Daisy Wore Bunny Ears

Daisy wore bunny ears. They poked out from under her hair, which was tied back into a messy bun.

-Also a tight black minidress made out of latex.

-Also high-heeled boots.

I was being served at the bar when I turned around and flicked the bunny ears. She smiled, looked down. One of those facial gestures where you can’t work out whether she’s just shy or you’re being rejected.

London Clubs

A lot of London clubs have been closed down. I remember back in the 1990s when you could go to semi-legal raves in dodgy warehouses in the East End.

In a former gin distillery, down a dank stone staircase into a firetrap room where Essex lads gurned, flashy on pills, right into Monday morning.

It was a bit more like Berlin, back then. Before Berlin became ‘Berlin’. Now London is like . . . I don’t know. Manhattan. It’s all fancy, and there’s no dirt and grime.

(Well, aside from the growing hordes of homeless people sleeping in tents and cardboard boxes out in the West End. And the zombies on spice on the Charing Cross Road and Soho. But no one talks about them, very much).

Torture Garden

Torture Garden is different, though. Torture Garden still has something of the old, debauched, degenerate air.

You get every kind of freak under the moon here. Straight, gay, trans. You get old men wearing stocking, suspenders, with their cocks out. You get young, beautiful, regal Essex girls, their heads held high, shining with fresh makeup. You get club kids daubed in horrendous makeup, hideous caricatures of the human face, endlessly distended and remodelled. And you get the whole gamut of the old leather-PVC-latex crew….the sore-bottomed, the floggers, the handkerchief biters, the bullwhip wielders, the scary dominatrixes and the defeated-looking subs.

Basically it’s a degenerate shit show. This is not good, clean, family fun. This is not a place to find a high quality woman™ to be your future wife.

This is a place where people go to get drunk, get smashed and act out some pretty weird sexual fetishes.

It is a place that is absolutely contrary to conservative ideals. That should send every god-fearing new puritan running for midnight mass.

This is a place that doesn’t give two shits for the good of society™, for the future of Western Civilisation™ or for purity, goodness, character™ or any of that other stuff that dullards bang on about on Twitter.

And it’s a hell of a lot of fun.

Good girl / bad girl

I bump into Daisy again later on the dancefloor.

‘Hi. I couldn’t help noticing you’re kinda pretty,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a good girl / bad girl thing going on’.

Yeah, it’s not that different to my daygame opener.

Well, why sweat it?

I lead Daisy ‘to the bar’. Actually, we don’t make the bar. Once we hit a dark corner we make out.

The ‘couple’s room’ is a just down the corridor.

‘Have you been in here?’ I say, pulling her towards it.

Once inside, my hand is in her knickers and she sighs and moans as she reaches for my zipper, undoes it, and pulls out my cock.

‘You can spank me a little bit, seeing as you have that,’ she says, indicating the cheap Indiana Jones-style whip I bought in a Soho sex shop that afternoon.

‘So bend over,’ I tell her.

She does so, and reveals her pert little ass.

I try to give her a few good strokes with the whip, but another couple block my swing, making it super hard to get a good shot in.

Still, it seems to do the trick. That cute little bottom starts glowing red, and she murmurs appreciatively. Then she stands, turns around, takes my cock in her mouth and sucks me off.

I blow a load into her mouth and she swallows it all . . .

. . . .

At times like this, it’s kinda hard to know what to say next.

‘Fancy a drink?’ I ask.

‘Sure’.

The Stocks

We head to the bar. She asks for a lager. I go for my usual Diet Coke (I stopped drinking 16 years ago, remember).

By the bar there’s a pair of stocks . . . you know, those old medieval devices where they put a person’s head and hands so you’re stuck there. And then people throw rotten vegetables at you. And worse.

‘You want a go?’ I say to Daisy?

‘Sure’ she says.

So I get her to bend over the stocks, put her head and hands in, and then I lower the heavy bar thing down over her, so she can’t move.

‘This is a major trust exercise, right?’ I say to her.

She laughs.

‘Yeah.’

Well, the thing is, once you’ve blown your load, it’s a little hard to get too inspired to do very much for a while. Particularly at my age. So I spank her a bit and finger her a little more for a while, but the urgency of before has gone.

I release her from the stocks and we make out a bit more. Then we go meet her friend who she’s staying with. The friend looks at me like ‘oh yeah, just another random guy trying to hit on my friend’, little knowing what’s just happened. So I get Daisy to give me her number and then I split.

We both go our separate ways in TG’s degenerate circus.

The Search For Meaning

Is an encounter like this meaningful, or meaningless?

The trads would say the latter.

A one-off, casual sexual experience with another person you don’t know. How can that have any meaning, compared with ‘making love’ with a woman you’ve been married to for many years?

Personally, I don’t choose to think in those terms (the terms of meaning v. meaninglessness).

I prefer to consider the aesthetic beauty in a situation.

And certainly, there was a lot of beauty in that coupling.

A moment of genuine human connection. An entirely non-transactional experience, based entirely on mutual pleasure, and lust. A moment of light in the darkness. A glimpse of another, better world in the sea of sin.

What could be better than that?

If I die tonight I will not consider my life meaningless. Quite the contrary. Because in aggregate all of the micro-experiences of the kind described here that I’ve had add up to a vast, multicoloured tapestry I call my life, peopled with many strange, wonderful and diverse characters, experiences, and sensations.

And that aggregate is the meaning of my life.

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