This blog should be called 'bunch o' cunts', just because those were the type of terms being bandied about on Saturday night, or 'A night in pictures and Trannies', but I don't want to fall into my old blogging tendencies: Coarse and Vulgar. Unlike the following photos...
This is where it all began. Me riding my Terry Dolan across town in a corset and bondage boots like a proper weirdo. Believe me, it's easier to cycle over concrete in those boots than to walk in them, or should I say, to walk in Frieda. That is their name, Frieda. Bedroom boots that I insist on wearing outside whenever night falls and the mood takes me. On my bike and over the hills of Dublin like some kind of bikesexual witch. My appreciation for women on racers and in heels began when Ana X cycled hers in tottering stilettos through Berlin. She had a shaved head too, for aerodynamic speed no doubt! Wahh?!
Later, exiting the front lounge, I was frantically trying to sum up how I felt being on-bike-in-heels when a rowdy car of hooligan boys started whooping and carousing in their excitement of being out and about in the big shmoke. When the excitement had died down, just before they went on their merry, testosterone induced way one in the back shouted: "Bunch o cunts!". It certainly did set the mood for the evening.
We were going to Nimhneach.
I spy cyber bum.
And lazer beam eyes.
We should have a caption competition.
That see-through skirt was bought in River Island. Those pervs!
This has to be the worst smoking area in the whole world and the filthiest aspect of the entire fetish night, but I reckon it was the only place we could take photos - which is a good thing. I did stick it out because I was having the most interesting conversation with one of the bondage guys who let me drill him with questions and spoke at length about his love for rope work. He also gave me a cigarette which was like tobacco wrapped in a bay leaf with a tiny pink string to indicate when to stop smoking it. Declan later told me that it was a Beedi from India and was super pleased just at the sight of the butt (which I had wanted to keep) that I decided he should have it. What he wanted it for is a mystery.
The corset got lots of attention, as it should, it was a very special gift.
It's been awhile since I've met anyone other than Our Lady by the name of Mary. Mary was as pristine at the end of the night as she was at the beginning. Smoking straights like a robot while her 6ft tranny partner in crime reclined in a swivel chair shouting "Beirut, I never heard Beirut, is it like Chicago then or something?" They are my new favourites. There will be many many funny things said between us.
Actually, as I am writing this blog, I'm realising that the highly secretive and respectful nature of the fetish scene in Dublin and my own eagerness to be respectful in turn is making it quite difficult to disclose the stories. Although I will tell you this, there is a couple I love who are on the scene. They are probably about 80. The woman has a vast ass and tiny feet in tiny little shoes and spends the whole night bent over the A-frame or her husband's knee (I've never seen her face) while he, propped up against the nearest supporting structure himself, spanks her for hours. I saw him speaking in her ear the last time, I wonder what he was saying.
On the way home
This guy had his mind blown out his headphone while struggling to understand Miss Elizabeth's existence. He gawped, he groped, he disbelived, before offering a thumbs up and stepping in for a photo.
Then I burnt two pots worth of popcorn kernels.