Here Eoghan describes his experiences at the Torture Garden (May 25th, 2006)
Bizarre Clubbing Experiences
I’m sick of you fellas and fellettes posting reviews of awesome club nights because it makes me jealous. I hardly ever go out any more. So I think it’s time for me to post a review of a club. What follows, I have to admit, is more than two years out of date. But I HAVE to get this one off my chest, once and for all. Because it was the most bizarre clubbing experience of my life.
TORTURE GARDEN VALENTINE’S BALL 2004
My flatmate at the time was one of those people you would call “experimental” (with or without the experi bit). He was also not one to take no for an answer. So when he announced one evening that we were going in a couple of weeks’ time to Torture Garden, Britain’s premier fetish club, I hastily scrabbled for an excuse in vain. After whining for a while about the cost he blagged some free tickets, and everything I came up with had a counter-argument. So I decided I might as well enjoy it (our other flatmate was disgusted at the proposal…he’s now a management consultant. NUFF SAID.)
First thing: outfit. We had heard the dress code was pretty extreme; wear not much, we were told, and best stick to rubber. A quick look in Cyberdog (and some rather more extreme retail outlets) and we blanched at the prices. Sixty quid for a luminous green rubber g-string? Not likely. So we resorted to fancy dress.
We knew that the night was pretty screwed up, and we didn’t want to be tame. So we did a brainstorm of fancy dress ideas (we decided to go with the same outfits) with the nastiest themes we could think of. After much debate, we settled on FAIRIES WHO HAVE JUST HAD AN ABORTION.
A trip to the local Primark ensued, and we emerged with little lace petticoats (£4), white stockings (£2), and the most comfortable (and largest) high heeled shoes on sale (£8). We then went to High Street Ken to the two party shops there (the superior one is west of Olympia), and bought matching angel wings, fairy wands, white face paint and fake blood.
Some preparation was needed; we couldn’t go into the club with knifes, so we slashed up the front of the leotards. The big night came, and we were nervous. So between the two of us we played speed drinking chess, and arsed three bottles of vodka in the process. Thus inebriated (I prefer the term “annihilated”), we set forth for the tube. I was (somehow) still in a state of sobriety enough to not want to be bullied on the train, so I put my costume in a bag. Colin, on the other hand, got changed before we left, covering mis modesty with a short jacket. I have to say, we attracted a LOT of attention on the tube (though we also scared away several families on their way home from the theatre).Eventually we got to Brixton tube.
Walking to the club, I felt petrified. There were fourteen-year-old kids hanging around, clearly with machetes as lang’s your airm (that’s from Rabbie Burns’ “Address to a Haggis”, by the way). But when they saw Colin dressed the way he was, they melted away in pure fear. “Don’t touch me”, they said. We continued to the venue, Mass.
Torture Garden only runs every three months and rotates venue to keep things interesting. It’s fabulously well planned. I resent paying £15 to see some “superstar DJ”; this was worth every penny (OK, wisecrack, I know we didn’t pay). The décor is superb, everything reeks of EFFORT. After a long drunken argument with the girl who couldn’t see our names on the guestlist, we entered .First port of call was the gents, where I carefully changed into my petticoat, stockings, heels, tiara, angel wings and wand. Then the white face paint was applied and a healthy dose of fake blood on my face. Then more blood was liberally splashed onto the slashed petticoat front, giving an excellent impression f a fairy who has just endured a backstreet abortion.
We went into Room One and became distinctly aware that although, in our opinion, we didn’t stand out, there were a LOT of gazes in our direction at the outfits. The official photographer latched onto us and snapped away at us ALL NIGHT (neither of us have been able to face looking on the website until recently in case there were photos…there are only a handful, and happily, none of us). Room One was essentially the “lite” room; a bar, some fairly nondescript music (OK, I was too pissed to notice) and a spectacular erotic fashion show on the stage featuring be-tasselled ladies trapezing across the club. It was ace.
We wandered into Room Two where the formula was much simpler: a square box, with hard-as-nails techno and gabber at ear-splitting levels. We danced like loons for a while as the beats poured out faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s wings. Then we entered the Dungeon.
My first impression was of disappointment as I had been told it was THE place to be .But it was dim, and my eyes hadn’t become accustomed to the light. The music was fairly quiet, phat beats mostly, and the room was spacious.
We spent most of the night chatting to as many people as possible. It really is the most incredibly friendly club; there wasn’t a single person didn’t want to chat, and I spoke to maybe 50 people over the course of the night. I was in the middle of a conversation when…
…I did a double take. Quite clearly, about 3 feet away from me sitting on a bench, was a head, bobbing up and down. A female head, that is, bobbing up and down in close proximity to a male midriff. I looked around in the gloom and realised that there were literally DOZENS of heads doing the same thing (not all of them female). I have never been so close to so many blowjobs at one time.
It’s the only place in the world, perhaps, where you can just wander up to someone random and ask her/him/it if (s)he/it’ll suck you off. The answer will either be “yes”, or “no”. Simple.
Then there were the conversations – I met some weird and wonderful people. There was a girl from my college who I got chatting to; she said “essentially everyone’s here to get laid. Sure, everyone takes hard drugs too, but the ENTIRE night is about sex.” I was uplifted.
Shortly afterwards I’m chatting to another girl and she’s HOT. She’s also cracking on to me like her LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. Wahey, I think. She’s really into me, asking suggestive questions left right and centre. She’s in this little dress and has long blonde hair – seriously fit. I’m chatting to her at the bar for about half an hour, when SOMETHING comes into my head, through the best part of two bottles of vodka, that something isn’t quite right. Like, really really not right. Like, I’ve been chatting up this bird for the last half an hour and I just realised thatr yes, SHE HAS A PENIS. I did an extremely good impression of a gazelle as I bounded across the club. “She”followed me around for the rest of the night licking her lips and vamping at me.
I was in the middle of another conversation with someone else when I happened to look around and who should I see but my flatmate, naked and speadeagled across a rack, being vigorously spanked by two large men. I tried to pretend I didn’t know him (tricky as there were only two people dressed as bacstreet-abortion-fairies that night). Then a deafening roar of “Eoghannnnnnnnn” hit my ears. “Yes Colin” I said suspiciously. “SPANK ME”. “No, Colin, I know we live together but…” “SPANK ME”. One of the large males handed me some instrument of torture, and I proceeded to attack the hairy little Aberdonian’s backside.
Some time later we’re chatting to this bloke on the dancefloor. He’s a really nice, friendly, normal bloke, wearing this little satchel where he keeps his wallet and other things like that. And yes, I do mean that the satchel was ALL he was wearing. Possibly the thought occurred to me that it was a little odd be chatting to a naked bloke on a dancefloor, but this is a place where anything can happen. As you do, in polite conversation, we asked him, “what do you do for a living?”. “I make pornography”.
We looked at him with a mixture of amazement but mostly, as we say here, RESPECT, miongled with some disbelief. “This is one of my girls,” he continued, and our spirits soared as this HOT little Japanese chick appeared under his arm. As you do after two bottles of vodka, we took large and hopeful steps in her direction, only to have his arm firmly blocking our way. Fair enough, we thought. “You must visit my website”, he said, and gave us the website (I type this at work and I don’t know if this still live or not because obviously I can’t check it just now, but click here it WON'T be safe for work if the link is still live). A couple of days later, after the (lengthy) recuperation, we had a look; when he said he makes pornography, he was exaggerating slightly; he runs bukkake nights. For the uninitiated, bukake is an ancient Japanese fetish which involves twenty or so men (who would pay about £20 each), one girl, and, not to put too fine a point on it, they all beat off in her face. The whole thing lasts about 20 minutes, with £400 coming in; let’s say he splits it halfway with the girls; nice work if you can get it!
Some time later still I’m talking to this couple. They’re really friendly and are recounting some of the Torture Garden stories. The conversation comes to a natural lull, when the bloke says to me, “I want you to spank my girlfriend.” I look shocked. “I can’t so that!”, I counter. “Yes you can, just do it”, he says. It would have felt rude not to oblige, so she gets up on a chair with her hind quarters facing in my direction and hauls up her skirt, leaving her (substantial) rear pointing in my face. I give the buttock a gentle slap.
She turns round and gives my a look more disdainful than any I have faced before or since. “When I say hit me”, she says, “I mean FROCKING HIT ME!”. I take a run-up this time, and slap her as hard as I can. This provokes a much better reaction, so I give her a backhander for good measure. “Good” shouts the boyfriend approvingly, so I continue spanking her with gusto.
After a while, he says to me, “you carry right on, I’m just gonna move in and diddle her”. I’m shocked and want to get away, but something compels me to stay. He slips a hand under my spanking palm and proceeds to get to work. “Listen to her moan”, he says, so with a look of glee I lean forward to put my ear as close to her as possible. She’s making noises like a rhinoceros giving birth. In this rather singular triumvirate we remain, until it reaches its inevitable conclusion and our work is done.
Eventually the night comes to an end, and once I have extracted myself from the clutches of my admirer and the photographer, we make a move to catch the first tube home. Every single person is lying on the floor of the tube like there’s been an anthrax attack. Then comes what for me was the highlight of the night. I’m sprawled across the floor of the tube chatting to some bloke and asking him what he does. “I’m a solicitor”. I turn to someone else and ask her the same thing. “Civil servant”, she answers. A quick straw poll reveals that virtually everyone in there is either a repressed lawyer, accountant or civil servant (with the odd pimp thrown in as I had already found!)
Any other bizarre nights people have got to get off their chest?
TORTURE GARDEN VALENTINE’S BALL 2004
My flatmate at the time was one of those people you would call “experimental” (with or without the experi bit). He was also not one to take no for an answer. So when he announced one evening that we were going in a couple of weeks’ time to Torture Garden, Britain’s premier fetish club, I hastily scrabbled for an excuse in vain. After whining for a while about the cost he blagged some free tickets, and everything I came up with had a counter-argument. So I decided I might as well enjoy it (our other flatmate was disgusted at the proposal…he’s now a management consultant. NUFF SAID.)
First thing: outfit. We had heard the dress code was pretty extreme; wear not much, we were told, and best stick to rubber. A quick look in Cyberdog (and some rather more extreme retail outlets) and we blanched at the prices. Sixty quid for a luminous green rubber g-string? Not likely. So we resorted to fancy dress.
We knew that the night was pretty screwed up, and we didn’t want to be tame. So we did a brainstorm of fancy dress ideas (we decided to go with the same outfits) with the nastiest themes we could think of. After much debate, we settled on FAIRIES WHO HAVE JUST HAD AN ABORTION.
A trip to the local Primark ensued, and we emerged with little lace petticoats (£4), white stockings (£2), and the most comfortable (and largest) high heeled shoes on sale (£8). We then went to High Street Ken to the two party shops there (the superior one is west of Olympia), and bought matching angel wings, fairy wands, white face paint and fake blood.
Some preparation was needed; we couldn’t go into the club with knifes, so we slashed up the front of the leotards. The big night came, and we were nervous. So between the two of us we played speed drinking chess, and arsed three bottles of vodka in the process. Thus inebriated (I prefer the term “annihilated”), we set forth for the tube. I was (somehow) still in a state of sobriety enough to not want to be bullied on the train, so I put my costume in a bag. Colin, on the other hand, got changed before we left, covering mis modesty with a short jacket. I have to say, we attracted a LOT of attention on the tube (though we also scared away several families on their way home from the theatre).Eventually we got to Brixton tube.
Walking to the club, I felt petrified. There were fourteen-year-old kids hanging around, clearly with machetes as lang’s your airm (that’s from Rabbie Burns’ “Address to a Haggis”, by the way). But when they saw Colin dressed the way he was, they melted away in pure fear. “Don’t touch me”, they said. We continued to the venue, Mass.
Torture Garden only runs every three months and rotates venue to keep things interesting. It’s fabulously well planned. I resent paying £15 to see some “superstar DJ”; this was worth every penny (OK, wisecrack, I know we didn’t pay). The décor is superb, everything reeks of EFFORT. After a long drunken argument with the girl who couldn’t see our names on the guestlist, we entered .First port of call was the gents, where I carefully changed into my petticoat, stockings, heels, tiara, angel wings and wand. Then the white face paint was applied and a healthy dose of fake blood on my face. Then more blood was liberally splashed onto the slashed petticoat front, giving an excellent impression f a fairy who has just endured a backstreet abortion.
We went into Room One and became distinctly aware that although, in our opinion, we didn’t stand out, there were a LOT of gazes in our direction at the outfits. The official photographer latched onto us and snapped away at us ALL NIGHT (neither of us have been able to face looking on the website until recently in case there were photos…there are only a handful, and happily, none of us). Room One was essentially the “lite” room; a bar, some fairly nondescript music (OK, I was too pissed to notice) and a spectacular erotic fashion show on the stage featuring be-tasselled ladies trapezing across the club. It was ace.
We wandered into Room Two where the formula was much simpler: a square box, with hard-as-nails techno and gabber at ear-splitting levels. We danced like loons for a while as the beats poured out faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s wings. Then we entered the Dungeon.
My first impression was of disappointment as I had been told it was THE place to be .But it was dim, and my eyes hadn’t become accustomed to the light. The music was fairly quiet, phat beats mostly, and the room was spacious.
We spent most of the night chatting to as many people as possible. It really is the most incredibly friendly club; there wasn’t a single person didn’t want to chat, and I spoke to maybe 50 people over the course of the night. I was in the middle of a conversation when…
…I did a double take. Quite clearly, about 3 feet away from me sitting on a bench, was a head, bobbing up and down. A female head, that is, bobbing up and down in close proximity to a male midriff. I looked around in the gloom and realised that there were literally DOZENS of heads doing the same thing (not all of them female). I have never been so close to so many blowjobs at one time.
It’s the only place in the world, perhaps, where you can just wander up to someone random and ask her/him/it if (s)he/it’ll suck you off. The answer will either be “yes”, or “no”. Simple.
Then there were the conversations – I met some weird and wonderful people. There was a girl from my college who I got chatting to; she said “essentially everyone’s here to get laid. Sure, everyone takes hard drugs too, but the ENTIRE night is about sex.” I was uplifted.
Shortly afterwards I’m chatting to another girl and she’s HOT. She’s also cracking on to me like her LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. Wahey, I think. She’s really into me, asking suggestive questions left right and centre. She’s in this little dress and has long blonde hair – seriously fit. I’m chatting to her at the bar for about half an hour, when SOMETHING comes into my head, through the best part of two bottles of vodka, that something isn’t quite right. Like, really really not right. Like, I’ve been chatting up this bird for the last half an hour and I just realised thatr yes, SHE HAS A PENIS. I did an extremely good impression of a gazelle as I bounded across the club. “She”followed me around for the rest of the night licking her lips and vamping at me.
I was in the middle of another conversation with someone else when I happened to look around and who should I see but my flatmate, naked and speadeagled across a rack, being vigorously spanked by two large men. I tried to pretend I didn’t know him (tricky as there were only two people dressed as bacstreet-abortion-fairies that night). Then a deafening roar of “Eoghannnnnnnnn” hit my ears. “Yes Colin” I said suspiciously. “SPANK ME”. “No, Colin, I know we live together but…” “SPANK ME”. One of the large males handed me some instrument of torture, and I proceeded to attack the hairy little Aberdonian’s backside.
Some time later we’re chatting to this bloke on the dancefloor. He’s a really nice, friendly, normal bloke, wearing this little satchel where he keeps his wallet and other things like that. And yes, I do mean that the satchel was ALL he was wearing. Possibly the thought occurred to me that it was a little odd be chatting to a naked bloke on a dancefloor, but this is a place where anything can happen. As you do, in polite conversation, we asked him, “what do you do for a living?”. “I make pornography”.
We looked at him with a mixture of amazement but mostly, as we say here, RESPECT, miongled with some disbelief. “This is one of my girls,” he continued, and our spirits soared as this HOT little Japanese chick appeared under his arm. As you do after two bottles of vodka, we took large and hopeful steps in her direction, only to have his arm firmly blocking our way. Fair enough, we thought. “You must visit my website”, he said, and gave us the website (I type this at work and I don’t know if this still live or not because obviously I can’t check it just now, but click here it WON'T be safe for work if the link is still live). A couple of days later, after the (lengthy) recuperation, we had a look; when he said he makes pornography, he was exaggerating slightly; he runs bukkake nights. For the uninitiated, bukake is an ancient Japanese fetish which involves twenty or so men (who would pay about £20 each), one girl, and, not to put too fine a point on it, they all beat off in her face. The whole thing lasts about 20 minutes, with £400 coming in; let’s say he splits it halfway with the girls; nice work if you can get it!
Some time later still I’m talking to this couple. They’re really friendly and are recounting some of the Torture Garden stories. The conversation comes to a natural lull, when the bloke says to me, “I want you to spank my girlfriend.” I look shocked. “I can’t so that!”, I counter. “Yes you can, just do it”, he says. It would have felt rude not to oblige, so she gets up on a chair with her hind quarters facing in my direction and hauls up her skirt, leaving her (substantial) rear pointing in my face. I give the buttock a gentle slap.
She turns round and gives my a look more disdainful than any I have faced before or since. “When I say hit me”, she says, “I mean FROCKING HIT ME!”. I take a run-up this time, and slap her as hard as I can. This provokes a much better reaction, so I give her a backhander for good measure. “Good” shouts the boyfriend approvingly, so I continue spanking her with gusto.
After a while, he says to me, “you carry right on, I’m just gonna move in and diddle her”. I’m shocked and want to get away, but something compels me to stay. He slips a hand under my spanking palm and proceeds to get to work. “Listen to her moan”, he says, so with a look of glee I lean forward to put my ear as close to her as possible. She’s making noises like a rhinoceros giving birth. In this rather singular triumvirate we remain, until it reaches its inevitable conclusion and our work is done.
Eventually the night comes to an end, and once I have extracted myself from the clutches of my admirer and the photographer, we make a move to catch the first tube home. Every single person is lying on the floor of the tube like there’s been an anthrax attack. Then comes what for me was the highlight of the night. I’m sprawled across the floor of the tube chatting to some bloke and asking him what he does. “I’m a solicitor”. I turn to someone else and ask her the same thing. “Civil servant”, she answers. A quick straw poll reveals that virtually everyone in there is either a repressed lawyer, accountant or civil servant (with the odd pimp thrown in as I had already found!)
Any other bizarre nights people have got to get off their chest?
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