Nonfiction

Fetish Night

27 February 2013

I wondered what to call my new half-erect friend. Do you ask for people’s names at fetish clubs? Or more to the point, do you bother with pleasantries once they’re naked and bent over a coffee table–masturbating–while you rub baby oil onto their behind and spank them? I wasn’t there to get ‘his’ and ‘hers’ tattoos with anyone. I was on a mission to beat my stupid social anxiety once and for all. An intense and overwhelming anxiety that, prior to getting professional help and learning about exposure therapy, had dumped me out at sea to drown in loneliness. These days I deal with lots of stuff well, but a sure fire way to crush leftover anxiety is to confront all the experiences that interest yet petrify me.

I looked over to my pal Vito for some guidance, but he was making conversation with another guy who’d sat down to “observe”.

Our host for the night, The Major, wandered past and smiled like a proud father. In that moment–as my hand launched back into the air for the umpteenth time, to the second it was making that “thoop” sound again on this stranger’s bottom (who, FYI, was wearing only a cock ring and a policeman’s hat)–I wanted to yell out “Look Major, I’m doing it, I’m really doing it”. I remembered what he’d told Vito and I moments before: “It’s okay to say no. Don’t do anything you don’t wanna do.” Next my new friend stood up, looked into my eyes, grabbed the bottle of baby oil and signalled down at his dick. I laughed, shook my head and said “Do you wanna come have a cigarette with us instead?” He walked off and that was the last I saw of him.

Why hadn’t I got involved in BDSM prior to this? I’d really wanted to. But social anxiety is lame as fuck and it gets off on a life with the curtains drawn closed. Honestly, I was super concerned about what my friends would say and what those already involved would think of me. But you have to push yourself. And, dear reader, it turned out that not one of my mates threw holy water in my face. In fact “OMG, you’re gonna have to tell me everything!” was pretty much the universal response. As for my new BFFs at the fetish club? They all let their freak flags fly high that night and it was dope.

I don’t want this to get all ‘yeah and then I let ‘x’ into my heart and now life is awesome. #YOLO.’ Therapy for anxiety wasn’t like that and still isn’t. It’s damn hard work to ignore your quivering lip and shaking legs when they’re screaming at a deafening volume that you’re the biggest loser that’s ever existed. But sitting at home on the couch watching the big game, instead of burning every bit of lean tissue you’ve got to be a part of it, is a shitty way to live. Yeah I might lose the championship match, but that’s okay, ‘cos at least I’m there.


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