Picadilly Circus of Sins

‘Face direction of travel,’ commands the sign suspended in a shiny hallway of the Heathrow airport. My spatial disability prevents me from obeying, for I never really know where I am. If you try to help by using such exotic terms as ‘north’ or ‘south,’ my eyes will go blank as I swerve the wrong way, probably into the Thames River. Right now I know only that I am headed back to Canada, my ever-too-brief English visit at an end. I will return home a little fatter—the Licorice Hut near the London Eye is partly to blame—and a whole lot wiser. For example, I learned the useful verb ‘vagazzle’ from watching a British TV show about women with shiny faces and glue-gunned twats who date boxers. I learned that taxi drivers do not like to take credit cards, but they are much obliged, and rather surprised, by tips. ‘Cheers Madam!’ I learned that expensive rubber pants are worth every penny. Oh, and I guess I also learned something or other while reading books every day about early modern tape worms, breast cancer, and anal fistulae at the Wellcome Library, British Library, and British Museum. After all, research was the reason for this trip, right? Well… 

I was mainly here to reacquaint myself with old friends, shop, go to art galleries, and, of course, get spanked in a dungeon by Professor Snape. Things did not work out as planned in the dungeon, but I am jumping ahead. First you have to hear about some boring crap. For instance, I did not wish to attend a Weight Watchers meeting in London, thinking that I would not have time. Yet when I looked up potential gatherings online, lo and behold, one was being held in the basement of my very hotel. How could I resist? So I lined up in the hallway—no I queued to protect the privacy of the fat fighters in front of me (Little Britain alert)—and was bafflingly weighed in stone (something like 10:20:30? Pot odds?). After surveying the tables spread with TWO POINT packets of onion and cheese crisps for sale, I sat myself down with about 20 other people. Almost of all them were chubby middle-aged white women, though about two men resembling Mike Baldwin before the dementia set in were also present. Oh, this will be exactly like a North American meeting, I pessimistically thought to myself, wishing I had remained upstairs in my ‘executive suite’ with its daily free bottle of orange juice. Seriously, that was the only executive perk I noticed; I even had to pay to use kettle bells in the gym, which I’m sure you will agree is a fucking outrage. But wait. I was wrong: not about the gym fees (fuck them!), but about the meeting. For a love-handled black female leader soon took the stage and she was a breath of fresh air, my friends. In true self-help fashion, she immediately confessed to having eaten an entire apple pie in her car the day before. Audible gasps of horror echoed throughout the room. But the fabulous ‘D’ was not sorry. She defiantly explained that she had since done two spin classes to counteract her indulgent act. I tried a spin class at the L.A. Fitness gym while in London, and let me tell you that it covered two pies. Kicked my arse, it did [hint: please reread in an exaggerated, unsnooty English accent for full effect]. The energetic, pie-loving D was pro-exercise, cautioning everyone that food discipline alone would not help them get fit. She also promoted a high protein and veggie intake. I practically stood up and cheered, for that is not the usual message delivered by Weight Watchers. I pictured D savouring that cold pie by ripping open the box and eating it with her bare hands right off the dash board. Obviously, I was briefly in love with her. Sadly she will never know that. At least I have my memories.      

And now I must relate to you the early modern remedies for worm-infested intestines. Psych! On to the spanking. You have waited long enough. In a previous blog I mentioned that my highschool-friend-turned-British-citizen-musician had invited me to a fetish club for a fun night out [his apt name shall be Ageless Boy Toy], but I was worried about having the proper attire. Well, all those sleepless nights were for naught. While walking to the library my first day in London, wearing my long goose down coat and scarf and carrying my laptop in a Swiss army backpack, I noticed a festive holiday window, complete with a drummer boy and fairy princess. Hold on there, I slowed my pace. The drummer boy was encased in rubber and equipped with a prominent black jock strap, while the princess was really a tart with exposed nipples and glittery red garters. I immediately went inside. A heavily made up woman with fake long eyelashes, straightened orange hair, and a sexy eastern European accent helped me select a black rubber mini skirt and various rubber tops. I had to strip right down—off went the boots, gloves, and hat, for it was cold in London when I was there—and cover myself with talc to squeeze literally into the clothing [aside for ABT: do you see how I have avoided a split infinitive here when using one might have been better? Sometimes I am my own worst enemy]. The divaesque saleswoman had to push and pull my rubber-flesh, zip me up, flatten me out, and then shine me up. We did this in full view of everyone as the flimsy changing room curtain was partly open and I did not care one whit. And now it is my turn to confess: I liked it, maybe even as much as apple pie. I wondered how many people tried things on in this shop just to get touched up. I wanted the charming saleswoman to know that I was seriously going to buy something. The problem was that my small breasts were flattened by the tight rubber in a way that was far from flattering. She suggested that I wear a black strapless bra underneath and luckily I had one back in the hotel room. ‘I’ll return on Monday,’ I said, ‘wearing my strap-on.’ How’s that for a Freudian slip? ‘In that case,’ she said huskily, ‘you might want to purchase some trousers instead of that skirt.’ We both laughed. ‘Luckily for you,’ I reassured her, ‘I left my strap-on at home.’ Unfortunately that was true, for I had feared that baggage handlers or customs officials would 1) find it, and 2) test it out.

Here is the outfit I eventually wore to ‘Circus of Sins.’

Getting to the club was pretty funny because ABT and his lady, the gorgeous O, first changed in my hotel room, then we all put on our warm coats and walked to the bus stop. I was sitting on the bus all toasty in my rubber ensemble, with a cool draft blowing up under my fishnets. It was delightful. O grabbed a snack at Subway before we hit the club. I know that ABT was disappointed because it wasn’t as crowded or weird as usual. But I still made many acute observations, except when I was in the loo rearranging my outfit or passing through the ‘reshine station.’ I shit you not. I am including a photo of what ABT and O had on, just to give you an idea of the scene. Many of the men were wearing rubber kilts with lots of eyeliner or else zoro masks. Others looked like former members of the Ramones hired to be extras in Clockwork Orange. The ladies were more impressive, with pink wigs, garters, rubbery long dresses, crinolines, body paint, and what have you. There was much posing, picture taking, dancing, hugging, and kissing going on. Some drunk oldster with tufts of fluff covering his baldness must have snuck in through the fire exit, for he was dressed shabbily, sipping from his can, while apparently bowled over by his good fortune as he stared shamelessly at taut buttocks and exposed breasts. ABT asked me if I found anyone in the club attractive and I had to say yes: almost all of the women. If I had been forced to choose a partner for the night, I would have had to turn lez. Many of the men there were indeed straight as far as I could tell, though the creepy pierced leprechaun remained something of a mystery. I had thought that the slim Belgian man from sprockets—he was dressed rather conservatively in black, except for suede fuck-me stiletto boots—was gay for sure. But then he came up behind me and I felt a brush against my leg. [Aside: by no means did he baboon me]. Without looking, I deliberately shifted down the bar, and he tottered off. Another chain-laden guy asked me: ‘In the past ten years what would you consider your greatest accomplishment?’ In hindsight, this might have been a pick-up line, designed to show that he considered me an intelligent person first and a sex object second [mistake #1] but I was not yet drunk enough to realize that. I paused and then thoughtfully pronounced ‘publishing my first book.’ Now there’s a line that will cause the swelling to subside and the balls to chill. I probably should have said something like ‘multiple G-spot orgasms with Lelo at the Holiday Inn’ given the context, though that was only my greatest accomplishment of the previous ten days. His proudest moment was doing 29 wide-grip chin-ups in a row. I was quite impressed with that as you can well imagine. Not enough to put out though. In the end, I drank a little more, danced to a Munsteresque punk band, and finally took a taxi back to the hotel. There I rolled my rubber ware down my body into a compact tube shape and slept in my fishnets. That was about the kinkiest thing I did that night. Still, tomorrow is another day and my heart is filled with hope.

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About feministfiguregirl

I am a 51-year-old professor named Lianne McTavish who receives as much satisfaction from working out at the gym as from publishing my academic research. About eight years ago, I decided to combine my two primary identities (scholar/gym rat) to create "Feminist Figure Girl," a fictional character who both analyzes and participates in bodybuilding. I competed in my first figure show in June of 2011, and then wrote a book inspired by the process, published by SUNY Press in February 2015. In this blog I will write about and consider my ongoing research on the body, while regularly making fun of myself. I recommend that you start reading my first post from August 2010 (available on the home page), instead of backwards from the most recent one, in order to get the full FFG effect.

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