Circus Of Seduction
Part of the allure of attending a costumed occasion is that you are officially sanctioned to dress up like a resplendent queen. The sort of effete grandeur that just isn’t possible when hiding rude garters under your work trousers. This would be an 18th century aristocratic event. Finally, a chance to show them who I really am! But who to invite to such an occasion? The invite demanded that ‘gentlemen must arrive with a heroine’, which was exciting enough even without the possibility of a few guests misreading the sentence. However, it proved difficult to find any female companions – the night was full of people washing their hair, plus my mum had a work do that night. Into the void stepped my male housemate, lured by my orgytastic promises of corsets and tassles.
For some reason I own a pair of frilly dress shirts (alcohol + ebay + Russell Brand’s sensual chest hair = foolish purchases) so our wallets were saved from bashing and the bank manager’s suspicion. The invite also promised capes and masks, so I donned my Wolverine pants and off we rode, with the hope of being embraced into the higher echelons of erotic society, or at least seeing an exposed boob. After a brief stake out of the entrance we cautiously descended upon the event, and luckily for us the doorman deemed at least one of us dainty enough and we were ushered inside.
Before I could even ask and betray my excitement, we were taken aside and asked to choose our mask and cape. An array of glittering pieces stood before us, beckoning them to try them all. I considered being all Indiana Jones and choosing the plain one, but the lady in charge was having none of it and suggested a cheeky black and gold number. Combined with a cape of pleasing quality, I was ready to begin my war on crime. However, rather than feeling like Christian Bale, I came over all Tom Cruise. Surrounded by taller, beautiful women and with vouchers for 2 free drinks burning a hole in my pocket, we headed straight to the bar, eyes wide open. “Whats your most interesting drink?”, I annoyingly asked the barman. I scanned the room and noticed the proliferation of blondes. “They are all Russian…” the barman winked, and I slowly nodded along with feigned understanding. Backing away, I handed a drink to my housemate and waited for that squatted leg kicking dance to begin. Prisyadka!
Everywhere we looked were corsets, wigs and cleave. The men looked like cads and everyone looked like they knew the unspoken code of public rudeness. Ladies floated by, dropping an occasional glance in your direction, sizing up the size of one’s ego and wallet. Someone asked me whether I knew Claude. I said I knew him intimately, but had never seen his face. People whispered behind conveniently placed shrubbery, and a photographer caught us in the act of trying to seem aloof in the corner and discussing how us paupers could pretend to be princes, though we probably just looked seedy.
The entertainments soon began in earnest and it wasn’t Russian dancing but, alas, lesbians. Two winsome maidens took control of the centre of the room, with everyone else crowding around like kids at a playground fight. Indeed, there was some fighting amongst the girls which resulted in, ee gads, clothes being systematically ripped off. We were in luck, I tell you. The slapping soon turned to canoodling, with the burgeoning nakedness being hidden by tassels and some well placed string. Then as soon as they arrived the girls melted into the crowd, leaving a black hole of erotic inertia that was soon plugged by rich men and young women.
We wondered the rooms, taking in the rooms and considering the vampiric nature of events. The girls hadn’t been ripped apart on stage, but there were hints of devilishness all around, from catching a glimpse of the changing rooms to the way the man in the corner kept on licking his lips. At one point a room cleared and my nightmarish visions of being forced into formal dancing looked close to coming true, but instead it was a makeshift catwalk of ladies appearing at varying degrees of scandalous. The DJ started twisting her discs and the atmosphere became less Andrew Lloyd Webber and more Nicky Minaj. People in 18th century garb started thrusting their booties and getting jiggy with it. I started throwing shapes that I thought would be century appropriate, but nobody seemed to appreciate my imaginary quillage and scientific discoveries.
It was certainly an odd feeling to stroll around with a sense of concealed identity. At one point I felt like I should try and do something dangerous, so I swiped an unguarded drink from the side. After seeing no reaction for a minute or two I put it back and felt shamed by the whole affair. Indeed, I felt bad for overselling the event to my enthusiastic housemate. While there were rude parts abounding, I certainly didn’t see any petting on the sofas or behind the bike sheds. I think that was probably a good thing – even behind my plastic veneer I would have felt awkward seeing any naughty business on the floor. Wolverine was definitely staying sheathed this night.
It was indeed a decadent evening, with the main attraction being the gaudy effort from everyone involved. I’m still wearing the cape and mask whilst I write, hoping the neighbours see and worry I’m either a vigilante or a deviant. The Y-fronts are probably influencing their decision though, the perves.