Yesterday I spent time looking at instruments of torture and some really gruesome looking antique sex toys. I was out strolling round London with my partner and we’d done the usual stuff (theatre, coffee, Vintage clothes shops) when we happened on a fetish wear shop and decided this complemented. It had an enticing window display and the place looked intriguing so we rang the bell and popped in.

by Chris Bridges | 6th October 2013

It was beautifully laid out and the orifice ripping metal wear and rubber ball gags were laid out with aplomb. I’ll give them that. I winced a little as we walked around, browsing and clenched my buttocks as I admired the patina on one highly polished ergonomic device designed to cause pain after another.

There’s a fine line between the two things. Like love and hate, pleasure and pain are sensations that our hardwiring seem to allow crossover with. I almost envy the S and M fanatics. I’m the kind of person who would take to my bed with a bad corn and am known for my stash of painkillers which I heft around in my bag. I struggle enough with my dodgy back, creaky neck and achy knees to want to invoke further trouble by being paddled mercilessly on the buttocks in a dungeon in Vauxhaul. Nor am I one who is keen to inflict pain. I get upset if I accidentally tread on a spider.

I once slept with a man who asked if he could put me in a half Nelson during intercourse and I wasn’t keen. He also asked if he could pull my hair which for a man over the age of forty is a definite no-no. I’m already at the point of reaching for the Regaine without having the risk of clumps of it coming out during someone’s boisterous orgasm.

I admire the style and the commitment of the sadomasochistic scene devotees but I think I’ll stick to the Vintage clothes shops on my next ramble round town. There was a lovely Harris Tweed that hid my flabbier areas better than any PVC suit would and the ties there did more for my eyes than the gimp masks would have.