Warning: This post, whilst safe for work and not really containing any kink in itself, may be TMI for some people. AYOR, etc.

A munch is a casual lunch or dinner with other local people who have an interest or experience in BDSM (Bondage & Discipline, Dominance and submission, sadomasochism) and/or Fetish. Munch groups have many different characters depending on locations of where they meet. Some are held in locations where a demonstration can be given on different techniques, but most are held in family restaurants or bars where 'play' or fetishwear is not permitted. A munch is a great atmosphere to meet like minded locals, discuss a variety of topics, and make friends and get validation without people behaving 'in role'. [ref]

So on Tuesday night I popped along to a pub nearby – yes, a pub, I know, but since drinking wasn't going to be the main focus of the evening I guessed it would be okay – where about twenty people gathered for the monthly "munch" for the area.

I'd sort of flagged up my upcoming attendance on a forum, so that they knew to expect a long-haired bloke in a Simpsons T-shirt [note; as in the definition above, dress code is "vanilla", otherwise I might have...]

There were a few characters who immediately recognized me and took me under their wing, introducing me to whoever was there, telling me what was to be happening, letting me into their group. One [lovely] surprise was meeting *name removed* from the site beginning with "O" which we do not name any more, who I'd exchanged mails with over there. You know how it is when someone off El Interwebz suddenly turns up in your 'meatspace' – "OMG, SQUEE!"

Everyone gathered in an upstairs room, away from the pub's [two] other customers. [It was a *very* wet Tuesday night.] The night had been advertised as having a workshop on "needle play" – not my cup of tea, I must add – though this turned out to be a workshop on safety in general in play, with information on the risks of sharing of fluids of various kinds.

Afterwards was scones and general chatter. There was a core of about four or five people in the room who I felt immediately comfortable with, and I generally went round and shook hands to introduce myself with everybody. There was no "play" – well, okay, one woman took a quick flogging – and the only way you'd distinguish it from any other social meeting would be a] slightly more black worn, and b] the collars on the "owned" subs.

It'll take some time to work out the group dynamics as a whole, and to get used to the "etiquette" of such a gathering, but that is broadly true of all social gatherings. [Tries not to engage social worker mode and go off into 'group theory'.]

It seemed to me that although there may be an inner core of "scene" which would be difficult to make one's way into even if one wanted to – and I'm not sure if I do, my interests in this area are "play" recreational rather than "lifestyle" or "scene" – it's supposed to be fun, for smeg's sake – certainly there was an overall group ethos which was open and accepting. And certainly a few women who enjoy playing with the long hair of certain men.

In the end, these things are about expectations. I went there hoping to meet some nice people who just happened to have an interest in kinky things, and that's what I got. If I'd turned up expecting to immediately force my way into being able to whack someone's hide raw, or to be suddenly King/Queen/Princess Of The Group, I'd've been disappointed – and quite rightly so.

So on the level in which I was operating, I was very pleased with myself on the night, in the way I interacted, the people I've met, and the pleasant chat I was part of. [Oh yeah, plus the bonus of "I spent three hours in a pub without once wanting to drink it dry".]

I'll be back there next month.

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Slightly related, but not really, pic:

If it hadn't been "vanilla dress code"…

Remakes. Why?

Anyone of a certain age and up here will remember the brilliant The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin: a six-part tale of Leonard Rossiter's dull middle-manager going slowly insane; on the surface a nice sitcom but underneath brimming with social satire, capitalist criticism and an utterly un-PC running joke which has claimed a place for the humble hippopotamus in culture ever since.

Well, guess what. They've remade it "for the modern age", with never-very-funny-but-he-was-once-in-Doctor-Who Martin Clunes; it starts next Friday.

Of course, one musn't prejudge these things, but I must admit my immediate reaction is this;

Bastards. Why can't they leave things alone?

[and I bet they won't have the hippo.]

Remakes are shit. Reunions are shit [see Floyd, 2005 et al].

…The only exception I can think of was that I learnt to my surprise the other day that the celebrated 1956 version of The King And I was actually a remake of Anna and the King of Siam from ten years earlier.

Unless any of you can think of any other examples…

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Sad to read of the death of Sir Clement Freud yesterday: one of the voices of my childhood as I grew up with Just A Minute on the radio, and an exemplar of gentlemanly curmudgeonsome wit that left a lasting impression on me.

My favourite piece of his comes from several years ago when he had knee replacement surgery; despite it "a woman recently invited me to 'come upstairs and make love'. I had to tell her she could have one or the other, but not both."

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I had a chat with P. yesterday, a woman I met on the acting workshop last year. Both of us were keen to be involved in that company's productions this year but neither of us have been "called" to audition yet.

The talk then was that I may have been required to cut my acting teeth on Henry V. The latest rumour is that this has changed to The Taming Of The Shrew. Great: in one fell swoop we go from the frying pan of English nationalism to the fires of patriarchy and medieval gender relations.

Most of what I know about the Shrew comes from Kiss Me Kate – the film of which was a regularly seen videotape in my household when I was growing up, thanks to my mother. [I could probably still sing you the whole of Brush Up Your Shakespeare from memory.]

Of course, the above poster [and this clip of the movie, on a possibly NSFW site] would probably these days be damned as spanking erotica by the Advertising Standards Authority and the BBFC.

That does, in my warped mind, suggest a new angle on the Shrew for a modern setting, in a consensual Secretary-type manner…

Which of course will never happen in a tinpot smalltown theatre setting, but I'll file the thought away for when I'm a famous auteur…

It's Friday, but it feels like a Monday. Agh.

Many thanks and  to Milly for the prezzie which turned up the other day;

…which is a scholarly anthropological work, rather than a book of kinky photos. [Well, okay, yes, there's a few kinky illustrations from down the years].

The rest of this entry is a small self-reflection on this subject. Scroll away if it's TMI for you.

I was about to say that I've never got into "body sculpture", in the form of corsets and other restrictive clothing, but of course high heels do fall partly into that category, and fetishism of such is part of our culture [Sex and the City et al].

I'm not sure my liking of them comes from them being restrictive – I'm not into the hobbling "ballet boots", I hate the idea of Manchu foot-binding, and I don't go for "the higher, the better" – anything which renders one immobile outside of actual bondage doesn't appeal to me. [Bondage isn't one of my kinks per se, I only use it as a part of overall "play".]

…The thought just came to me that perhaps my fetishistic evolution as a "wearer" as well as an "admirer" kept me on the semi-practical side of things.

Nevertheless, this book will provide some good thinking about exactly how much the "sculpture" aspect of shoekink has applied over the centuries ever since Catherine de Medici first wore them. [Woot! I learnt this from a Schools Programmes broadcast a couple of years ago when I was in bed with flu. Who says you don't learn anything from days off?]

The patron saint of shoe fetishism, yesterday.

As always, I have to add the disclaimer that I in no way advocate the crippling of women because of my particular preference, and I don't want to add to any "social pressure" on anybody who doesn't want to wear them. All I ask in return is that they support my right to make that choice for myself, whatever "gender role" I might portray otherwise.

[Which reminds me; On Tuesday night for dinner round A.'s, we were joined by her friend R., who I'd not met before. Her first words when she saw me was "is that a man or a woman?" Something in me just loves those moments...]

soundtracktotodaysentryis1030returnstothebedroom

New Story!

Associate Scheme

As usual, minors, non-kink-enjoyers, and general moaners you probably don't want to read this. The rest of you, feel free. Constructive feedback welcome.

This was just a little thing I dashed off in under an hour – it's no froggin' Jane Austen, but wtf.