My First Fetish Club

My First Fetish Club

I was a few weeks short of 25; this was autumn 1989. A friend from a mag I was freelancing for at the time had rung me a few days previously to tell me all about this chap who'd come in to their office to tell them about the 'S&M club' he ran. She said he was 'Just your type, and he likes brunettes, so you could be well in there...'
I phoned him and got the details - venue, opening time... there's a dress code. I fretted, a bit. I certainly didn't have enough money to buy any kind of head-to-toe latex couture, and I didn't really know where to look for that sort of stuff. I remember a lot of frantic digging in my wardrobe to assemble an outfit that I thought would be acceptable: the fact that I was a rock chick who liked hanging out with bikers helped, a bit. And I had a pair of cream leather thigh boots that were horribly uncomfortable, but which I liked to wear and pose in. I added my spandex trousers, a leather waistcoat over a camisole top, and a pair of fingerless leather gloves, then my big raincoat as it was pissing down, and made my way to Soho. In those days, Soho was still a bit 'dangerous', but it also had its share of bars and clubs that were inclined to big up the idea that they were situated somewhere edgy: this place was a ponced-up burger bar with a basement they rarely used, and it was a Monday night.
When I arrived, I got asked if I knew what sort of club it was, and informed there was a dress code. Yeah, I said. Fine. Look, I've done the best I can... and flung off the raincoat. I stood there wobbling on my heels (those boots were always an absolute sod to walk in) and one of the three people facing me said, 'Well I think you look lovely!'
I was in.
I don't know what I expected; I don't know how much what I saw compared with whatever expectations I had. After a while, a man engaged me in conversation. I remember he was quite a bit older than me, and that he had an American accent. I've never seen him since, which is a bit of a shame, because it was a fairly major conversation. I said, at the end, 'I never told anyone any of that before,' and he said, 'No one ever asked you the right questions.' Then he patted my arm and said, 'You're way too dominant for me, but you're going to have a wonderful time.'
I wandered about for a while, and then I found a seat, sat in it and looked around. A man near my own age approached, on his hands and knees and said, 'Madame, may I kiss your boots?'
He wasn't wearing any more than some collection of leather straps. I'd seen someone being whipped, and I'd seen a woman carrying a tray of drinks suspended from the rings in her nipples, but someone wanting to kiss my boots... that seemed harmless.
'OK,' I said, and he lay down on the floor and started kissing and licking my spike-heeled. slightly grubby, booted foot. I sat still for a little while, having no idea what I ought to be doing, but something about the situation appealed. It appealed a lot. I relaxed, leaned back in the chair and lit myself a cigarette (yes, this was when you could smoke indoors). I pulled my foot away, uncrossed my legs and kicked him gently in the shoulder with the other foot.
'Other one, now.'