It’s a pleasure to be asked, by my good friend Deity, to guest host this blog. I have always wanted to blog anonymously as I am fortunate enough to be in a privileged position in the fetish world. I see the best and worst of fetishists, designers, photographers, models and store owners. I’m sure you understand that I must be quite careful in my writings for not only do I not wish to give away my identity but I am not willing to name names. I’m not Fetish Gossip (now defunct site) and I don’t have scores to settle.
Well, ok, that last part isn’t true. Of course I do. Who doesn’t love a little schadenfreude? I could speak about the shoe manufacturer with a Napoleon complex who has, without exception, been the biggest pain in my ass since I began on the fetish scene. The New York fetish store that refuses to pay its bills. I could expound on the pretentious, needy, arrogant male doms who have neither the class nor the intelligence of this blog’s owner. Then there’s the female doms who insist you call them by their mistress name. I refuse to because I can’t keep a straight face. Try the dom act with me and you’ll get short shrift, I have enough power to make you beg for it. I could talk about the photographer who assaults his models and the fetish models who are only happy when they are being abused by men.
The only thing I’m sure I won’t talk about is my work colleagues, present or former - that is out of bounds. Loose lips sink ships and I’d like to have a workplace in the morning. So let’s start with that subject everyone is familiar with – the fetish event. I have attended several Rubber Ball’s in London and have been behind the scenes at each one. The panic, the chaos, the DJs snorting coke under their turntables. It still amazes me how many people try to pull the wool over the eyes of the hardy souls working the door, as if we are all fetish virgins who don’t see deception and liberty taking coming a mile off. There is very little I haven’t seen. I am one of many on the inside and I relish the power at my fingertips. A unique chance to be a complete bitch to people and have them cower in front of you and take it – whether they get off on it or not.
I recall one of my first ever fetish events several years ago. A group entered the venue and all but one was immaculately dressed, clad in rubber from head to toe. Very impressive but the odd one out was going to be a problem. I smirk inwardly as I think of what punishment I am able to dole out to him, what hoops I can make him jump through before I allow him in the door. There’s no limit to my imagination so there’s no limit to the time I can take making him squirm. He is wearing a fishnet shirt, leather jacket and jeans and it just isn’t good enough. The tickets are clearly marked with correct dress code; he is thinking that he will be fine in dull clothes because his friends are well dressed. He is wrong. He starts to look a little frightened at being singled out but he must have known this was coming. While I am one of dozens of people who work on the inside the decision of who comes in and who stays outside is often mine. I ponder for a moment on his punishment and while in mid thought I notice that one of his female colleagues is wearing a thong. I can see it outlining under her rubber skirt. I decide the only option is to ask his friend to remove her underwear and make him wear it. He thinks I’m kidding but I assure him I am not. His friends are giggling, they had warned him jeans would set off the red flag. His lady friend removes her skimpy undergarments. I never smile throughout a process like this; I am dead serious. He removes his jeans and puts on her underwear. He looks like he should be seeing the Rocky Horror Show. I am satisfied and let the party in – not before saying that if I catch him with his jeans back on he will be ejected.
I revel in this power and have no care about the misery I put fetish partygoers through. The Rubber Ball and related events are prestigious and people travel worldwide to see them. If you can’t dress correctly you stay outside with no ticket refund. On average at the Rubber Ball itself I would deal with around 20 issues of dress code out of thousands of people. 99% dress beautifully I must say. At other smaller events it’s probably around 5 issues to deal with but there’s always something. I would prefer to solve the problem than refuse entry – but I need something to work with and it’s been said that my fellow door bitches and I can create a suitable fetish outfit out of almost anything. I recall turning a couple in cocktail dress and tuxedo away from Torture Garden one year. They argued with me for 45 minutes but they weren’t getting in. Sometimes you’ll know a troublemaker is on the horizon. At the Ball a few years ago a guy wearing black trousers, leather shirt and fencing mask approached the door. I eyed him up and down and spotted something poking out of his pocket. I demand to see it. He sheepishly takes it out – a Smirnoff Ice bottle with an inch of liquid in the bottom. I’m no fool, I know it’s GHB. I confiscate it and he leaves. Later in the evening while on patrol inside the venue I see him. He has snuck in through a side door unnoticed. He sees me and runs out of the building and I make sure to secure the door. There’s no limit to the amount of tricks people try to get past me and they will not succeed. One year at Torture Garden a group of frat boy types asked to be let in and I simply smiled, even when three of them stripped to their white underwear. I was tempted to charge them double and let them in to be torn apart but controlled my urge.
The no photography (except press) rule has provided many incidents over the years. All venues and tickets are covered in signs banning photography. At the Expo (a fair for selling wares) I was watching a fashion show, 2 years ago. I spotted a middle-aged man taking photos secretly on a digital camera. I approached him and told him taking photos was not allowed. He responded by saying, with a German accent, he saw others (accredited photographers) with cameras and thought it was ok. What rubbish. At least don’t lie to my face about it! I removed him from the venue, deleting his photos on the way.
Two years ago at the Ball I saw a man in a Hawaiian shirt and approached him. He arrogantly told me he was the owner of the venue and would wear whatever he liked. I responded, with politeness, that tonight this venue belonged to us and his clothing was disrespectful to us and our customers. I didn’t care who he was, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt! I didn’t see him last year. I seemed to have more dress code trouble last year than usual for some reason. I berated a couple for wearing dull clothes. The man had a normal suit on – with corset over the top. Very little effort made. He told me one of the event organisers had told him that was an acceptable outfit. I told him it wasn’t and he later complained about me to my boss. I asked the organiser if she’d said any such thing – she hadn’t. A lie comes to find you out in the end. That was the same afternoon I had taken a human dog for a little walk around the venue on a leash.
A terribly handsome couple came in. She was dressed flawlessly. He was in leather coat and jeans. No good I said. Remove your trousers. He tried to argue with me and I said it was no bother to me to leave him on the street. His girl urged him to do as he was told and he did. Not a great outfit but he needed the lesson in humiliation.
Behave yourself, treat others with respect and you will have a great night. Test me and you will find that the door won’t even hit you on the ass on your way out.