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A Single Girl’s Valentine

Posted in Uncategorized on February 14, 2012 by alisonadventures

So its approaching that time of year again…no matter what state or country you live in, weather its on snowy cobblestones or hot concrete pavement, all over the world couples are engaging in that wanton display of PDA known as Valentines day.
Chocolate, stuffed animals, and flora grace the office’s and university halls of besotted students and workers, hand holding and smooching in public triples, and wearing hot pink with scarlet red is suddenly exempt from being a fashion faux pas. And of course, every singleton wants nothing more than to hide under a duvet watching battle films with plenty of high tech artillery and explosives and wait for the day to just disappear.

For me, this valentines day marks the first one I will be spending not romantically involved (no, not even is a “seeing someone, playmate” way) since I first became legally allowed my first martini. I had always found the holiday quite an interesting experience, and the day seemed to run anywhere from being wined and dined and given beautiful hand-painted artwork, to taken to lush gardens and exploring nature, given gifts of jewellery, truffles, collars. And how can I ever forget that one year of being sick all over the Northern line, and being married before asked out properly at a notorious fetish club? (Don’t worry…turns out the ministers of Torture Gardens weren’t actually legally sanctioned. Shame.)
I am not against the holiday in any way, shape or form…I’m not one of those people who moan about it being “corporate, commercialized, a new way of milking the cash cow of consumerist society” or else saying “I refuse to celebrate a holiday that embraces love only one day a year…my partner should know I love them all the time, every day.” Bullshit. That’s a bit like saying “I refuse to celebrate my birthday   because I should be showered with gifts, adoration, and general ego-boosting all the time.” Hey, if it could be done, I’d be the first to sign up. But it just aint gonna happen.
Yes, of course your loved one should feel appreciated all of the time. But in a new information age filled with ever lengthening work hours, university coursework, and just a general lack of any personal, not to mention relationship, time for ourselves, what is so wrong about there being at least one day set aside solely for the purpose of romance? Treating one another to something truly spectacular that will create memories for years to come? The London eye with champagne at night, a stroll down the South bank after a concert or performance, titillation at a masked ball followed by utterly amazing sex? Even small presents or something hand written or crafted straight from the heart can often make the biggest impact.
As for the commercializing of it all, yes I completely agree that many big faceless operations will profit greatly from all those red roses and teddy bears. For gods sake look at all the deforestation contributing to mass global warming taking place every year as thousands of fir trees are chopped down for Christmas. Holidays are what you make of them…and what they mean to you. I personally celebrated xmas this year with my good friends over a nice big, fake tree. (In black, of course.) I myself would feel far more touched by a hand written sonnet, a song or handpicked wildflowers than anything that might be mass produced by Hallmark.
Saying that, those certain pair of stunning heels or gorgeous necklace or handbag would also be most welcomed…hey, just because Halloween leeches income off anyone with a fancy dress party to attend, doesn’t stop me from usually spending a small fortune on sultry Leg Avenue ensembles…that’s what my pay check is there for, after all. I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with a little harmless consumerism, and any man who has disagreed usually thinks twice after seeing my special, limited-edition, valentines day super sheer/lacy/skimpy lingerie. Oh, the power of a heart shaped garter belt! How the morals melt.

No, I have nothing against the holiday as a whole. It’s the general attitude of either being miserable beyond belief, devouring Ben and Jerry’s to Bridget Jones and wondering if maybe your ex wasn’t that bad, ok he still lived at home and worked in the same dead-end job for five years, yeah he wanted to settle down and you wanted to travel around the world, and there was that tiny incident of him threatening to leave you if you wore body paint on New Years Eve and him always being the one to emotionally break down first and never talk things out after arguments. But he was someone to cuddle with, right? Someone to hold hands with and go to clubs with, someone to be there. Maybe he wasn’t so bad…maybe you shouldn’t have chucked him.
Or there’s the reverse…the getting massively pissed and pretending its just another Tuesday, just with the added addition of lots of extra alcohol. Why cant we as a society just accept it as simply another holiday we may or may not choose to partake in, and move on?
I think it has a lot to do with conditioning…as a high school student, our campus was flooded with hand delivered pink carnations, shiny red heart shaped balloons, oversized plush animals of every kind, enough candy to send you back into braces for another year. And I just remember thinking how utterly shite it felt to be the one person without the trinkets or arm candy, without someone to carry my books or hold my hand or kiss me in the corridors. It seems ironic saying this now, but the London glamour model of today used to be the quiet girl with frizzy hair in the back of the classroom absorbed in a book and dreaming of a better life.
Yet even when I changed continents and finally managed to leave my little slice of suburban hell as far away as humanly possible without having to make the full effort of learning a new language, that insecurity remained. No matter what crazy adventures I got up too, how well my course or job was progressing, or how many photo shoots I did, there still always had to be a guy in the picture. Now that the skin has cleared, the hair tamed and glasses swapped for contacts, all of a sudden I was getting all sorts of new and interesting attention (I think being American with a penchant for corsets probably also added to the intrigue.)
But was it the right kind of attention? I’m not quite sure how to answer that. There are some who might see the vintage lingerie, short skirts and stockings and heels sent off the wrong message, made me a slut or a sex object. But I’ve never felt that way…to me, the clothing I wear is much less revealing than the bikini tops and hot pants you see every day in Miami. After years of struggling with body issues and eating disorders, I have finally become comfortable in my own skin. I simply adore dressing up, and doing so in a seductive yet classy way. When I spend ages on my hair and make up, it is purely for the purpose of making ME feel beautiful, never for any man. Hearing about recent court cases of men saying women are “asking” to be raped for wearing miniskirts fills me with disgust. To me, the human body is a work of art, and we should be able to adorn it as we see fit. The fact that perverts and molesters see us as only victims to be taken advantage means that they are the criminals for such thoughts, not us for choosing to showcase our beauty.










Yet despite all of this, even while knowing I was at least reasonably attractive, educated and hopefully kind hearted, I still needed a man to make me feel complete. I don’t know if it was that old high school frustration of not having a prom date, or the intense pressure and drama of all those brief silly teenage romances, where your friends must know EVERYTHING about your new boyfriend, he must be hot/nice/funny/good body, and him not replying straight away to your texts signified the end of the “relationship”. Back when third base was still a big deal, before sex came into the picture and really screwed things up. When you were either with someone or else your friends were trying to set you up with any semi-attractive single guy in a 50 mile radius.
Oh, how things have changed! Since moving to London, I have gotten to experience city courtships in all of there varied and wonderous forms, some of them for the better, like discovering I was bisexual and at times, multi-orgasmic, or the worst, like sometimes the one person you don’t like at all as a person, somehow, your body responds to the best. Not to mention there is no such thing anymore as “dating”…in the city, you are “seeing someone” (usually more than one person at once), “friends with benefits/fuck buddies/playmates”, “in an open relationship”(more than you would think) and finally “in a relationship”.





It can get pretty complicated, to say the least. How do you know if the person you are seeing wants to see other people as well? How to bring this up without seeming like YOU want/don’t want to see other people? When is the right time? Do they even, actually like you, or is it just the scene/alcohol/substances taken?
Generally, the most common advise would be to just let things be and see what happens, although for an insomniac over-analyzer who is most likely at least borderline neurotic this can be rather difficult. Add the internet into it, and it’s a whole other ballgame (if the term “facebook official” isn’t in the new Miriam Webster, it bloody well should be for the sheer number of times I’ve heard it tossed around by friends in relation to a new partner.) Yet somehow, I have managed to sustain two long-term relationships, several couple-of-month flings, and yes, the obligatory one night stands to boot…although only a couple, and none were particularly memorable apart from a certain international ménage à trois.
I was even blessed with being able to remain friends with my two “proper” ex’s, the last one being oh so perfect in everyway but one. Of course that should have warned me…sometimes love can come at a bad time. When I’m truly with someone, I am with my whole heart. This is a kind of love that can only be gained through time, trust and deep mutual understanding. It’s not an overnight fling, a crazy moment, but something stronger. And I just wasn’t ready for that yet.
I believe everyone in a really committed relationship loses their independence, even just that little bit. The amount depends of course, as the couple as individuals, but generally couples tend to go out together. Sure, they might socialize, but generally not as much as a single person would, and they would likely leave together. This is not meant as a negative point at all, as relationships should  amount to equal give-and-take, its just a comment. But what if one of the partners doesn’t want to go out? What if they say they cant afford it, or are ill, but you should go out anyway? Then what? Do you pay for them the whole night but maybe secretly resent it? (Even if you don’t, there’s a pretty good chance they will feel guilty and do something daft like refuse to drink the whole night, so you feel awkward drinking, and then everyone is sober and miserable.) Or do you go out anyway, but feel really guilty in the knowledge that they are home and most likely waiting up for you? Either way, it puts a damper on the evening.
Another thing I don’t get about new relationships Is how they always expect to be put first…yes, if it is a long term relationship this goes without saying, but if I’ve only been seeing the person a couple of months and they get upset I’m spending Halloween with the girls who I’ve known for years and tickets had already been booked well in advance, its generally not a good sign of things to come. Or If the attractive, confident girl that they initially fell for suddenly becomes a threat to their share of the spotlight (a  definite warning.)
Something I hear quite a lot of is, “well maybe it’s the type of guys you go for”, and this is probably true. I personally like either pretty or masculine types with long hair, alternative interests or careers I actually find exciting (I’ve seen contortionists, fire dancers, angle grinders, musicians, alternative magicians, artists, although also an acupuncture student and a bartender). Call me shallow, but I’m also a sucker for blue eyes and toned arms…hey, you cant help who you fancy. Although of course I am sure there are guys who totally don’t match that description at all who could probably drive me wild…when it really comes down to it, personality and a sense of humour matters most.
And when it comes to girls…I don’t even think I have a particular type! There’s only been a couple I’ve ever really fancied, but it’s a side of me I’m really looking forward to exploring. I also have been looking into polyamory, which sounds like a beautiful path of forming connections with different people to satisfy your every need, in a totally open, loving way. Although I’m sure it has its problems and complications like every other form of relationship…I’m willing to give it a shot.

So after everything I just said, you would think I would embrace being single after my last relationship crashed and burned. But no…that old terror of being alone drove me into not one but two very short lived flings, both with people I had plenty of chemistry with but we just weren’t right for either other. And yet still, it hurt me. There’s a reason girls play hard to get and your always pursued by that one suitor you don’t fancy. Most men like a challenge, and you can never let on that you actually like them. Sounds easy enough, but I never was the sort to play mind games…I find the truth always comes out anyway and I’m rather like a bloke in that I tend to quite enjoy flirting and am very naturally sensual as well. But I’ve come to realize that the men who are only in it for the chase and cant be honest about their emotions really aren’t the ones I want in my life anyway.
So, a couple of months ago, I stopped trying. With my coursework piling up, paid work coming in to boot, and social events rapidly filling up every blank planner page, it dawned on me: even if I wanted one, I simply would have no time for a relationship! Being a naturally social creature by nature, I like being with people. And in the last few weeks of being single and free to go to any of the gigs, clubs and afterparties I wanted to, I’ve become so much closer to my friends and made many new friends in the process. Besides that, I’ve had so many more fun, crazy and interesting experiences than I did when I was with someone. Goodbye tests, manipulation, emotional blackmail, jealousy and insecurity. As long as you have awesome friends to crazy party and cuddle with and can come home whenever you like to a nice drink and some private time to recuperate, I’d take that over another drama-fest any day. And of course, as soon as I stopped thinking about it, I instantly had two people asking me out! Too late.
I’d rather hold out for someone I fancy like mad, is a man not a boy, fun but not completely insane, and isn’t afraid to show his (or her!) feelings. And I’d rather wait for that then settle for someone I’m not truly happy with. I think society tries to make us seem like lesser people for not being with someone…but in reality you are so much more. You have your full independence, your freedom and your choices are your own, without the guilt trips or any outside influence. So this valentines day I am proud to say…I am not single, I am COMPLETE. And damn right I’ll be spending this V Day frosting “love sucks” cupcakes and watching Tank Girl and Bitchslap! With my friends…but only for that lesbian wet tee shirt scene. 😉



The Tiger and the Lighthouse

Posted in Uncategorized on July 25, 2011 by alisonadventures

Why must I be drawn to you,

like a fly to a lantern?


Spreading its wings to face the sun

Being burned by the hot hard glass,

Wings disintegrating into dust.


You are my false promise , my shining beacon.

Gazing for weeks at the Lighthouses beam,

Journeying past the roads un travelled.


Using my ax, I slice through the bushes

Chop down the fir tress


Slay the lions and free the tigress

Who always lurks, ever waiting, in the shadows of my subconscious.

With my body, I free her, releasing the silver bands, the prison bars.

The beastess in me.


Wild, raring, I race down the stony path.

I ignore the bristly chimps

Baring their blood-stained teeth in a menacing grin.

They cant wait to receive me

In their mouths.


Past the lone gray wolf

Emaciated, matted silver fur.

Look of death in his eyes.


The canary shrieks a song of destruction.

Out of apocalypse comes rebirth, join the fire and spark blaze burn!


Still, I run faster.


Widow Spider needs a home.

She needs a victim to trap

Into her web.


Only once her intended has been seduced

By the swirling threads of  deception and lust

Can she complete her beautiful prison.


She looks at me, eight feet clicking as her red eyes glow

She craves the norishment in my bones

Can feel it absorbing into her shell.

She wants me.


But on and on I run.


Until the lighthouses beam receives me.


Ah the light!

The serene fortress of that gleaming, much sought tower

pales in comparison to that brilliant, blinding golden light.


Panting, I race on all fours into the polished wooden doorway.


Only to find the inside deserted.


As light fills the windows surrounding the tower,

your essence has evaporated with the morning dew.

floating like particles of sunlight, just out of my grasp.


Outside I walk


Dejected. Abandoned.



Tail slung low between my legs.









The silver bars of my cell  have been traded for a new, metallic iron cage in my mind.

Confronted by this new mental jail, I once again begin to pace.


But there is no lighthouse, no sun on the horizon, no moon to light my way back into the forest.


All is as black as the empty lighthouse.


I am caught in the thick brambled bushes

Blood leaking out of my sides.

Why bother fighting any more?

You have left me.


The canary wails a new ballad

Vanity. Greed. Selfishness. Isolation. 


What a fool you have been!


The chimps run away with my ax

Laughing as they tear off strips of striped flesh greedily

Feeding off of my agony.


And Widow Spider begins to weave.

Posted in Uncategorized on June 30, 2011 by alisonadventures

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Beware the False Prophets (Of a Lost Generation)

Posted in Love, Men, prophecies, Prose, Relationships, religion, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 3, 2011 by alisonadventures





You are lost, scared, confused. It is late. Your friends have abandoned you at the  latest  party, leaving you alone for darkened kiss on a dance floor. The music pounds inside your head, brains screaming for a moments peace as you grab your head to try and soothe away the agony, but it is of no use, your hands are hot, sweaty like the rest of you, feverish frenzy of dancing, hormones and alcohol, manic activity as you dance alone to the beat of a tribal pop tune.

It is then, it is always then when He finds you.

Is he the spiky blonde with the clear aqua eyes, tattoos of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics etched into his arms and chest, white kimono top and piercings?

Is he the tall black gentleman caller, leather trench coat and tinted glasses, muscled chest and slow smile that reveals sharp pointed fangs?

Is he the aged film executive in Vivienne Westwood, who believes spirits haunt his sleep and lives in a converted boys orphanage?

He takes many forms but in one thing He is constant. He always comes when you are most alone, most afraid, most angry and most self-destructive. He always offers you a drink, a drug, an escape, a promise.

A meaning to the universe, and a reason that you are here, that you met Him, tonight. There is always a reason. You were meant to fight with your boyfriend, you were destined to go to that club where he just so happened to be there. You knew you were meant to find something, someone, that night. Him.

He enchants you with talk of magic, of chaos theory, of chakras and world travel, of tai chi in Beijing, of healing, of energy and how everything is one. In his world, you are beautiful, you are fully connected to the earth and air and sky and him, forming a perfect circle, never alone.

He seduces you with passionate rhetoric on vampirism, how he is a dark and dirty creature of the night. He whirls you around on the dance floor, he invites you to Paris, to fabulous balls, to his flat after the party.

He flatters you with compliments, showers you with gifts and praise. You are stunning, gorgeous, thin, lovely, better than Her, always better. You are talented and perfect and interesting and what I wouldn’t give to be with a girl like You. You deserve champagne, cocaine, ecstasy and designer clothes, Chanel and Dior and dinner at Nobu, cocktails at The Mandarin.

And yes, you are taken in. You want the religion, the magic, the feel that maybe he really is healing you with his energy, your aura is glowing, purple and red and green. The sushi and sake and fish oil pills, the valerian root to help you sleep, the paintings and travel that he offers you, the way that he seems to worship you when he looks into your eyes.

Or else you want the travel, the seduction, the sex. The feel whirl of  the dance, the feel of his fangs biting into your neck, your lips. The sensation and the pleasure, the decadence of knowing you are forsaken but uncaring, eager only to embark in the next event, the next feeling, the next embrace. You don’t want to be healed by the light, but luxuriate in darkness. Lust.

Maybe you crave the leather, the silk, the feel of expensive clothes draped on your body, the perfume and diamonds making you feel like you are worth something, for that day, for that minute. Worthless girls don’t walk around in clothes worth more than most monthly rents, worthless girls don’t sip candy-coloured drinks and nibble delicately at appetizers, the white powder suppressing your appetitive, helping you to fit into your size 0 jeans. Opulence.

It is so easy to slip away, losing yourself completely in their world. They have chosen You because you are different, unlike most girls, beautiful and valuable in your own right.

You are the ultimate actress, changing yourself completely as they mentor you, in universal consciousness or metaphysics, physic vampirism or how to improve you, make you a star.

They are always intelligent, well spoken. Stacks of books and films and theories and debates. They do not simply want money or sex, not always. They want to seduce your mind, your soul. They see you, attractive but sad, a lost girl or boy with no family, dressed up but alone. They are only to happy to provide the escape that you seek.

And sometimes you see through the bullshit, the smokescreens and the lies. Sometimes when it is late and you are sober, somehow, and they push you and grab you and force your mouth to theirs, their ugly hands pushing up your dress, and you are screaming inside. And this is wrong, so wrong, and you don’t want this, yes you want the fame or salvation or whatever they have promised you but not this, anything but this.

But something inside of you freezes, grows cold and hard as a stone, and you cant do it, you are too weak and scared to fight, still tipsy on his promises and you know, you just know that he wont stop.

It is better to submit than be violated.

And  then comes the day when you walk away.

Night. 6AM at the strangers flat. Morning, now. You are with your partner but he is weak, wasted on the wine and champagne. You are half-asleep, lying on his bed, also drunk. The vampire is smart. He has not been drinking. He strips naked and flexes his chest, coming onto your lover first.  He kisses his lips, runs his nails down his body as  your boyfriend looks at you,  and you silently mouth “no”. He tries to protest but submits, in the end, and see him and think of you, how you have been used and drawn into the fantasies of so many other false prophets.

Not again. Never again.

But the vampire is clever, as they always are. He licks you, caresses you, draws you into pleasure but for once your mind is stronger than your body and you leap off the bed. He grabs your arm, restraining you and you are scared, and think, for the briefest moment, of submitting once again. But something in you snaps and you wrench your arm free, throw open the door and sprint down the stairs.

New Year. New Start.

You are outside, shivering and furious, angry and cold. You are naked underneath your coat, feathered shoes clutched in your hands. You are still drunk and lost, but proud, so proud that for once you had the strength to resist, the courage to walk away.

And then you hear the footsteps behind you.

It is your lover. He has left the vampire and his pleasures and ran instead to follow you, tears and makeup streaked down his face, eyes silently begging for forgiveness for not protecting you, not sheltering you.

But he is here and he has come back for you, and together you find a  lighted pathway leading home.

The entire night he holds you close, whispering his love, how he cares more for you than himself, that he would do anything for you. And you clutch him tightly, seeking solace and warmth in his arms. Falling asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the sure and steady beating of his heart.

And for all their glitz and glamour, all the prophecies and promises in the world could not live up to the strength of your love.

A Torture Gardens Summer

Posted in Uncategorized on August 3, 2010 by alisonadventures

Warm air, Jacuzzis, a dance floor and a dungeon…just another Torture Gardens event at their new venue at The Dex.

So Alison returns to the wonderland of London after a three-week hiatus in Florida, and, it must be said, I was itching to be back. Sure, mosquito-laden beaches and massive, soul-sucking consumerist paradises known as the shopping mall might be heaven to some. But this corset-loving, PVC-wearing, parasol-toting gal simply couldn’t stand a place without easy access to cocktails, galleries, cabaret, and events nearly every night of the week. So I couldn’t wait to book tickets to London’s largest fetish club the week after my return.

Having attended a variety of fetish clubs, TG always stands out. Set in the opulent Mass or extravagant SeOne beneath London Bridge, with dance floors, large dungeons and couples areas, live performances and even fashion shows, a Torture Gardens night out will always be one to remember. That said, I often prefer the smaller fetish clubs such as Subversion, Decadence and Antichrist. While TG scores big time in the show department, it often lacks the friendliness and more intimate vibe Subversion has to offer.

Not the case in the summer ball. The smaller and less crowded Dex felt as personal as a smaller club while still retaining that trademark TG experience. Although the Jacuzzi remained sadly unoccupied throughout the event, the outdoor dungeon was an innovative and fun way to enjoy watching, offering and receiving a good spanking. A well stocked bar and grill added to the atmosphere, and the dance floor was just the right amount of happening without being too over-crowded. I had a blast pole dancing with a lovely trannie while a gorgeous redhed in a fishnet body stocking  joined in on the action.

But while barbeques and dancing help liven up any evening, lets not forget the S&M TG Is all about. Hotel-style bedrooms lined the inside of the Dex, where clips of Betty Page and other burlesque stars played as couples got frisky. Each room had its own en suite bathroom, another nice touch and a great way to avoid club toilet queues. Torture equipment was also available in some of the suites, and my new partner had a great time learning the proper ways of the whip from a professional Dom.

The hours passed easily as the activities on offer never failed to entertain, the only real downside being the standard fetish creepers who will try and touch before acting. Annoying but usual. Anyone fetishists reading this, yes it is fine to offer a lady or gent a foot massage or other erotic service. No, it is not fine to just grab whilst the person in question is busy getting intimate with another. Even kinksters deserve respect.

All in all, the evening was a success, and I will definitely recommend Torture Gardens summer events for the future. My partner learned the art of mixing pain with pleasure, I seduced gorgeous Eastern European and Asian ladies, and my sailor friend pulled an attractive masculine male sub who just so happened to enjoy Polo matches and Ascot racing as well as a good beating with her riding crop. Aye aye, captain!

To purchase tickets to Torture Gardens Next Event:

T: +44 (0)20 7613 4733 (11am – 7pm)

F: +44 (0)20 7729 7652



The Great May Masked Ball: A Review in Prose

Posted in The Last Tuesday Society, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alisonadventures

Entering the cavernous arches of the SeOne venue underneath London Bridge, the people swarm like uncaged peacocks at the zoo. Some are beautifully plumed–sequins and great feathered masks adorning lace and silk-clad bodies–lithe and toned creatures of the warm summer night. But these birds are a rarity among the lesser pedigreed animals who had caught wind of the event and had arrived to gatecrash the party. Cheap dresses and stripes, bright feathered masks not concealing the abundance of poseurs who sadly crowded the queues.

Spirited dandies skipped down the messy lines, passing out sweet candied apples, small misshapen toys. Greedy fists with sharp painted nails plunge into open wicker carriers, and I emerge clutching tightly a small brown four-eyed hippo that peers sadly at me from the bottom of the  basket.

Entering the venue at long last, I am flushed with the heat of bodies pressing into mine, squeezed into my steel corset and hooped skirt, scanning the mesh of eager faces crowded in a tight knot around the bar, partygoers with notes in hand, desperate to imbibe in their intoxication of desire. Faint, I drift towards the back wall, slipping out of my silken gloves to press my hands against the wall, finding comfort in the cool stone.

A friend arrives with my drink in hand, and I drain the cool liquid juice as we make our way into the next room of The Feast, where the chocolate fountain of gluttony beckons. Warm rivers of chocolate pour forth onto waiting skewered fruit and sweets, melting syrupy sweet in my mouth. A reclining nude youth beckons from Suzette Field’s famous cheeseboard spread, where the pigeons gorge on scattered brie, honeyed crackers, coconut marshmallows, Italian olives and gingerbread men, along with yesterday’s cakes and other assorted delicacies.   

Is this a dream or is this reality? I watch others riding the squatting mechanical doll, and take my turn, kicking off my underskirt as I grip on tightly, whirling past the laughing and clapping of the crowd, the excited impatient faces. I come to a stop, gravity returning but the spell continuing as I slip on my burgundy satin dancing shoes, and move to the music spilling out of the adjoining area, twirling to the beat of the Trans-Siberian Marching Band, Louis Eliot and The Embers, and The London Gay Symphony Orchestra. As the live music comes to a stop but the DJ’s play on, I snack on salted popcorn handed to me by a cheerful man in a striped suit and lie amongst the chattering strangers on small circular beds, staring at the large silver screen playing The Red Shoes, beautiful 40s ballerinas dancing in silence, their expressive eyes and delicate lips drowned out by the loud music, the roar of the people.

As the night wears on, the original decadents chased away by the large clutter of the populace, my comrades and I remain, watching as the first fight breaks out, cheese and fruit flying amongst shouts and laughter. The smell of cheese fills the room as I slip on the sticky floors, waltz amongst the spilled popcorn and dissolving sweetness of pink candy floss. Somehow, the night is even more magical now, the careful layout of the cheeseboard ruined, candied apples and grapes mixed with the remaining cakes and brie, the naked living statue having fled as the crowds thin and the staff closes off the now-trashed banquet hall.

Feeling like the last guest at Miss Havisham’s unwedding, I sweep the rooms for discarded treasures. Teddy bears both large and small, a sticky lamb and discarded jewelled mask dangle from my arm as my coach awaits. Climbing out of the taxi into the night air, the evening at a close but my memories and objects remain, the tangible proof of a fantasy made real, if only for one night…

Bitchslap! A truly Bizarre event comes to Bethnal Green

Posted in Uncategorized on April 28, 2010 by alisonadventures


Tucked away in a tiny converted art gallery off a dodgy side road in Bethnal Green with naught a sign announcing its existence, a latex clad DJ spins everything from alternative metal to classic Velvet Underground tracks. Entertainment for the night includes rope bondage, strippers, and photographers snapping away as partygoers pose in their PVC and fishnet-heavy ensembles. No, this is not your typical friday night fetish party. It’s Bitchslap! a new monthly event hosted by Bizarre Mag, UK’s biggest alternative read. Although the venue is small and you get the sense many of the guests in attendance are only there to be snapped for the party pictures (just like your standard Mayfair club), the music is excellent, the alcohol is cheap, and there’s no beating the price (free with a £4.15 copy of Bizarre Mag). Beats paying £20 for entry for a night out in Kensington, and the fire swallowing and suspension rope bondage kept me interested for a couple of hours until the mood died down. Then, I headed up north to Kings Cross with a friend to a proper old school warehouse rave, where the measly £5 entrance fee went to (what else?) an art benefit, as befits an event where breakfast food litters the bar and drinks are served out of a plastic tumbler. Forget the transvestite DJ’s–this party was all about the synth pop and strobe lighting. The best of both worlds for under a tenner, indeed.

Bitchslap! Is hosted monthly at Resistance Gallery
Street: 265 Poyser Street, E2 9RF (nearest Tube, Bethnal Green)