Chapter 2And Other Stories
Chapter 2
A
fter that first time in Torture Garden with Dr. Yen and Lara I made so many return trips and experienced so many crazy things it’s really beyond the capacity of memory to recall them all . A couple of stories really stand out though.
One time I met this beautiful Ethiopian model at TG at Electrowerkz (the party is held at different venues around London including this industrial space in the Angel district). She was over from Copenhagen, to experience the party. I’d already opened a number of girls to little effect, and I was hungry for some action. This girl, Andrea, was ‘on’ pretty much the moment I spoke to her. The friends she was with melted away. Soon it was just us left there, kissing by the bar.
What I liked about Andrea was she was as flamboyant as hell. She wore white angel’s feathers, PVC trousers and a white leather harness to complement my black one. Her skin was dark and beautiful, and she had a strange mohawk haircut that topped off her slender body. Normally I am not one for short hair on girls, but in this case Andrea looked so fashionable and bizarre, like something you’d see in a style magazine that I was hooked. Plus, her slender body was toned and so alluring.
‘Let’s go for a walk’ I said to her, and I took her by the hand and led her out of the bar to another part of the venue. What I learned fairly early on in my TG journey is that the name of the game is to extract a girl as quickly as you possibly can and take her to the infamous ‘couple’s room’.
The couple’s room is, as it says on the tin, a room reserved (ostensibly) for couples, where people can have sex with one another. In theory at least, this is the only place in Torture Garden where you can actually get down and dirty. In practice you find people fucking all over the place, behind curtains and in dark corners and so on. But that’s at the risk of being discovered and told off, thrown out or whatever. So, really you want to get into the couple’s room.
But here’s the thing. In order to get into the couple’s room you have to be part of a couple. Obvious, right? If you come to TG alone the best thing you can do is meet a girl as quickly as you can, and take her in there. Not just because you have a good chance of some action with that particular girl, but also because once you’re in you can (as long as you’re unobtrusive and non-creepy) potentially get involved with other people as well.
One time I went into the couple’s room at a TG event in the Coronet Theatre with some hippyish-looking girl with flowers in her hair that I’d picked up from the upstairs room where they play rock n’ roll music. I took her to the couple’s room within about ten minutes of us meeting and soon she was impaling herself on me with abandon. When we’d finished, and she’d recovered, she put her clothes back on and said she was going back to rejoin her friends. That was absolutely fine with me. I would hang around to see what happened next.
What happened was an extremely cute blonde girl—certainly an 8 and probably a 9 —approached me .
‘Fuck me,’ she said, simply and without ceremony.
I was impressed with her proactivity, and her body, amply displayed as it was by her complicated and expensive lingerie. However, having just shot my load with the other girl and having had zero recovery time, even on a couple of 100mg Viagra tablets I knew I would be struggling to perform. Still, I’m not a man to turn down a challenge, and so I led her to a dark corner where we laid down on the floor, and I pulled aside her knickers and gave it my best shot.
As I’d suspected my cock, while perking up somewhat at this unsought but welcome opportunity, was still sluggish and spent from the previous fuck. So I shagged this girl for a couple of minutes at most before I flopped out and it became fairly apparent that this wasn’t going to work out as we’d hoped.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll blow you for a bit instead.’
Then she took my dick in her mouth and sucked it gloriously. I was starting to get into the groove again. I was hardening up. But right then she let my junk drop and, before I’d come, she wandered off and started talking to some other guy. I guess it was sexual karma. I hadn’t satisfied her, so why should she satisfy me? Not really in line with my dom ideology but I can’t fault her logic. By the way, this girl was what they used to call a ‘sloane’ in London—that is, an inhabitant of Sloane Square, or thereabouts, which is slap bang in the middle of Chelsea, London’s poshest district. She had the kind of accent that reeks of expensive education and long stretches in Barbados and Val D’Isere. She wore extremely expensive underwear and probably went to an all-girls’ school somewhere deep in the English countryside.
I personally find this fascinating, as it goes against what might be the perceived view of places like Torture Garden. I imagine the perception of TG is that it’s full of undesirables, or strange, kinky people who crawl out of the gutter at night only to crawl back there in the morning once the lights are up and the last track has played. But we all know, or should, that the kinkiest people around are the aristocrats and upper classes. And that’s certainly the case in England.
But I have digressed from my story about Andrea. I led her to the couples room, and it wasn’t long before we were both undressed and fucking on a low chaise lounge helpfully positioned there for that purpose. The sex was good. I had lots of energy. It was the beginning of the night, I’d banged a couple of Viagra’s and washed them down with a vat of Red Bull. I was pounding her with great vigor. I became aware that a man was looking on, watching us intently. Now, if you haven’t been to an event like this that might seem a little weird or creepy. But part of the vibe at these sorts of parties is that people watch one another having sex. When you think about it, voyeurism itself might be deemed a fetish. Given that you are at a fetish club, it seems a little churlish to prevent someone else from enjoying his or her particular ‘thing’.
So I carried on banging away and allowed him to enjoy the view unfettered.
‘Yes, oh yes!’
You might suppose that it was Andrea saying that, but actually it was this guy. He had taken to crying out his appreciation as though this were a football game.
Finally we finished, Andrea moaning out her appreciation. I pulled out, she sat up.
‘Bravo!’ said the man. ‘Bravissimo! That was amazing! Extraordinary!’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Great fucking’, he continued. ‘You two are the best in here by far. Really.’
‘Cheers,’ I said, nodding. I’d been congratulated before on various skills, from writing, to my ability to put together a business proposal, to public speaking. But to be congratulated so effusively for my sexual proficiency was a rare accolade.
‘I’m Matius,’ said the guy, holding out a hand for Andrea and I to shake.
Impressed that he was willing to do so despite the fact it was a reasonable assumption that our hands were dirty, I shook. So did Andrea, although she was looking at the guy as though he were a loon. Which I suppose he was.
‘You fuck her really good,’ Matius continued. ‘Such strength, such power. You are an alpha male!’
Of course, I was flattered.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I gave it my best shot.’
‘You certainly did,’ said Matius. ‘It was epic! Extraordinary! Magical!’
This was somewhat overdoing it. Yes, it had been a good fuck, but whether it deserved to be lauded in such terms was another matter.
‘Thanks,’ I said once more.
‘Listen,’ said Matius. ‘I’m from Brazil.’
‘That’s great,’ I said.
‘And the way you fuck that girl makes me want to see you fuck my girlfriend like that.’
‘Really?’ I said. Now my ears had pricked up. ‘Is she here?’ I asked.
‘No, not this time,’ said Matius. ‘She’s in Brazil at the moment. But she’ll be back in London soon.’
‘Do you have a picture?’
‘Sure’, said Matius.
He took out his phone and showed me pictures of him with an attractive-looking brunette. Some of these were straightforward holiday-style shots—the two of them together on a yacht, at the bar, at a black-tie celebration and so on—but then others were more intimate. Soon he was showing me shots of his girl on a bed, ass to camera, her legs apart showing off her pussy.
‘Very nice,’ I said.
‘Let’s exchange numbers,’ said Matius. ‘Then that way when my girlfriend is back I can invite you round and you can fuck her.’
‘Sounds fair enough,’ I said. I took his phone and punched in my number.
I forgot about Matius until later that night when I started to get increasingly enthusiastic messages on WhatsApp from him.
‘Troy are you still here … ?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Troy come meet me … ‘
‘What time are you leaving?’
Later still:
‘Troy, get a cab over to my place. Let’s watch a movie together …?’
‘You got girls over there?’ I shot back.
‘No, just me’, he responded.
Finally the penny dropped. At minimum, Matius was bisexual and was hoping for a little ‘alpha male’ fun of his own. More likely he was gay. Maybe the pictures on his phone were fakes, or maybe he’d staged them with a friend or an actress in order to lure apparently ‘naive’ straight guys like me into his orbit.
Whatever the case, there was no way in hell I was going over there.
‘If you haven’t got girls I’m not coming over,’ I said. ‘I’m only interested in girls.’
That shut him up for a bit.
He still messages me from time to time, asking me to come over, saying we could go to get girls and so on. He even dropped me a WhatsApp after several months of silence the other day. Of course, I no longer respond to his entreaties, but it’s amusing and perhaps flattering, in an odd way, to discover how powerful the sight of me fucking apparently is for a third party.
I’d seen Candy on several occasions before I got around to approaching her. She was precisely my type—a skinny, pretty brunette, not too tall, who used to wander around in a miniskirt with some kind of bra top, and cats ears protruding from her head.
She was perhaps not earth-shatteringly beautiful—or at least, she didn’t appear so at first—but she was very, very sexy. This was largely a consequence of her faultless hip-to-waist ratio. It is often said that the real thing that attracts guys most strongly to girls is not their breasts, asses or legs, but that magical ratio between the width of the hips and the waist. Candy certainly had that down to a T. While she was slender, it is the proportions that matter, and her proportions were bang on. She was the kind of girl who could induce priapism in random men just by walking past. I recall seeing her one time at the club but not being able to approach for some logistical reason or other. ‘I’ll do it next time I see her,’ I promised myself. ‘No point in messing around.’ I was already aware that I had begun to overthink. It is often those girls we are most attracted to that we fuck it up with by failing to approach quickly enough. But I didn’t see her again that whole evening. She must have left, or more likely gone off to the couple’s room with someone. I kicked myself but there was nothing I could do except wait until next time and hope for better luck.
I went to TG again. If I saw her tonight I would approach, I promised myself. And I saw her on the dancefloor. It was early in the evening and there weren’t that many people around. ‘Right’, I thought, ‘I’m damned if I’m going to let her get away again. This time I’m going in’.
I strode up to her.
‘Hi, I’m Troy,’ I said.
‘Hi, I’m Candy.’
‘I’ve seen you around before and I couldn’t help noticing that you’re really pretty,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Yes, girls have heard it all before, and yes you shouldn’t compliment her looks too much, at least not in the early stages anyway. But my experience is that so few guys are willing to step up to the plate and be honest with a girl about the fact that they like her that, when you do just that you can make a great impression.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t do anything tonight,’ she said, and motioned with her head towards this guy who was standing nearby.
‘OK, well, I tell you what,’ I said. ‘How about we exchange numbers and then another time we can meet up?’
‘She told you to fuck off mate,’ said the guy, who had walked right up to me and got in my face.
‘No she didn’t,’ I said.
This guy smirked and backed off a little. He’d made his point, the girl was his and now equilibrium was reestablished. He didn’t need to listen to my nonsense.
But I wasn’t happy with that. Listen, I’m not a man who starts arguments in public very frequently. I’m a writer, not a fighter. But this man had pissed me off. It wasn’t so much who had got the girl—I really wasn’t that bothered about that. My main issue was the fact that this idiot had been disrespectful and had lied about what had happened.
I walked up to him once more.
‘There’s no need to be rude, mate,’ I said. ‘She didn’t tell me to fuck off at all. We were just talking.’
Now he looked embarrassed, perhaps a little afraid of confrontation. He certainly hadn’t expected me to come back at him. He looked away again, unsure how to respond.
‘You’re bloody rude,’ I said.
I’m not sure where Candy was now, but I’d forgotten about her. I was puffed up with self-righteous anger. Apart from anything else, the whole point of an event like Torture Garden is that it’s meant to be open . It’s a place where people are supposed to be able to express their personalities, enjoy themselves and be free. It’s not a Saturday night disco where you get beaten up for talking to another guy’s ‘bird.’ I’m aware of the realities of the sexual marketplace—men will always mate guard. But still, the way the guy had done it rubbed me up the wrong way.
He said nothing. I stood there for a moment or so, holding my ground. At that point I was pretty pumped up from the gym and I was in the mood for a confrontation. Almost, but not quite. I considered the entirety of the situation for a moment. What the hell was I doing? What the hell was I hoping to achieve?
I gave the guy one last look, and walked off.
I didn’t see him for the rest of the night. I was off searching for other pleasures. I ended up meeting another girl and taking her to the couples’ room, so the incident passed out of my mind. But then a little later I saw Candy at the bar. I approached her.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hey,’ she replied.
‘He’s a bit possessive, your boyfriend,’ I said.
‘I guess, she said. And then ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Really? Well in that case we should take a little walk together.’
‘I can’t do anything tonight,’ she said once more.
Then the barman came back with her change.
‘Have a good night,’ she said. And she smiled as she walked off.
OK, I hadn’t managed to achieve anything that night. But she liked me. Of that I was certain.
When I re-ran the incident in my mind the next day it struck me just how stupid and reckless I’d been. There was absolutely no point in squaring up to some random guy in a club. Aggression has never been a part of my armory and it wasn’t something I was keen to integrate now.
Game is game—it’s meant to be fun. And yes, there are some girls you like more than others, but there should never be a girl that’s worth fighting over and potentially getting hurt. Or indeed hurting someone else. After all, abundance is a key pickup principle. I would learn from the incident and amend my behavior accordingly.
A few weeks later I went to another, different fetish event, this time at a club called Decadence, a grimy under-the-archway venue in Vauxhall. Now that I’d been bitten by the fetish bug I was keen to try out as many different places as I could. Also, Dr. Yen was DJ-ing there that night.
The funny thing about Yen was I was never exactly sure what he did for a living. To this day I’m still not certain. He seems able to rent apartments in the center of London and spend half the year travelling to hot countries like Indonesia without ever having a job. Nice work if you can get it.
Anyway, at that time he was DJ-ing a lot in clubs, establishing a name for himself on the fetish scene and I was keen to support him. So I donned my PVC jeans, a black waistcoat from Zara, my tall Jeffery West boots, the top hat, and I daubed on some eyeliner for good measure. I looked like a crazy ringmaster.
When I arrived I was a little disappointed. The venue was pretty small and there weren’t that many people there. The trouble with the London scene is that, love it or hate it, Torture Garden tends to suck the oxygen out of everywhere else. Anything after TG seems like a pale imitation. Torture Garden is just so much bigger, bolder, and so much more fun than most of the other London BDSM parties I’ve been to. I would hang around for a while, I decided, listen to some of Yen’s set, and see if anyone interesting turned up. I was at the bar ordering my Diet Coke when who should I see but Candy.
‘Hey,’ I said
‘Hey, she said, and she smiled. She was wearing a black miniskirt and her trademark cat ears. She looked hot. Her legs were long and lithe. I wanted to take that skirt off and do all sorts of wonderful things with her.
‘What you doing here?’ I asked.
‘Waiting for someone,’ she said.
We chatted some more. I was on good form, largely because I’d been doing a ton of day game. That’s something people don’t consider about day game by the way. The more you do the more it helps your night game. For some reason I ended up quoting Robin Thicke lyrics to Candy (this was 2015, the year that Blurred Lines was a massive hit). Pretty soon we were in the corridor making out.
‘This is our time babe,’ I said.
‘No, it’s not,’ she responded. ‘I’m meeting a friend.’
In girl-world, there are a lot of ‘friends’. But when these friends are male it usually means there’s fucking involved. That is, unless she says to you ‘we’re just friends’. At that point there will be no fucking, ever. Or it’s very unlikely anyway. But when she’s talking about other dudes, you can be pretty certain that some fucking will be going down at some point or other.
I tried to extract her—get her out of the club before the ‘friend’ showed up—but she wouldn’t budge, so I decided to leave her to it. There’s little point in trying too hard to disrupt someone else’s night and to do so would have seemed needy. Far better to let her do what she’s going to do anyway and pursue other targets.
So I did just that. This time, though, things were different. This time Candy had given me her phone number. She had also told me a bit about herself, and what she told me had opened my eyes and made me even more excited about her than before. If I had wondered what she did for a living I would probably have assumed she was an executive assistant to some business dude, or something like that. But no. It was far better. Candy was a stripper.
‘I work in Candy’s in Aldgate,’ she told me. ‘They named the club after me. I get on well with the manager and I’m the best girl there.’
Well, it was an accolade of sorts. I’m not sure how strippers are normally given professional recognition, but it seemed to me that having a strip club named after you must be up there with winning an Oscar.
‘Congratulations,’ I said,
‘Don’t mention it.’
As soon as I knew what she did, though, I became determined to forget all about it. Yes, it made sense—she really did have a body to die for, and presumably when she was scouted in Brighton (which was how she got into the industry) the person who did the scouting picked her out for just that reason. But the key thing—and the mistake that many newbies make—is not to be overly impressed by a girl’s credentials.
The same would be true if she were a model, or an actress, or some kind of celebrity. The problem is that things like this impress us in spite of ourselves. It shouldn’t matter if she’s a stripper. It is not a particularly hard job to get or to maintain, and you don’t really need any particular skills other than having a rocking body and being able to smile sweetly and ask for money from men for private dances. But the very fact that a girl has been selected for her looks gives her a special value that is hard for guys to disregard. And the fact that we know she walks on a stage and is the cynosure of other male eyes, elevates our natural curiosity and competitive natures. Now we want to get a bit of that candy and destroy all the other guys who covet the same thing.
I was determined that I would not mess up. I’d been interested in Candy from afar for far too long. So I shut my mouth, acted unimpressed and took her number. There wasn’t a great deal more talent at that club that night so I hung around for only a little longer before leaving discreetly. I wouldn’t want to be seen by Candy and her dude hanging around like a lemon on my own.
After that nothing much happened for a while. Candy was in a relationship with a man she lived with—some banker in the city. The relationship was on its last legs according to her but she wouldn’t do anything with anyone unless it was one night only at one of the BDSM clubs—another classic example of girl logic.
So we played WhatsApp tennis for a while, each messaging the other from time to time. Essentially this was ‘long game’—I knew that she was interested, or interested enough to make out with me. Now it was just a question of keeping her on the hook for long enough until the right opportunity came along.
That opportunity finally arose. Candy messaged me. She was free this Friday if I wanted to meet for drinks? I did. I told her to wait for me outside Leicester Square tube station at 7pm.
When I arrived she was already there. It was July and London was blazing. She looked stunning in a tiny, tight mini dress that showed off her long, tanned legs and clung pleasingly to her hips and breasts. On her feet, in a show of London don’t-give-a-fuck cool, she wore Vans.
I took her for drinks at the W Hotel, a favorite date venue of mine. Despite being on Leicester Square, which is tourist central and a no-no as far as cool is concerned, the bar on the 1st floor is a great venue for drinks. There’s a lounge with low tables, couches, table service, and enough swank to make it interesting, but cool enough not to give the impression that you’ve made too much of an effort.
I ordered drinks—a soda water and lime for me (my usual drink in these situations, largely because it looks like it could be alcohol) and a cocktail for her. We chatted about this and that, Torture Garden and the BDSM scene and I tried to keep my eyes off her legs, but it was very hard (pun intended). It was clear to me that this was a slam dunk. Without wanting to be crude–and of course everything you do must be consensual–when a girl turns up on a date dressed like that, particularly when the last time you met was at a sex club, it’s extremely likely that she wants to get fucked.
Taking a risk on this assumption as soon as we’d finished that first drink and without saying anything by way of explanation, I grabbed her hand and led her out with me into the street. As you should know if you are a seasoned player, girls love to be led. This time I didn’t say a damn thing. I just took her out into the street, past the pigeons and the gawking tourists, and pulled her right into a black cab.
At that time I lived in Bermondsey which is something like a 25-minute drive from the center. It’s hard under those circumstances to keep the vibe going. What I’ve learned to do is keep talking so that girls don’t get bored, or worse, start to feel nervous. So I chatted with her about inconsequential things. From time to time we would make out, too, just to keep the sexual mood going without overdoing it and bursting the attraction bubble.
When we reached my place I took her straight into the bedroom and eased the dress up over her head. Then it was on the floor. As you would expect from a professional dancer, her body was perfect and she clearly worked hard to keep herself in great shape. No doubt those hours on the pole helped. In addition, as you would expect, her legs were perfectly smooth. I was now harder than a piece of Dartmoor granite. I whipped off her bra to reveal her perfect B-cup tits, which I commenced to lick and suck. Soon her knickers were off—her pussy, as you would imagine, was also perfectly tended to.
I am convinced that the strength of a man’s erection is precisely correlated with the physical perfection of the girl naked before him. If she is just OK then his erection will be just OK. If she is a certifiable ten then his cock will resemble an iron bar. It’s a simple law of biology. My cock was nearing iron bar status.
I fucked her twice that night before we fell asleep, and then once again in the morning before she left. The sex was fantastic. I remember her shaking involuntarily after that final time.
‘What have you done to me?’ she asked.
We lay together exhausted and covered in sweat, her head on my chest. I took another furtive look at her body, which still trembled. As ridiculous as it was I couldn’t help feeling a sense of victory as I did so. All of those men who’d paid to see her strip, and now I’d had that very same view, plus her pussy and mouth, all for free.
You’ll notice that so far I’ve said little about BDSM. There’s a lesson in there. Fact is BDSM didn’t even come up with Candy. Well, I spanked her ass a little, but beyond that it was barely even mentioned. Why? Because lots of people who go to these kinds of parties are not hardcore fetishists . And you don’t have to be a hardcore fetishist to enjoy them and get in on the action.
This is the thing I think a lot of people misunderstand about an event like Torture Garden. They imagine that it’s going to be chock-full of the craziest deviants on the planet wearing gimp suits, and chains, and beating one another for pleasure. And while it’s true that you do see some pretty unconventional sights, you can get in the elevator at any floor you like. In other words, you can go just as a voyeur, or as a normally-vanilla person who wants to spice up their sex life.
Whatever event you go to, you will not be forced to do anything you don’t wish to do— that would be illegal. If anything the opposite is the case. Some guys, when told about Torture Garden, imagine it will be a kind of free-for-all where everyone just piles in and fucks. If only that were the case.
In fact, a fetish club or a swingers’ event is just as stringent with selection as any other type of event, maybe even more so. So if you are not of the highest value intrinsically then you will need to know game and be able to work it in order to meet girls.
The point is you should never be afraid to attend a BDSM event just because you’ve never been before. If you’ve paid for a ticket, and you’re wearing the right sort of outfit, and you have a good attitude then no one can say anything, and without a doubt no one can ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. Chill out and explore.
The next time I met Candy we’d arranged to go to the Torture Garden Halloween ball together. What it usually means when you go to a BDSM event with a girl is that you can reasonably expect you are going there to hook up. I was more than happy with this arrangement.
When I got to the club Candy was there waiting for me, looking cute in a pair of shiny PVC leggings and her trademark cat’s ears. Inside, I slipped off my jacket to reveal my bare torso, covered only by my harness.
‘Mmmmmm,’ she said, looking at me hungrily.
Soon she necked an E. I made my excuses and refused (I don’t take drugs these days). Pretty soon she was in a dreamy, sexy mood, so I took her over to the couples room where I slipped off her leggings and fucked her.
‘I was going to wear a skirt to make it easier access for you,’ she said.
Well why didn’t you then? I thought, but I smiled instead. I suppose a bit of fumbling around with plastic clothing is all part of the fun at a fetish event.
We went back to the main club. We danced, and we talked. The funny thing about Candy—and the slightly disappointing thing, I suppose—was that she was not one of life’s most gifted conversationalists. ‘Yeah, but she was a stripper, what do you expect?’ I can hear some readers saying. Well, I don’t buy into that school of thought. Strippers are just people, after all, some vivacious, some less so. Candy, unfortunately, fell into the “less so” camp. Nothing wrong with that, it just made hanging out with her a bit difficult.
She did another pill. That loosened her up more. Now she wanted to fuck again. So we returned hand-in-hand to the couples’ room, only to find that there was an enormous queue.
‘Shit’, she said. ‘I can’t wait that long. What the hell are we going to do?’
I led her back the way we’d came. Torture Garden was being held that night at The Coronet, a former theatre in South London. It was a huge venue with all sorts of hidden nooks and crannies. There would be a place for us to go, surely.
It was so crowded at the venue that most of the best spots seemed to be taken by other couples, flailing and caressing. I wasn’t sure what to do but I knew I needed to show leadership. By this time, the MDMA working on her rosebud, Candy was almost beside herself with lust. We needed to give this girl a vitamin D injection or she would explode, that much was for sure.
We wandered into the so-called ‘medical experiment’ room. This rather scary sounding place is where they play a lot of creepy music, there are fake body parts hanging from the ceiling, curtains like you get in a hospital ward, beds, and various gurney-type things that people are strapped to while others ‘experiment’ by playing with their genitals.
I noticed a Japanese-style screen in a corner
‘Let’s go behind that,’ I said, and led her over to it.
There was no one behind it. We started to kiss and I took her top off, then her bra, and pulled down those shiny leggings. She started purring with excitement.
I got my kit off too. She knelt down before me and sucked my cock for a bit. Blowjobs are a skilled art. Some girls are really good at them. Candy wasn’t up there with the best. She did OK and she didn’t bite or anything (believe me, there are some girls who do!) but she was too gentle. I could hardly feel anything. I stood her up, she kissed me, and then we began to have sex.
‘People watch at the sides, you know,’ she whispered.
I looked round. Fuck it if she wasn’t right. On both sides of the screen there were three heads, men craningd their necks to see what was happening.
‘They’re just jealous’ I said.
I began fucking her harder to please the crowd. They looked on approvingly. Unfortunately I started to get stage fright. It’s not every day you’re standing butt naked in a South London nightclub banging a stripper in front of six salivating blokes.
Even though I felt that sense of victory I mentioned before—Candy was a beautiful girl, and I have no doubt these guys were jealous—it wasn’t enough to override my discomfort. I pulled out and got her to go down on her knees again and suck my cock. I needed a little firming up and I was also keen to take the burden of performance off of me for a moment. Instantly, the men pulled back, until there were only one or two still watching. Apparently full sex was a far bigger draw than a blowjob. Fair enough—I suppose that makes sense.
We finished up soon after. The night was winding down. I was hoping to take Candy home with me for some additional post-club candy, but she met some people she knew and decided to go on to an after party with them. I had no appetite for that. So we said goodbye that drizzly morning in Elephant and Castle and I hailed a cab home. I haven’t ever seen Candy since.
We’ve exchanged a few messages, of course, and Facebook tells me she has a new boyfriend and a nascent career in retail merchandising. It looks like she finally escaped the world of stripping and got into something she really wanted to do. And good luck to her. I suppose most people move on eventually.
Except me. I revisit and revisit, to lick the honey pot until it’s beyond clean, trying to get that original feeling I first felt, trying to get it back again. Alcohol, drugs, relationships, nightclubs, it’s all the same.