We hear the techno reverberating off the walls as we swagger inside. Ascending the stairs in our red lips and statement coats concealing latex lingerie, our excitement permeates the surroundings as much as the music.
Do we have cash for the cloakroom? Of course not – where would we keep it? We fling our coats on the side bench – I’m praying no one nicks mine – and we throw ourselves into the sea of bodies.
There are boobs everywhere, bare arses and more latex than you’d find in the Honour warehouse. It’s hard to know where to look; I feel fleeting relief I’m not a man. As a three, we meander to the bar. Waiting for wine, there’s a hand squeezing my bum. It’s not his – it’s someone else’s. Surprisingly, I don’t mind.
We head down to the dance floor. House, dance and techno fill the space. Wide staircases transport the partygoers from club to bar to dungeon. The “NB Deity” commands the stage, introducing acts, beguiling the crowd and enveloping us in this TG Winter Wonderland. After a while, the music’s too much – we return to the bar, lose each other and I began chatting to a guy in a harness. His friend, donning chaps, joins and we’re all talking about our kinks and fetishes – we met five minutes ago.
My friends return and we’re back to the dance floor. All I want to do is dance – it’s like being in Ibiza in fetish gear. Ibiza but better. My favourite place but on (metaphorical) steroids. I feel hands around my waist and chests against my back. Then there’s a woman dressed to kill. Hands snake around each other’s bodies, feeling the sticky-smooth of latex juxtaposed against smooth skin. Everyone’s fluid, open and flirty. I dance with more people than I have in six years in Ibiza – perhaps it’s the latex.
I stumble upon that guy in a harness and his friend on the dance floor. We move to the music, end up wrapped in each other’s arms and have a heady kiss before we return to the bar for another drink.
Perched on the side, I see someone’s sucking a bloke off. Over there, a girl is bent forwards against a wall while a guy fucks her hard and fast. Everyone’s in a state of undress, everyone’s in a state of arousal and everyone is as fabulous as I hoped.
Scala is bursting with bodies of all shapes and sizes. Older people, younger people, gorgeous people and not so. I go to the loo, stand in what feels like the longest line and find one of the DJs waiting in the queue as well. We don’t know each other but we’re both bursting. Being in underwear together means we end up pulling latex knickers askew and enjoying a chat and a wee.
Back on the dance floor, a Domme is leading her sub around in a collar and leash (they’re two of many). She pushes him to the ground, he licks her feet whilst I try and focus on the music and not on the foot fetish display in front of me.
My friends are dancing together nearby. I move closer to them, we share a kiss before throwing our heads back with eyes closed and return to the music.
At some point during the night, there’s an aerial act I can’t stop thinking about two weeks later. In a dark room to sultry music, Jonathan Fortin enters, approaching a rope hanging from the ceiling. He’s naked, muscly and the atmosphere in the room shifts. Watching him lift his body high above the crowd and spin down, my mouth is agape. I’m standing next to a man who’s probably my dad’s age, he’s in tiny PVC pants with a Father Christmas tummy protruding and we watch each other watching the aerialist, basking in the incredible surrealness of this night. A dramatic finish with Fortin drenching himself in water cools the scorching erotic temperature in the room.
Exploring the club once more (likely on my search for more wine), I come across the dungeon area. Here, people are strapped in, tied up and securely fastened. Men spank women, women flog men and everything in between. (I briefly wonder: is being a voyeur okay if the people you’re watching don’t want to be exhibitionists?)
As we hurtle towards 5 AM, we reluctantly decide it’s time to go home so we leave the revellers in their harnesses, ball-gags and body tape before sliding into our Uber.
All the way home I think: I want more, more, more.
(Since publishing this on my blog, TG asked if they could repost on theirs. You can find that here.)