Inside The Sex Club A Stones Throw From The White House

Bondage and fetish correspondence from the land of the free.
Publish date:
Updated on

[img via]

My girlfriend and I went to a quasi BDSM sex club last weekend. It's funny the place is literally a gunshot away from Congress. Think of that long opening view in the House of Cards intro, looking down North Capitol and you'll know what I mean.

We walked in expecting christ knows what and we had to laugh. It was like entering a Rotarians meeting. The door staff were a weedy, apologetic old dude and some space cadet chick, both dressed like Walmart refugees; a pair of stuttering incompetents who could barely figure out my credit card. Even more ridiculous, the place is an non-profit that tries to seriously pitch itself as a social club that's a solid member of the local business community.

With the "membership" and entrance fees, it cost just over a $100 to get us both in. The club is a big room with a bar down the left side and what seemed to be the remnants of an abandoned 2nd rate banquet hall someone with a really poor grasp of BDSM aesthetics had made over in black and pink. A few wood and vinyl fuck horses were placed about, couches that appeared to be Craigslist hand-me-downs, some tables and chairs, along with a thin floor mat that had a dingy looking white cotton sheet thrown on it.

It felt as if we'd stumbled into a high school reunion for those who've discovered in middle age that sex is actually pretty cool. Among the patrons there were a couple dumpy, big boobed hags walking around half naked, a few not badly shaped younger women in fishnet body stockings and such, what you could call neo-Fredericks of Hollywood attire. Among the men, only two young lads made any attempt at fetish gear, wearing chest harnesses and tight pants. As my dearly departed friend Spike said when the middle class BDSM craze began: "Well, now the doofs, dogs and fatties can get some action."

It was a mixed crowd but mostly over 30s, with a good sprinkling of 40+ types like us. However, the whole deal would have been far more appealing if management had kept out the herd of slack-jawed frat house gombahs loitering by the bar, gawking around stupidly. A couple pussy massage demos pretending to be 'medical fetish' made the herd rush over en masse to stand and watch, fingers in their blue jeans. These gimps didn't even have the stones to wank openly, let alone form a circle jerk. What kind of legit fuck club allows entry to single guys - or two obviously square guys who show up and pose as a 'gay couple'?

Let's face it, straight up young hetero drones in their ball caps, polo shirts and Levis, they really are a joke, oppressively moronic and craven, like the shit on your shoe you can't quite scrape off. They bring nothing but grim banality and a bad smell.

There was slightly more private fuck room in the back corner where a few girls took part in generic threesomes, each with a pair of guys. Of course the herd of doofi tromped over and crowded round the door to observe sans comment or humor.

My girlfriend and I sat on a bench against the wall, just outside the fuck room. Without bias I can say she was the hottest woman in the place. Best dressed too. All in black, certainly, but no cheap cliche crap bought online. She wore a stylish little black dress, black stay-ups, nice strapped pumps, hair swept up but messy-ish, along with her fashionable horn-rims - the pervy smart chick out on the town, always a winner in my book. She's over 50 and hotter than ever. Still long and lean and leggy. Yes, yoga and all that shit does work - at least for her. Age and maturity often go that way - if you actually stop and open your eyes.

Seeing a few regulars fuck and suck cock here and there prompted my girlfriend to mention how relaxed it all seemed and how aroused she felt at the whole easy kind of vibe, that nobody was pushy or intrusive. The atmosphere was also enlivened by the fact women could feel safe doing more or less as they pleased.


BDSM And Speedballing In The Art World

Confessions Of A Dominatrix

Adding an interesting element were a pair of uniformed cops hanging around to make sure things didn't get out of hand, whatever that might entail. They were good guys and thrilled at their Saturday night assignment, making overtime pay at the sex club. Life could be worse.

Next to us on the bench was a young couple, the guy wearing a kilt, which is very practical. But his pretty young blonde girlfriend seemed sour and performing for motives other than ones deeply her own. To impress, to be cool, to be 'kinky', to prove something, whatever. Her guy didn't kiss her, barely touched her and kept positioning her variously on his cockwhile he glanced around for approval or at least acknowledgement.

It's good the city has this kind of place available. There's no doubt in my mind those on hand have very busy, very straight lives, most of them some stripe of federal bureaucrat or govt functionary, middle class straightjackets stuffed with kids and pets and neighbors and in-laws and community service and god knows what other nonsense so they can't exactly invite over fellow pervs to play spin the dildo on Saturday nights. The congenial mutual voyeurism at the club was a big draw as well and seemed a way to share the load of Monday to Friday hypocrisy and repression. I guess they're sort of guerrilla fornicators.

I'm an elitist snob by nature and I've had the pleasure and sometimes displeasure of being invited to some extremely depraved, pathologically private gatherings, but I can't allow my personal prejudices to color the truth. Maybe the place on Saturday night wasn't exactly a top-flight utterly exclusive chamber of sexual madness but for those who don't have access to the harder core deal, and in a town as square as DC, it sure is a fuck of a lot better than nothing. Now, if they'd hire a real interior designer and get rid of the single goofball guy crowd, the place could have a real future...