Screw cheap PVC and fake fur – true fetishism is performance art personified, as far from Lady Gaga as that chick is from originality!
And love it or hate it, hardcore fetish actively encourages animal cruelty – where do you think all those gorgeous, spunk-inducing fabrics come from? Frankly, they’re ripped from abattoirs, so glistening leather-queens can mince in butter-soft hides, and sex-frenzied sluts can piss on their finest, sable-fur sheets!
And that’s what I adore about first-class fetishism; at its best, it’s as offensive as John Galliano on a bad day, with a psychopathic contempt for good – as in bland – taste!
Sadly, few clubs and instances of personal, artistic mutilation rise to the hotly-fucked heights of the original Skin Two Club in now-demolished Falconberg Court. The sex, predictably, was wild – my first night saw nine male slaves on leashes in line, waiting to pleasure me with their hopelessly inadequate tongues. Sneering in my black rubber, Morticia Addams gown, bull-whip poised with vicious, dominatrix panache, my blasé gaze relished depravity worthy of NY’s legendary Toilet Club. And who could possible resist savagely beating hordes of doe-eyed, willing male victims? Not me, definitely, and fuck Catholic priests –my perfect exorcism for suffering brutal childhood violence was torturing every clone possible of my dumb, drunken daddy!
Even now – many years later – I still wake with wet-dream delight at cherished memories of twisted nipple-clamps and scalding wax making slaves scream with ecstasy. See, true fetish demands discomfort, the suck and sweat of rubber peeled from pussies and penises, the creak and stiff, unforgiving constraint of industrial leather. Preferably made from the youngest, baby-soft skins only, high-end fetish-wear is as complimentary to human skin as spunk and menstrual blood.
Fine, but where, dear readers, can you strut your gorgeously depraved stuff in 2016? Are there any remaining fetish joints worth the name? Shockingly, yes! Screw visions of diseased slums crusted with rancid pussy and wiener drippings – now, you can barely lust without seductive sex-palaces screaming for your holes!
It’s way overdue. ‘Oh bondage, up yours!’ sang punk goddess Poly Styrene way back in 1976, and finally, fetish frenzies are a mainstream leisure option. Sure, Poly was name-checking bondage ironically, as yet another exploitable, lifestyle cliché, but hasn’t every perversion possible become a capitalist cash cow? And who really, in the manic heat of full-on, bollocks-stapled-to-a-plank orgasm, gives a fuck?
Face it, we live once, so screw analysis and suck up the spunk! And where better than Vauxhall’s Club Pedestal? Mercifully, sexual diversity – dykes, uber-gays, bears, straights and trannies – is encouraged, as unpredictability is far more thrilling than a set menu! Christ, where the fuck’s the kick in a club full of rubber-freaks, or any other, identikit clones? See, like the best traditions of soccer hooliganism, any worthwhile, sexual frisson needs barely-hidden contempt to kick off, the twisted, fascinated fear of something other!
Ever seen Alien? Savoured the sheer horror of the crew watching it burst from John Hurt? That’s how straight guys see aggressive pussy, whether it’s born, or made in gender clinics! No wonder women and trannies feel empowered in fetish and dominatrix clubs – for once, they’re calling the shots.
But boys – gay or otherwise – don’t get cranky. Male masters and their boy slaves are well in evidence, and – inspired by London 2012? – there’s hordes of Paralympic perverts present too. Hoo-fuckin’-ray; me, I can’t wait for the first, differently-abled fetishists to take a proud, public place in a Slutwalk! When, oh when, will Joe Public realise there’s a whole nation of diversity outside their silly, suburban prejudices? Obviously, only when there’s a Club Pedestal on every corner, Tesco Local style!
• Next Club Pedestal @ Fire, Vauxhall, September 29th.
• Got any surgically-urgent theatre news, views or comments? Email [email protected]
