Yesterday I spent time looking at instruments of torture and some really gruesome looking antique sex toys.
I was out strolling round London with my partner and we’d done the usual stuff (theatre, coffee, Vintage clothes shops) when we happened on a fetish wear shop and decided this complemented. It had an enticing window display and the place looked intriguing so we rang the bell and popped in.
It was beautifully laid out and the orifice ripping metal wear and rubber ball gags were laid out with aplomb. I’ll give them that. I winced a little as we walked around, browsing and clenched my buttocks as I admired the patina on one highly polished ergonomic device designed to cause pain after another.
There’s a fine line between the two things. Like love and hate, pleasure and pain are sensations that our hardwiring seem to allow crossover with. I almost envy the S and M fanatics. I’m the kind of person who would take to my bed with a bad corn and am known for my stash of painkillers which I heft around in my bag. I struggle enough with my dodgy back, creaky neck and achy knees to want to invoke further trouble by being paddled mercilessly on the buttocks in a dungeon in Vauxhaul. Nor am I one who is keen to inflict pain. I get upset if I accidentally tread on a spider.
I once slept with a man who asked if he could put me in a half Nelson during intercourse and I wasn’t keen. He also asked if he could pull my hair which for a man over the age of forty is a definite no-no. I’m already at the point of reaching for the Regaine without having the risk of clumps of it coming out during someone’s boisterous orgasm.
I admire the style and the commitment of the sadomasochistic scene devotees but I think I’ll stick to the Vintage clothes shops on my next ramble round town. There was a lovely Harris Tweed that hid my flabbier areas better than any PVC suit would and the ties there did more for my eyes than the gimp masks would have.