Night of the Senses
NIGHT OF THE SENSES
How does one find the words to successfully recount a night spent at what has been described as the ‘world’s biggest and best sex club’?
Putting Tantralink.com together was the most challenging project for me to date, but as I start to compose this blog I realise that I’ve set myself a hefty task – to convey to you in literary format the most sensorially stimulating occasion of the year! Describing sensation in a way that translates to the reader is, in a way, an impossible task - words can never 'be' the experience, but your faithful blogger is happy to pull out the thesaurus and wrestle with sentences to do my bit towards raising public awareness of the incredible work of the Leydig Trust and Outsiders, two charitable organisations you don’t hear much about in the evening news.
Dr Tuppy Owens is the mastermind (or should I say mistressmind?) of this monumental event, and has been running it for fourteen years. In fact, this combined awards show and party was known for many years as the Sex Maniac’s Ball, and I’m not sure why they changed the name, but I can only assume that the ‘sex maniac’ bit scared away potential participants.... Tuppy is a courageous activist who has been tirelessly campaigning for a more positive sex attitude in England, particularly towards and amongst the disabled community (www.outsiders.org.uk) and is well-known in the Highland village, where she recently moved to from the hubub of London, as ‘that sex lady on the hill’.
I feel kindred with Tuppy. She is attempting to provide accsessible information, forums and events so that people can 'get off it' around sex, which is what I'm attempting to do with Tantralink.com - reframe the general assumptions around tantra. If you ask most people what they think tantra is you receive answers like this - "Isn't it sex that lasts all night?" or "Something to do with candles and sitting on cushions."
Having immersed myself in the living science of tantra for ten years (gaining a degree in the subject along the way) I have only recently begun to investigate the enigmatic domain of fetish and BDSM. One thing I discovered in my tantric explorations is that there is no such thing as ‘wrong’ certainly in the world of sexuality and self-expression in general. The question I asked myself recently was - So if I’m really going to live that truth then what better way to test the waters of my new-found ‘acceptance of all things as they are’ than exploring the fetish world with a non-judgemental attitude? Now that I’ve dipped a toe into a club or two I can safely say to the uninitiated and timid that the idea of a fetish club is far more daunting than the reality.
Surely anything that breaks boundaries and opens one's eyes to the myriad aspects of human nature can only be a good thing? Visiting Wikipedia and typing in BDSM is an education in itself. My observation so far is that, whether it turns you on or not, there seems to be an admirably high level of consciousness and respect within the world of fetish, very little drug taking or alcohol abuse and basically a lot of rather normal and nice people who like to dress up and have a bit of fun. The Night of the Senses celebrates in style and safety hundreds of different sexual preferences and practices and I was impressed by the generosity of the guests, contributors, helpers and performers. Next year I might even take my mother.......
I had invited members of the Online Community on Tantralink to join me on this adventure and sadly, only one tantrika showed up. What a shame. I see tantra as a gateway to consciousness, and although 'tantra' per se is not represented directly here, there is a great feeling of connection and spirit running through the Night of the Senses which gives me hope for humanity. Tuppy and I dialogued about this topic and she told me she doesn't like labels around sex, suggesting they can be used to engender elements of control. I relate completely to what she's saying. Tuppy also reminded me that there was a 'Sensorial Chamber' on the 3rd floor, in which the various senses were lovingly awakened. I'd noticed it during my escapades of the night, but hadn't gone in, as it was set up for one person at a time and there was a queue (of course, it's England, we get off on queueing!) One thing to point out here is that there were a thousand different experiences of the Night of the Senses. My mate told me he'd seen a dozen men and two women in a room in which, two hours later I saw a dozen women and three men. So, you can see it all comes down to that old chestnut - we create our own reality.
Participating in the Night of the Senses, even merely in voyeuristic capacity, is rather like dropping a tab of acid with a large bunch of good friends. About a thousand, in fact (and yes, believe it or not, I can still remember my teenage trips under the influence of the great hallucinogen, even though I’ve had two children since. I'm convinced that pregnancy and childbirth kill off far more braincells than LSD ever could.....but that’s another topic, for another day and another blog).
Just arriving at the club is an eye-opening experience. Some people turn up fully dressed and others arrive in street clothes, transforming themselves in the changing room inside. There is a well-stocked ‘dress up’ shop where you can hire a fantasy costume at low cost. Everybody, without exception makes an effort to present the most outlandish image they can create for the night, and wandering up and down the floors of the club one comes across revellers from every walk of life, kitted-out in a vast array of fantastical and eccentric outfits. Anything from sarongs and floaty silks, to high heels and latex rubber wear. You can feast your eyes on leather straps, collars and leads, priestly robes, thongs galore, pvc nursing outfits (on some of the men too) pirate gear á la Johnny Depp, every kind of uniform imaginable....there were a few ‘policemen’ about, which was faintly disturbing somehow. Fat, thin, disabled and abled, young and old, fit and gym-allergic mingle together in a friendly and heart-warming way, and the atmosphere is electrically-charged as guests move around the club, finding their way in this cavernous venue, which ironically used to be a church. What better way to honour consecrated ground, I say?
The finals of the Annual Erotic Awards is even more gloriously satisfying than the semi-finals, held a few weeks previously. Before the performers begin the stage show there is a presentation for the winners of categories such as ‘sex worker’, ‘pioneer’, ‘blog’, ‘film-maker’, ‘sex club’. At a break in the proceedings I lean forward and introduce myself to the most lovely man in a wheelchair sitting in front of me, who happens to be one of the judges. He is accompanied by his amiable cousin and they oblige me by enthusiastically appreciating my eight inch fetish shoes, which are already giving me blisters, and giving me marks out of ten for my outfit. This intelligent and cultured man has been coming to the Erotic Awards since its inception and tells me that even though he’s seen a lot of the performers many times, he’s never been bored. I can see why. The fine art of strip-tease is taken to a whole new level here, the sado-masochist acts are humorous and imaginative and the pole dancing takes one’s breath away. I get to see the impossibly fit and flexible Ekatarina tie herself up in beautiful knots in aerial silks once again. And as the show goes on, each act more innovative than the next, I can’t help thinking that much as I enjoyed Cats and Les Mis this is a more entertaining show than anything Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber has produced for the West End in thirty years.
I can’t remember who won! ‘Winning’ seems utterly irrelevant in this competition – each perfomer is so unique it’s impossible to rate one over the other.
After the show I go for a wander, teetering on my heels and wishing they’d introduce bedroom slippers as fetish footwear. I’m determined to grin and bear it for as long as I can – “Glamour before comfort” my mother always used to say. Or was it “You have to suffer to be beautiful”? Funny how those childhood messages lodge themselves deep inside the psyche.
There is room after room, each with a different theme and decorated accordingly, and I find out, with relief that there’s no pressure to enter the spaces or to participate – the more cautious can spy through peep holes to witness the goings-on inside. Every sexual fantasy you could possibly imagine gets acted out here with gay abandon. I watch men with men, women with women, more than one woman with men, many men with one woman – you name it, I see it!
We come across a large, black box with holes in the walls which you step inside to be, yes you’ve guessed it – groped. It’s a hoot. I take a turn and scream with laughter as half a dozen or so anonymous hands appear and touch me all over. It’s so intense I last about forty seconds, but the bare-breasted and obviously seasoned punter after me remains in the box for at least five minutes. There should be an award for Grope Box stamina.
Unfortunately I’m on my moon time, which is the tantric term for what can only be described in my case as ‘bleeding for England’. My partner has a stomachache, so between the two of us there ain't much action, but I’m happy to prowl the place as enthusiastic voyeur, a cat-o-nine-tails carried religiously throughout the ten-hour marathon, showing that yes I am a sex maniac at heart, even if I’m not about to strip naked and get down and dirty on this particular night. It’s five minutes before we’re due to leave and a polite gentleman comes up to me and asks, in an Etonian accent,
“Are you available for a whipping?” It’s a question one doesn’t get asked an awful lot, especially in the middle-class, suburban village I reside in, and I think, what the hell, you only live once (unless you believe in reincarnation, which sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, but on this night I definitely don’t).
He leads me to his friend, who’s dressed in a kilt (I’m not even sure why I’m mentioning it, by this point no article of clothing is surprising) and tells me that his friend’s been a ‘bad boy’. My exhausted partner sits down in a corner, quite clearly longing for home and a nice cup of tea.
The two men and I move towards the doorway to the Torture Dundgeon, but take our place against a wall outside. Somehow the torture room feels too official and intimidating. I think it’s the fear of how far one might go......Safely outside the dundgeon, with no fear of pressure from professional torturers, I do the honours of punishing the man, in a rather Jewish-girl-from-Bournemouth sort of way. I think he may have been a little disappointed by my lack of vigour. The Etonian asks me if I’ve been a bad girl. I think to myself, "in for a penny, in for a pound, I might as well get a light whipping while I’m at it". After all, this will be the closest I get to sexual depravity until the tidal waves of menstruation have abated. As the curtain comes down on the mutual whipping frenzy I realise that rather more than five minutes have passed and I feel a touch of guilt abandoning my ever-patient, tantric love god. I look over and, blow me down, he’s grinning ear to ear. That’s love............
I had changed into comfy mules a few hours previously (I last about two hours in platforms and stillettos – I’m generally a Birkenstock kind of girl) and had left them under my coat. When I come to leave I can’t believe it, my beloved fuck-me shoes, which take pride of place on top of my wardrobe, annoying my prudish teenage sons, are gone! This tinged the evening with a splash of sadness for me. So, if you’re reading this, and borrowed my favourite high-rise footwear, please return them, and I’ll kiss you all over (after you get a good whipping, of course).
How does one find the words to successfully recount a night spent at what has been described as the ‘world’s biggest and best sex club’?
Putting Tantralink.com together was the most challenging project for me to date, but as I start to compose this blog I realise that I’ve set myself a hefty task – to convey to you in literary format the most sensorially stimulating occasion of the year! Describing sensation in a way that translates to the reader is, in a way, an impossible task - words can never 'be' the experience, but your faithful blogger is happy to pull out the thesaurus and wrestle with sentences to do my bit towards raising public awareness of the incredible work of the Leydig Trust and Outsiders, two charitable organisations you don’t hear much about in the evening news.
Dr Tuppy Owens is the mastermind (or should I say mistressmind?) of this monumental event, and has been running it for fourteen years. In fact, this combined awards show and party was known for many years as the Sex Maniac’s Ball, and I’m not sure why they changed the name, but I can only assume that the ‘sex maniac’ bit scared away potential participants.... Tuppy is a courageous activist who has been tirelessly campaigning for a more positive sex attitude in England, particularly towards and amongst the disabled community (www.outsiders.org.uk) and is well-known in the Highland village, where she recently moved to from the hubub of London, as ‘that sex lady on the hill’.
I feel kindred with Tuppy. She is attempting to provide accsessible information, forums and events so that people can 'get off it' around sex, which is what I'm attempting to do with Tantralink.com - reframe the general assumptions around tantra. If you ask most people what they think tantra is you receive answers like this - "Isn't it sex that lasts all night?" or "Something to do with candles and sitting on cushions."
Having immersed myself in the living science of tantra for ten years (gaining a degree in the subject along the way) I have only recently begun to investigate the enigmatic domain of fetish and BDSM. One thing I discovered in my tantric explorations is that there is no such thing as ‘wrong’ certainly in the world of sexuality and self-expression in general. The question I asked myself recently was - So if I’m really going to live that truth then what better way to test the waters of my new-found ‘acceptance of all things as they are’ than exploring the fetish world with a non-judgemental attitude? Now that I’ve dipped a toe into a club or two I can safely say to the uninitiated and timid that the idea of a fetish club is far more daunting than the reality.
Surely anything that breaks boundaries and opens one's eyes to the myriad aspects of human nature can only be a good thing? Visiting Wikipedia and typing in BDSM is an education in itself. My observation so far is that, whether it turns you on or not, there seems to be an admirably high level of consciousness and respect within the world of fetish, very little drug taking or alcohol abuse and basically a lot of rather normal and nice people who like to dress up and have a bit of fun. The Night of the Senses celebrates in style and safety hundreds of different sexual preferences and practices and I was impressed by the generosity of the guests, contributors, helpers and performers. Next year I might even take my mother.......
I had invited members of the Online Community on Tantralink to join me on this adventure and sadly, only one tantrika showed up. What a shame. I see tantra as a gateway to consciousness, and although 'tantra' per se is not represented directly here, there is a great feeling of connection and spirit running through the Night of the Senses which gives me hope for humanity. Tuppy and I dialogued about this topic and she told me she doesn't like labels around sex, suggesting they can be used to engender elements of control. I relate completely to what she's saying. Tuppy also reminded me that there was a 'Sensorial Chamber' on the 3rd floor, in which the various senses were lovingly awakened. I'd noticed it during my escapades of the night, but hadn't gone in, as it was set up for one person at a time and there was a queue (of course, it's England, we get off on queueing!) One thing to point out here is that there were a thousand different experiences of the Night of the Senses. My mate told me he'd seen a dozen men and two women in a room in which, two hours later I saw a dozen women and three men. So, you can see it all comes down to that old chestnut - we create our own reality.
Participating in the Night of the Senses, even merely in voyeuristic capacity, is rather like dropping a tab of acid with a large bunch of good friends. About a thousand, in fact (and yes, believe it or not, I can still remember my teenage trips under the influence of the great hallucinogen, even though I’ve had two children since. I'm convinced that pregnancy and childbirth kill off far more braincells than LSD ever could.....but that’s another topic, for another day and another blog).
Just arriving at the club is an eye-opening experience. Some people turn up fully dressed and others arrive in street clothes, transforming themselves in the changing room inside. There is a well-stocked ‘dress up’ shop where you can hire a fantasy costume at low cost. Everybody, without exception makes an effort to present the most outlandish image they can create for the night, and wandering up and down the floors of the club one comes across revellers from every walk of life, kitted-out in a vast array of fantastical and eccentric outfits. Anything from sarongs and floaty silks, to high heels and latex rubber wear. You can feast your eyes on leather straps, collars and leads, priestly robes, thongs galore, pvc nursing outfits (on some of the men too) pirate gear á la Johnny Depp, every kind of uniform imaginable....there were a few ‘policemen’ about, which was faintly disturbing somehow. Fat, thin, disabled and abled, young and old, fit and gym-allergic mingle together in a friendly and heart-warming way, and the atmosphere is electrically-charged as guests move around the club, finding their way in this cavernous venue, which ironically used to be a church. What better way to honour consecrated ground, I say?
The finals of the Annual Erotic Awards is even more gloriously satisfying than the semi-finals, held a few weeks previously. Before the performers begin the stage show there is a presentation for the winners of categories such as ‘sex worker’, ‘pioneer’, ‘blog’, ‘film-maker’, ‘sex club’. At a break in the proceedings I lean forward and introduce myself to the most lovely man in a wheelchair sitting in front of me, who happens to be one of the judges. He is accompanied by his amiable cousin and they oblige me by enthusiastically appreciating my eight inch fetish shoes, which are already giving me blisters, and giving me marks out of ten for my outfit. This intelligent and cultured man has been coming to the Erotic Awards since its inception and tells me that even though he’s seen a lot of the performers many times, he’s never been bored. I can see why. The fine art of strip-tease is taken to a whole new level here, the sado-masochist acts are humorous and imaginative and the pole dancing takes one’s breath away. I get to see the impossibly fit and flexible Ekatarina tie herself up in beautiful knots in aerial silks once again. And as the show goes on, each act more innovative than the next, I can’t help thinking that much as I enjoyed Cats and Les Mis this is a more entertaining show than anything Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber has produced for the West End in thirty years.
I can’t remember who won! ‘Winning’ seems utterly irrelevant in this competition – each perfomer is so unique it’s impossible to rate one over the other.
After the show I go for a wander, teetering on my heels and wishing they’d introduce bedroom slippers as fetish footwear. I’m determined to grin and bear it for as long as I can – “Glamour before comfort” my mother always used to say. Or was it “You have to suffer to be beautiful”? Funny how those childhood messages lodge themselves deep inside the psyche.
There is room after room, each with a different theme and decorated accordingly, and I find out, with relief that there’s no pressure to enter the spaces or to participate – the more cautious can spy through peep holes to witness the goings-on inside. Every sexual fantasy you could possibly imagine gets acted out here with gay abandon. I watch men with men, women with women, more than one woman with men, many men with one woman – you name it, I see it!
We come across a large, black box with holes in the walls which you step inside to be, yes you’ve guessed it – groped. It’s a hoot. I take a turn and scream with laughter as half a dozen or so anonymous hands appear and touch me all over. It’s so intense I last about forty seconds, but the bare-breasted and obviously seasoned punter after me remains in the box for at least five minutes. There should be an award for Grope Box stamina.
Unfortunately I’m on my moon time, which is the tantric term for what can only be described in my case as ‘bleeding for England’. My partner has a stomachache, so between the two of us there ain't much action, but I’m happy to prowl the place as enthusiastic voyeur, a cat-o-nine-tails carried religiously throughout the ten-hour marathon, showing that yes I am a sex maniac at heart, even if I’m not about to strip naked and get down and dirty on this particular night. It’s five minutes before we’re due to leave and a polite gentleman comes up to me and asks, in an Etonian accent,
“Are you available for a whipping?” It’s a question one doesn’t get asked an awful lot, especially in the middle-class, suburban village I reside in, and I think, what the hell, you only live once (unless you believe in reincarnation, which sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, but on this night I definitely don’t).
He leads me to his friend, who’s dressed in a kilt (I’m not even sure why I’m mentioning it, by this point no article of clothing is surprising) and tells me that his friend’s been a ‘bad boy’. My exhausted partner sits down in a corner, quite clearly longing for home and a nice cup of tea.
The two men and I move towards the doorway to the Torture Dundgeon, but take our place against a wall outside. Somehow the torture room feels too official and intimidating. I think it’s the fear of how far one might go......Safely outside the dundgeon, with no fear of pressure from professional torturers, I do the honours of punishing the man, in a rather Jewish-girl-from-Bournemouth sort of way. I think he may have been a little disappointed by my lack of vigour. The Etonian asks me if I’ve been a bad girl. I think to myself, "in for a penny, in for a pound, I might as well get a light whipping while I’m at it". After all, this will be the closest I get to sexual depravity until the tidal waves of menstruation have abated. As the curtain comes down on the mutual whipping frenzy I realise that rather more than five minutes have passed and I feel a touch of guilt abandoning my ever-patient, tantric love god. I look over and, blow me down, he’s grinning ear to ear. That’s love............
I had changed into comfy mules a few hours previously (I last about two hours in platforms and stillettos – I’m generally a Birkenstock kind of girl) and had left them under my coat. When I come to leave I can’t believe it, my beloved fuck-me shoes, which take pride of place on top of my wardrobe, annoying my prudish teenage sons, are gone! This tinged the evening with a splash of sadness for me. So, if you’re reading this, and borrowed my favourite high-rise footwear, please return them, and I’ll kiss you all over (after you get a good whipping, of course).
posted by Tantralink - Tantra Blog @ 1:32 PM
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