The Superbutch chronicles, or Yes I really do wear those boots, by the way

1. Foreplay
The night I met Superbutch, I was wearing my leatheriest outfit and my friend O had, quite simply, left her underwear at home.
Forget the now obsolete needles and haystack, there should be a saying: ‘as impossible to find as a seedy lesbian S&M club in Vauxhall.’ We got lost, were too scared to ask, teetering on ridiculous heels, tightly wrapped in our coats so as to not display too much flesh to the loiterers. Finally we found the place.
It was a seriously schizophrenic type of club; we made our way though the ground floor, populated by a hiphop crowd, all baggy trousers, sullen faces and 2 carat gold jewellery, and climbed up to where the real shit took place. Quite a drastic change of décor: gilded mirrors, heavy red velvet drapes, deep sofas, very 1930s’ German brothel, but then again I admit I’m a bit of a romantic that way. At the top of the stairs, we caught a glimpse of the main room and its implements, and O, although not a shrinking violet, immediately locked herself in the toilet.

2. never enough foreplay
After some coaxing, O emerged from the cubicle with suspiciously white nostrils, but greatly more assured. Although… Can we stay at the bar for some time, please? she pleaded. Oh no, as much as voyeurism is fun, we have to stride in and be noticed. In we go, girl. How confident; it must be the heels. So in we strode.

3. Climax
A semi-naked form bent over a bench was enjoying a public flogging, whilst on a big wheel another woman was tied, arms stretched out. We tried to count all the clothes pins on her but lost count. Above our heads on a sort of suspended bed, three shapes were letting out moans and grunts. A couple offered us to join them in the adjacent fuckroom, but we politely declined and drank ourselves silly instead. More offers, when suddenly I felt very capable of taking this complete stranger’s cat-o-nine-tails and flog her raw, thank you very much. All eyes on me. What if I missed, what if I didn’t aim right, would they laugh? I bet they would. Shouldn’t have drunk so fucking much. Con-cen-trate. Take that, you, complete stranger that I’ve never seen before!
And that is how I met Superbutch, all leathered up, shaved head, fag dangling from her lips, who later confessed that as soon as she saw me, decided she had to ‘have’ me.


4. Wooing
You like classical music? I like classical music too, she said. She moved closer so that I was literally cornered. Come over to my house. I ‘ll make you dinner. I can cook real good.
Next time, people of Blogland, if I decide to continue with the Superbutch series, I’ll tell you what we had for dinner and what was playing in the background. Oh yeah.