The Sex Maniac's Ball


Because of my fraternisation with certain types of magazines I had been added to various mailing lists.  I received a variety of mail from lingerie retailers, contact services and, it would appear, an events company.  The leaflet I was gazing at had a number of very salacious photos that seemed to imply some sort of connection with the BDSM underworld.  A lady in a black PVC basque and thigh high boots leading a naked and clearly very subservient man on his hands and knees by a dog chain.  A couple dressed as if VIP guests to the Torture Garden, kissing passionately.  A mature gentleman with a woman dressed as a schoolgirl over his knee with her skirt raised, about to receive his admonishment via his raised palm.  It was entitled ‘The Sex Maniac’s Ball’ and described an event happening in London in a couple of months at a mysterious venue (tba).  I filled in the form, mailed it back to a PO Box and awaited a reply.

A few weeks later I received an anonymous letter informing me that, in return for the required payment, I would receive details of the exact venue a few days before the event.  Apparently, secrecy was imperative to protect the ‘integrity’ of the event.  I took this to mean that if certain law and order forces discovered the address it would be prevented from happening.  Intriguing…….so I immediately paid.

It then dawned on me that I’d have to wear something suitable.  I strongly suspected that nothing in my wardrobe would be in any way suitable.  So, I conducted some research.  However, in those days there was no internet and, so, no Google.  I ended up combing Soho for ideas and ended up buying a pair of black pointed boots, a pair of tight PVC trousers and a sleeveless leather top all of which were unlike anything I’d ever worn before.  When I tried on the outfit, I realised that I was entering a world that I wasn’t qualified to inhabit.  I also vowed that I would have to drive extremely carefully because, if I was stopped by the police, I could possibly be arrested for being an imposter.

A few days before the event I received a brown envelope with a ticket and details of the venue which transpired to be an uninhabited warehouse in east London.  I had little idea what to expect although if I was to believe the event title maybe I was qualified.  It was my first venture into the ‘sexual underworld’ and I felt a tight knot of excitement in my stomach as I drove deep into the East End.  The warehouse was isolated on a dilapidated industrial estate and had no external lighting.  There was a security cordon inspecting tickets and organising parking.  A quick look at other guests reassured me that I was in the right place.  The extravagant amount of PVC, rubber, leather and other indulgent accessories convinced me that I hadn’t taken a wrong turning.

Upon entering the building, it became clear that the dress code was loose at best.  In fact, in many cases it was what people weren’t wearing, rather than what they were, that seemed to count.  There appeared to be many couples and, while the men were generally ‘attired’ with fetish as their mantra, the women’s code seemed to be ‘as daring as possible’.  Various body parts were on regular display and enhanced by various items of flatteringly arousing items of fetish wear which merely accentuated their allure.  The atmosphere was joyful and hedonistic and a sense of pervasive decadence filled the air.  The lighting was dim.  The music was pounding with a heavy bass line which seemed to beg some level of sensory participation.  The musky smell of joss sticks filled the air, whether this was to disguise other more meditative smells was open to debate.

It was clear that this was an evening where anything was possible and probably permissible.  As a single man I merely assumed the role of spectator as if I didn’t feel I was qualified to participate, even if there were some exceptionally beautiful woman in attendance.  I merely observed and what I saw left an indelible and lifelong impression.  It was clear that there was a layer of society that had no boundaries and had an abandoned tolerance with the wide-ranging peccadillos that inhabit the human soul.  

The large floorspace had been carefully separated into many different compartments in which different activities were taking place – in some cases fervently, in others more languorously and indulgently.  The largest arena was a giant dancefloor with a stage on which a range of exotic and extreme dancers flaunted themselves flagrantly.  Lascivious girls, often naked flaunted themselves using poles as props while couples in various stages of undress either simulated rhythmical sex or participated in hardcore acts of physical union.  Many thrusting bodies filled the floor working in union with the heavy beat, all embracing the ambient mood of personal freedom that filled the sensual landscape.

But what was remarkable were the activities that were taking place in the adjoining nooks and crannies.  I witnessed dungeons where dommes attended to subservient men needing severe correction.  Matrons looking after mature men dressed as babies, complete with nappies.  Several glory holes, disguised as post boxes where men placed their erect genitalia to be sucked by whoever was inside (they were never to be made aware, nor cared, whether the provider was male or female).  Orgy chambers where sex was happening on a small or large scale amongst strangers of various persuasions.  

There was no feeling of sleaze or shame.  I fact the very opposite.  It seemed as if anything was to be encouraged and partaken joyfully.  Every type of sexual perversity was embraced in this intoxicating nirvana where ‘maniacs’ met to indulge their sexual freedom.  It was a world that I decided not to inhabit again, if only because I preferred my pleasure to be more personal.  But it opened my eyes to a luxuriant underworld that was out there.

With my eyes ever-widened I was ready to embrace the spirit of possibility that the world could offer with even more enthusiasm…..