t be mincing around with your hoop hagging out the back of some battered leather chaps, as if you’re ready to get pounded like a dusty damask rug. When you see those withered harlots on all fours barking like some stray hound, you need to be able to sashay past like you’re too glamorous to even have cum in your hair; let alone be partial to it on your face. So despite the tone of the event, don’t be afraid to keep that sophisticated socialite status…

Because anything Paris can do, you can do better! How she gonna try do “trashy gay man” better than a trashy gay man? Mess.

paris

It’s all about acting regal, even if – cut to you giving out blowies around the dark room more freely than the Evening Standard. Because, even though Kim Kardashian is a freaky hoe behind closed doors, when she struts through a crowd of grubby hobos, she’s LIVING.

strut

That’s not to imply decrepit old men with their breasts sagging over the straps of a leather harness are “grubby”, by any means.

You’re provided with all the essential vibes throughout the club; DJs pumping hard house more vigorously than the dom top wocking out hungry Helen bent over the bonnet of a disused Toyota; a chilled bar area where bitches can socialise and suck a little dick – but not go too crazy; an arch of portaloos and flat pack urinals where guys can leer at your cock without the shame of saying they wound up in the cruising maze; a ‘yellow zone’ where fans of watersports are treated to two chubby accountants wedged into a couple of bath tubs guzzling the piss of anybody that approaches; a handful of sex swings built to accompany any bucket no matter how cavernous; and a crowd so horny that when you ask how many guys they’ve hooked up with, they look at you like you’ve asked them to do Trigonometry.

trig

And of course, the enchanting offer to make love on a stained mattress in the back of a caravan – but that’s only for the real romantics.

Well, surely you didn’t think that the romance was lost, just because the knights in shining armour were now sluts in shining harnesses? As it was confirmed, when an acquaintance introduced us to his new beau –

“This is *Simon… the guy you’re drink smells of…” after the acquaintance had unleashed his cock breath all over our Red Bull. That’s the last time I’m letting someone have a sip of my drink at that kind of party. Do I have to go to the bar and order my drink with “just ice. No Chlamydia”.

urgh

Oh, and how can we forget the washed up porn stars flouncing around with an air of superiority as valid as their career choices.

As we explored the archways filled with more hard ons than a horny twink after a 1.5, we came across some ‘intriguing’ sights (grown men grunting like warthogs playing in the rain, while they were lashed repeatedly like naughty Catholic whores was just one of the many highlights) *clutches pearls*. I swear at one point we saw And even though we were the ‘occasional slut’ dressed in a professional’s uniform – we were no prude – but some things should be kept private.

Don’t get me wrong, if you’re not a even a little kinky, your future lovers may as well go and dry hump a chopping board, but sometimes seeing a small Italian man gag and fist a big Daddy Bear can almost bring up that meal you ate three days ago. And while I can’t deny we had a lot of fun, somehow I don’t think I’ll meet my future husband in the middle of a wank circle in an underground car park. Although somehow I don’t think most of the patrons were looking for husbands.

And despite one of our friends managing to hit the jackpot by pulling a couple with less social etiquette than a soggy teabag, and another falling for a guy that got rid of him quicker than a pair of soiled undies, I think it’s safe to say that the one who had the best time was the boy so ketted he thought he worked in the cloakroom.

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