Get Wet, Get Wet, But Not too Wet

Get Wet, Get Wet, But Not too Wet

Some time in the summer of 1994 I got invited to go and check out a new fetish event somewhere on the south coast. I took G with me, for reasons that I can't particularly remember - perhaps she just fancied a night out.
The venue was some kind of leisure centre, which was starting to become a bit of a Thing in the mid-90s (not leisure centres themselves, but the use of them for fetish nights.) I'd been to a kinky party held in a London gym, which had been a bit dingy but, in its own way, atmospheric. This place was quite a lot fancier. It had a pool, for one thing. A small but very clean pool, with a mirror on one wall and (probably plastic) statuary round the edges and (definitely plastic) ivy draped over the statues.
It had a big gym area, with one of those lovely sprung floors which are such fun to dance on, and they'd put a DJ in there. (G and I later tested his skills and our cool moves by getting him to put Inside by Stiltskin on, followed by the Offspring's No Self Esteem).

 Around the edges of this space, and on a mezzanine floor as well, there were various bits and pieces of gym equipment, and we speculated a little about the type of use we might put them too later, if we got lucky.
Gyms or leisure centres do make rather decent kink venues, if you think about it, and we were both quite enthralled by this one. It was a contrast to the sort of sticky-carpet pub back rooms that still made up most of the London scene and, as it was summer and a hot night, the pool was very welcome indeed.
At some point in the evening's proceedings, perhaps between our third and fourth dips in the pool, both I and G managed to find ourselves someone to play with. She later told me that she'd got busy with her new friend in the Jacuzzi and it had been good; in my case things had gone relatively well except for my little mistake in the showers. The lesson I learned from that particlar night was: if you are sucking someone off in a shower cubicle, do not tilt your head at such an angle that the shower jets go up your nose while you have a mouthful of dick. It feels like you're going to fucking drown.

(I seem to recall writing almost exactly those final words when I did my review of this event. That's how much of an impression it made on me.)

Fetishwear 1 - Scarlet and Turquoise, Red and Blue

Fetishwear 1 - Scarlet and Turquoise, Red and Blue

Fetish club dress codes were a bit of a challenge right from the start, to be honest. Once I started going to a few more clubs, I got a slightly better idea of what I could get away with - I was generally short of money, and preferred to spend what spare cash I had on booze and books anyway (nothing has changed there). Also, I have a lifelong aversion to looking Just Like Everyone Else, wherever I might be. But I was generally on the lookout for stuff that would a) look OK on me b) get past the doorperson whose job it was to enforce the dresscode and b) not cost too much.
My home patch for most of the 90s was Deptford, which had a magnificent street market. Between the fruit and veg, meat and fish, and five-lighters-for-a-pound/wonky kitchenwear/no-brand binbag stalls there were always clothes for sale. Every now and again, there was something really worth having.
I think I bought the dresses some time in 1995. I have a picture in my mind of the circular rail by the side of the stall, full of these little dresses, all One Size Fits All. I think they had them in turquoise, scarlet and black. Ooh, I thought. Those look rather nice.
They were made of something stretchy, but not completely clingy; sleeveless, with a low round neck, coming down to about mid-thigh. They were about £5 each, so I decided I would have one scarlet one and one turquoise. The fabric had a slight shimmer to it; not metallic or glittery, just a little bit shiny.
I don't know how many Sue Grafton fans might be reading this, but her series heroine, Kinsey Milhone, often talks about her 'all-purpose black dress'. Those two little dresses were my all-purpose, go-to, fetish club outfits for the best part of two decades. They were 'naughty' enough to get me past all but the strictest door policies. They could be rolled up into a tiny bundle and literally stuffed in a pocket if I was going clubbing straight after work or another vanilla engagement. They are probably the only dresses I have ever owned that looked good whether I was having a chubby stage or a less chubby stage. They are still in the back of a drawer, because I really can't bear to part with them, even though they are finally wearing into holes.
The other best-loved find (and envy of many) would have been what I called the tractor boots. The soles of them were thick rubber, like tractor tires. They had a low, square heel and a rounded toe - rather similar in shape to DMs and, like 20-hole DMs, they laced up to the knee, but the boots themselves were thick rubber, not leather.
I found the boot stall one idle Saturday afternoon and wandered over for a look. The boots came in just the one style, but four colours: red, royal blue, black and a rather unlovely shade of brown, but they looked wonderful and they looked comfortable. I was inclined towards higher heels at the time, but getting a bit tired of the pain they inflicted. (To paraphrase Mr Eldritch, pain is for other people.)
'Help you, miss?' The stallholder was stacking up more boxes of boots.
'Have you got a size 8?'
'Loads, what colour do you want?'
'How much are they?' There was no price in site.
'Three quid a pair.'
Yes, all right, that does suggest dubious provenance, doesn't it? But I bought a red pair, and a blue pair, and often wished I'd bought a black pair as well. In fact, if I had bought a dozen pairs, I could probably have sold them all to various friends.
I don't think I have ever loved boots quite as much as I loved those two pairs, either. They were so unbelievably comfortable, yet so loaded with kinky visual cues. Also, having bought both red and blue ones, I could wear one of each if I wanted to be a smartarse.