Slutty Teen Adventures February 7, 2014

I reached my Kickstarter goal for today, so as promised here’s an excerpt from the book. This story is about the first time I went to a fetish club…

As Abby and I both turned sweet sixteen she found a listing in the back pages of Skin Two for a party scheduled to happen in a bar in the East End of London. Our young minds filled with shiny, salacious possibilities. We looked older than our age, and had no problem getting into nightclubs. We dressed the part, to the best of our abilities, donning fishnet stockings and black lace underwear from Marks and Spencer, slicking on thick black eyeliner, greasing our lips with red lipstick, and swooshing our hair into fashionable up dos. When we arrived at the door of the club, we found people loitering outside in black plastic raincoats and military uniforms. We flashed them smiles filled with counterfeit confidence. It worked like magic. They opened the door and ushered us inside. The interior was not what we expected. Far from the slick, modern ambiance we anticipated, we found ourselves in a classic British pub with brown floral carpets, maroon leather seats, and signage extolling the virtues of drinking more Guinness. We hurriedly ordered some cocktails—already familiar with the etiquette of drinking in bars, we squeezed our lemon slices, stirred our drinks with our straws, and sat in a corner trying to look inconspicuous. Our entrance had unavoidably garnered some interest, and before long the men at the next table asked if they could join us. Sliding over, they engaged in some polite conversation while we awkwardly sipped our Bacardi and Cokes. They seemed like gentlemanly types, and we settled into some innocent flirting. The guy next to me had a classic look, slicked-back black hair and a chiseled jawline. His rather manly black leather jacket hinted at experience. He leaned over as I nervously sucked down the last of my cocktail and asked if he could buy me a drink. “Sure” I said, giving him a coquettish side-glance. I looked over at Abby, giving a little wink to my adventurous partner in crime. But instead of returning my wink, her eyes widened as she stared back at me in disbelief. I turned around to see that my flirting partner stood up to reveal that below his leather jacket he wore nothing but patent stiletto thigh boots and a leather thong, revealing his hairy, masculine butt cheeks as he swaggered to the bar in his 6-inch heels. Abby and I tried not to laugh as he returned to the table with drinks. “Do you two feel like checking out downstairs?” He asked as he handed me my cocktail. I didn’t know what we might find downstairs, and the revelation of his outfit from the waist down caused me to reassess his suitability as a suitor. “No thanks, we’re okay,” I replied casually. Tugging on Abby’s arm I planned our getaway. “Excuse us gentlemen, we need to go powder our noses”. We grabbed our purses and our cocktails and headed to the ladies room, giggling excitedly as we reapplied our lipstick. “What do you think is downstairs?” Abby asked. “I dunno. Shall we check it out?” Our curiosity got the better of us and we headed down the dark staircase to the basement. We could hear the sound of spanking and the crack of a whip mingled with whimpers and groans. From halfway up the stairs we stood frozen, watching with a jumble of horror and compulsion as we saw our very first real live dungeon. Strange looking devices and furniture filled the room. An X-shaped crucifix stood in the center with bolts and rings on each extremity, designed to splay a person in every direction. Tethered to its cross beams was a women. A man flogged her ass mercilessly. Her skin became red raw and bruised from the beating. A man sat close by watching the scene with his cock bobbing up and down in his hand, flushed purple with the intensity of his masturbation. I’d never seen a man jack off before. All over the room scenes of this style repeated in various configurations. A naked man licked the boots of a woman who sat in a throne barking orders at him, forcing him to suck the heel. The activities were pretty standard fare for Skin Two magazine, but they seemed so exposed, and the intimacy of being in the room with them was overwhelming. They weren’t posing for photos, trying to look scared, pouting their lips like models—this was the real thing. The heady smell of sex suffocated me. I suddenly became aware of my own body, my skin scratching the fabric of the cheap lace, beads of sweat collecting on the small of my back. I was as real and fleshy as they were, connected to them in our animal skins desperately looking for a way to feel alive. The man on the couch ejaculated with a guttural cry, spurting cum all over his leather gloved hand, and leaned back in relief. He massaged the last few drops from his softening cock as he looked up to catch my eye. The shock of connecting in that intimate moment propelled me away. I pushed Abby up the stairs, and we managed to maintain ourselves for long enough to gather our coats and rush out the exit. Out in the cool air of the city night, we clacked down the cobbled street in our stilettos. We turned a corner and were out of sight of the club before we looked at each other in disbelief. We didn’t know what it meant. Disgusted and shocked, we retreated. Compelled and enthralled we returned. The experience was so real and so visceral—body and soul a slap in the face. We saw the shadowy underbelly of erotic possibilities and were deliriously scandalized.   Ironically, the brazenly sexual world I inhabited as a teenager was the safest place I could be. I never had to face sexual violence, which for so many teenage girls is commonplace. The explicit etiquette of the fetish scene protected me. Men are schooled to be polite or risk being ejected. I could wear provocative clothes, and ventured out wearing thigh high stiletto boots and little else, knowing that once I was in the club I wouldn’t just be safe, I would be respected. In the fetish scene, a place of such boundless sexual possibility, it’s understood that the golden ticket comes with a caveat: Respect women: value their sexuality as a precious gift; honor their boundaries; don’t be an asshole. I’m not saying harassment doesn’t happen at fetish clubs, but it’s nothing like the epidemic of ass grabbing that is taken for granted in regular bars and nightclubs. This was where I first experienced the power of my sexuality, the sense of liberation that accompanies it, and a brand of feminism that allowed me to express my sexuality without judgment.


Slutty Teen Adventures

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Polly Whittaker is a 21st century sex culture revolutionary. She has dedicated her life to sexually progressive community, as an acclaimed latex fashion designer, a creator of arty, sexy parties, and a spokesperson for sex culture. Born in London, England, in 1974, she is the daughter of a hot air balloon pilot and a sex therapist. She relocated to San Francisco—home of the sexual revolution—in 1999. Her award-winning event, Kinky Salon, takes place in a dozen cities across Europe and North America. She recently joined forces with Christopher Ryan, Author of NYT Bestselling Book Sex at Dawn to create—a social network for global sex culture.

Slutty Teen Adventures February 7, 2014