In the latest installment of Love Diversified one self proclaimed ‘desperate man’ talks about getting naked with a neo-nazi
Another lifetime ago when I was single, I’d regularly go to fetish parties.
Submission, Torture Garden, Club Rub, wherever there was a bit of flesh on show I was there.
I wasn’t particularly into S or M (although I was willing to be educated), I was more drawn to the inhibition-free environment and the transactional attitude many of the women there had towards sex.
The clubs were a bit more underground back then but there were still ‘tourists’ like me, who didn’t live an alternative life but were open-minded/desperate enough to dress in clothes that would probably have gotten me beaten up if I wore them on my estate.
I’ve never had much game. I was great at making friends and really poor at finding new lovers. Chatting women up was an adolescent lesson I must have missed because I’ve never been able to do it. Being in a club full of rubber and leather-clad women didn’t make it any different. I’d usually go to a fetish party alone and go home alone.
This particular night, as usual, I’d spent most of my evening either dancing alone or making small talk with disinterested strangers.
At about 5am as the club was coming to an end, I was sitting by the side of the dance floor when a cute blonde girl in a tight rubber dress approached me.
With no introduction, she put herself right up in my face in a way that left me in no doubt about what she was after.
“What are you up to tomorrow?” she asked.
Assuming she was going to suggest another party or club the next day I said, “nothing”.
“Wrong answer!” she said, “you’re having breakfast with me”.
I’ve always been an equal opportunities employer when it comes to the bedroom. I don’t really have a type of woman. My type is anyone who shows the slightest interest in me.
Back at her flat, it all got a bit weird. After almost jumping me at the club in the cab on the way home my new friend was now suddenly cold and distant. From chatty and sparky she’d become sullen.
When we get to her south London flat, she announced that she was now too wasted to have sex.
A lifetime of sexual rejection had taught me never to expect and never to presume so I wasn’t particularly bothered by her announcement. I was more worried about how I was sobering up and starting to feel really tired.
She led me into her small cosy room and spotting pictures on her wall, I scanned them for something familiar that I could make light conversation about. I noticed a picture of her in some kind of uniform doing a straight-armed salute.
“Erm..what’s this?” I asked expecting her to say it was an ill-thought out fancy dress party.
“Back in Germany I was in a neo-nazi group,” she said in quite a matter-of-fact way.
She started explaining how she and her East German friends felt that migrants were taking over their country but I’d stopped listening.
In my mind, I was imagining a bunch of jack-booted thugs was about to burst in and do hideous things to me.
My host had now taken off her rubber dress and was just in her underwear but my mind was still stuck in her nazi past. Even as I’m writing this, I can hear you asking why I didn’t just leave. The answer is simple, sex. I still hoped to get up to some morning mischief and I did mention she was cute.
Over the next few months (yes I went back), I got to know a bit more about my new friend. Our sexual relationship was short-lived. She wanted a more enthusiastic sadist than I could channel. I simply couldn’t bring myself to be as rough as she wanted me to be.
I did get a better understanding of her origin story though.
She had had a very troubled upbringing and had no parents. Even when she came to London she was in an extremely emotionally vulnerable place.
She later admitted that before coming to London she had very little interaction with anyone who wasn’t white and she had extremely negative views about black people as a whole. That first night when we’d met, her plan was to lead me on and then hopefully encourage me to become aggressive when sex was suddenly taken off of the table. She wanted me to behave in a way that would back up the stereotypes in her head.
I take no pride in admitting that despite knowing all this, I was willing to turn a blind eye to a possible fascist because she had a nice arse.
Social media means I’m still loosely in touch with my rubber-clad Aryan. She has now changed her name, has two lovely blonde children and works as a social worker.
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Featured image Flickr: cody giannotti