The most recent comment on my Passenger post got me thinking about dress. I do not have the body for rubber and even if I did it only interests me when I see it clinging to the body of a gorgeous girl. The same goes for pvc though I don't mind leather so much. Fetish events of the standard of the Rubber Ball have to be the highest quality in terms of who attends, who exhibits, who performs, who photographs and who controls. I've been to fetish clubs in Los Angeles and, while fun enough, the lack of an enforced dress code encourages laziness in the attendees.
As you might imagine, since I work in fetish every day, the last thing I am interested in is fetish at the weekends. Imagine working in a chocolate factory. It sounds fantastic and might well be for a couple of years but even the most rabid chocolate lover would get quite sick of it after a while. So, it's almost as if I save up all my passion, all my kink for the Rubber Ball Weekend. My personal turn on is uniforms. I love them on men and I love them on women. I have had a thing for uniforms since I was a teenager and I gladly and proudly wear one at the Ball and related events. It's a pleasure to slip into the pressed trousers, white shirt with starched collar and fix my tie. It might be hot and heavy but the dress jackets are a joy to wear. I look good and it encourages an air of authority. It could be army, navy or police but it's always an officer uniform.
During the first Ball I attended, many years ago, it became apparent that I needed an assistant. Most of the weekend is spent rushing around and I would often forget to eat or drink or simply have no time to think about it. I met an American outside Torture Garden one year. He was high on X, very friendly and kind and we got on famously. It turned out that, when he was not high, he was just the same and he became my assistant and friend. There is an element of the slave relationship about it since he serves me at the Ball events. He anticipates my needs. He gets food and drink, he lights my cigarettes, he runs errands, gives massages and, being a man who is passionate about feet, he happily complies when I loan him out for some foot massages. He's an obliging and charming southern gentleman.
The private parties have become legend. A group of Ball attendees, from out of town, will rent a house together and it will become *the* place to be after all the events. We're all friends, there's no modesty there so everyone feels free to let their hair down. I remember a few years ago, after a first night event, sitting in the living room with half a dozen other people while we all chatted and watched two ever so hot models have sex on the sofa. As with any private party, there is no limit on the amount of drugs & drink taken though I am always careful not to overdo it while the events are taking place. After all, I must work all day and night. Once the last event closes its doors that vow is certainly broken. Among other things, the wonderfully American pastime of nitrous has recently become popular in the UK. There's a reason why it's better to imbibe such things seldom, not often.
What I do find is that everyone is happy to be there. People are kind and courteous to each other. And there's always fun to be had in the dungeon. As a voyeur, I make sure to take trips into the darkened dungeons at all the events. Much of the play is what you'd call typical. Of the type I'm sure you've seen before. Every so often you get a jolt when a particularly good play scene gets going and a person who actually knows what they're doing takes part. It was a pleasure watching a renowned BDSM educator guesting in a dungeon. I very much enjoyed watching her tease and torture a famous model until she could no longer move, let alone sit. The horizontal welts were as wide as both cheeks, raised, crimson and lasted for weeks.
I've never played in these dungeons as I don't like to play publicly. But such evenings are a voyeur's paradise. There's a Caligula aspect to proceedings. One year we had a taxi slave, which was ever so useful. A mistress friend of mine was involved and brought one of her clients, a London cab driver, along to ferry us all around, for free, to each event. He would set a velvet stool in the back of the cab and help each of us, courteously, into the seat. If he was very lucky he would be allowed a few moments of foot worship before he drove to the venue. That would have been welcome last year, when dreadful London traffic caused my boss and I to park a mile away from the first venue. I relished the looks on the faces of tourists and families as we strode purposefully down the streets of central London, both clad in military uniforms.
If there's one thing that marks out the events it's the ass kissing. People who would not give me the time of day but for my position bend over backwards to please me. I have visited America many times and find it to be a fascinating, fucked up, wonderful, welcoming, endlessly fun country. Those from the east coast are genuine, no bullshit. Those from the south and midwest are unfailingly polite. But no-one kisses ass like west coast Americans, they are masters of the art. You would not be amazed to find out that my position leaves me open to a great amount of sucking up. Not that I mind. It's good for the ego.