“Suffering by nature or by chance never seems so painful as the suffering inflicted on us by the arbitrary will of another.”
- Schopenhauer
Kinksters abhor “drama.” But how far does the scene’s “safe, sane, and consensual” mantra protect players from abuse?
Taking the lead from the etymology of the word “drama” – δράω (drao) “to act, to take action, to achieve” – I’m going to take action and cause some drama of my own by giving you the heads up on why you should avoid Montreal’s Club Sin.
ClubSin Suck
Located above Café Cléopatre on Saint-Laurent Street, Club Sin appears to be one of the Montreal BDSM community’s main venues. As our first kink outing, PC and I decided to check it out on a Friday night with a couple of friends. I asked three different contacts about what to expect in terms of dress code, ambiance, etc. Their somewhat cryptic, lackluster feedback should have been a tip-off.
“Have fun with the Dungeons & Dragons crowd,” one of them told me with a caustic grin. Another confessed that it was his least favorite venue. According to the third, Club Sin was “ok,” but “kinda boring.” He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press him. (One thing you’ll notice about kinksters: They can describe their fetishes in great detail, but ask them to tell you about anything else in the scene and mum’s the word.)
The fact that the place was a sleazy dive didn’t bother me. Tacky chairs and vinyl flooring might offend my aesthetic sensibilities, but, unlike the fucking douche bags described below, at least they don’t rouse my rage by aggressively invading my personal space.
Douche Bag #1: Mr. Groper
Picture this: I’m leaning against the bar. PC stands in front of me at 10 o’clock, while our friends fan out to my right. Out of the corner of my eye I take note of a pale, disheveled man dressed in dirty black clothes hovering to my left. Something about him creeps me out. Was it his fishy, unblinking stare?
My spidy senses on edge, I look down and observe, in slow motion, his right hand making its way to my fishnet-clad leg. Well hello, groper! I give him a dirty look and edge in nearer to my friends. Guess what? He moves in closer too, almost butting PC out of the way. I grab PC’s arm and draw him to me.
Did he get the message? Uh, no. He not only persisted, but also became confrontational: For a good part of the evening he watched my every move, and came around for another pass as soon as he saw an opportunity. Was he too dense to pick up on my not-so-subtle, non-verbal cues, or did he actually enjoy pissing me off? The only thing that stopped him was a long, scathing, “I’m going to kick in your teeth if you don’t fuck off” look from PC.
Meanwhile, I fantasized about impaling him with something sharp.
Douche Bag #2: Pervert Paparazzi
The second category of creep to invade my privacy fancied themselves photographers. Both show up with some sort of DSLR camera sporting huge zoom lenses (acting as surrogate cocks?), and start snapping. Indiscriminately.
WTF? Point those things somewhere else, dudes. I never signed a release form, so no, neither of you can take my picture and use it on Facebook, FetLife, or your websites.
In my mind I pictured them bent over, each choking on a ball gag, while I shoved their respective zoom lenses up their asses. Without lube.
Douche Bag #3: Sir Squeegee
Sir Squeegee, an aggressive, wannabe Dom who refused to take “no” for an answer was the last cretin with whom I had the displeasure of dealing at Club Suck. Allow me to explain: My friends and I decide to hit the dance floor. There we are, doing our own thing, when all of a sudden this topless, skinny street urchin starts to manhandle my girlfriend. She laughs it off and breaks away. He insists. PC and our guy friend close in and cock-block him.
Wow, what part of that led him to think that it was ok to make a play for me instead? I kid you not. The next thing I know, he’s got me by the neck and is shoving me hard into my friends. PC pushes him aside, I break free... and he’s back for another strike! “Fuck it,” I say to PC, “I wanna leave.” We grab our stuff and march off the dance floor, heading straight for the exit.
It gets better.
Our friends meet us outside a few minutes later. The hold up? Sir Squeegee had cornered our girlfriend in an attempt to proposition her. Get a load of his charm: He tells her, “I know you want it bad, so I’m gonna give it to you.”
OMFG. I wanted desperately to drop-kick him down the stairs.
The Low Down
I sure as hell didn’t feel “safe,” and there was nothing “sane” about these douche bags. As for the “consensual” part, I never agreed to being groped / photographed / thrashed about. What’s worse, this wasn’t even a fucking play party! (Can you imagine how much more vulnerable I would have been at a play party!?!) Dammit, I’m still pissed. Never in my life has one night’s misadventures inspired so many violent fantasies.
What’s the moral of my story? I can't help but draw the following conclusions:
#1: There are a lot of crazy people out there.
#2: Don’t play with anyone until you are 100% sure that the players are respectful and discreet. Want more advice? Be PATIENT. Take your time getting to know new venues and players. If you’re really horny, go home, get suited up with your lover, watch some porn on www.kink.com if you need a boost, and get your freak on privately.
#3: If you value your privacy, be VERY SELECTIVE about which venues you attend. Better yet, make real kink friends and socialize on your own turf.
#4: Don’t buy into the kink PR spin of “safe, sane, and consensual” until you have judged for yourself that the people in question live up to this ideal in real life.
Stay safe,
E. xox
- Schopenhauer
Kinksters abhor “drama.” But how far does the scene’s “safe, sane, and consensual” mantra protect players from abuse?
Taking the lead from the etymology of the word “drama” – δράω (drao) “to act, to take action, to achieve” – I’m going to take action and cause some drama of my own by giving you the heads up on why you should avoid Montreal’s Club Sin.
Club
Located above Café Cléopatre on Saint-Laurent Street, Club Sin appears to be one of the Montreal BDSM community’s main venues. As our first kink outing, PC and I decided to check it out on a Friday night with a couple of friends. I asked three different contacts about what to expect in terms of dress code, ambiance, etc. Their somewhat cryptic, lackluster feedback should have been a tip-off.
“Have fun with the Dungeons & Dragons crowd,” one of them told me with a caustic grin. Another confessed that it was his least favorite venue. According to the third, Club Sin was “ok,” but “kinda boring.” He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press him. (One thing you’ll notice about kinksters: They can describe their fetishes in great detail, but ask them to tell you about anything else in the scene and mum’s the word.)
The fact that the place was a sleazy dive didn’t bother me. Tacky chairs and vinyl flooring might offend my aesthetic sensibilities, but, unlike the fucking douche bags described below, at least they don’t rouse my rage by aggressively invading my personal space.
Douche Bag #1: Mr. Groper
Picture this: I’m leaning against the bar. PC stands in front of me at 10 o’clock, while our friends fan out to my right. Out of the corner of my eye I take note of a pale, disheveled man dressed in dirty black clothes hovering to my left. Something about him creeps me out. Was it his fishy, unblinking stare?
My spidy senses on edge, I look down and observe, in slow motion, his right hand making its way to my fishnet-clad leg. Well hello, groper! I give him a dirty look and edge in nearer to my friends. Guess what? He moves in closer too, almost butting PC out of the way. I grab PC’s arm and draw him to me.
Did he get the message? Uh, no. He not only persisted, but also became confrontational: For a good part of the evening he watched my every move, and came around for another pass as soon as he saw an opportunity. Was he too dense to pick up on my not-so-subtle, non-verbal cues, or did he actually enjoy pissing me off? The only thing that stopped him was a long, scathing, “I’m going to kick in your teeth if you don’t fuck off” look from PC.
Meanwhile, I fantasized about impaling him with something sharp.
Douche Bag #2: Pervert Paparazzi
The second category of creep to invade my privacy fancied themselves photographers. Both show up with some sort of DSLR camera sporting huge zoom lenses (acting as surrogate cocks?), and start snapping. Indiscriminately.
WTF? Point those things somewhere else, dudes. I never signed a release form, so no, neither of you can take my picture and use it on Facebook, FetLife, or your websites.
In my mind I pictured them bent over, each choking on a ball gag, while I shoved their respective zoom lenses up their asses. Without lube.
Douche Bag #3: Sir Squeegee
Sir Squeegee, an aggressive, wannabe Dom who refused to take “no” for an answer was the last cretin with whom I had the displeasure of dealing at Club Suck. Allow me to explain: My friends and I decide to hit the dance floor. There we are, doing our own thing, when all of a sudden this topless, skinny street urchin starts to manhandle my girlfriend. She laughs it off and breaks away. He insists. PC and our guy friend close in and cock-block him.
Wow, what part of that led him to think that it was ok to make a play for me instead? I kid you not. The next thing I know, he’s got me by the neck and is shoving me hard into my friends. PC pushes him aside, I break free... and he’s back for another strike! “Fuck it,” I say to PC, “I wanna leave.” We grab our stuff and march off the dance floor, heading straight for the exit.
It gets better.
Our friends meet us outside a few minutes later. The hold up? Sir Squeegee had cornered our girlfriend in an attempt to proposition her. Get a load of his charm: He tells her, “I know you want it bad, so I’m gonna give it to you.”
OMFG. I wanted desperately to drop-kick him down the stairs.
The Low Down
I sure as hell didn’t feel “safe,” and there was nothing “sane” about these douche bags. As for the “consensual” part, I never agreed to being groped / photographed / thrashed about. What’s worse, this wasn’t even a fucking play party! (Can you imagine how much more vulnerable I would have been at a play party!?!) Dammit, I’m still pissed. Never in my life has one night’s misadventures inspired so many violent fantasies.
What’s the moral of my story? I can't help but draw the following conclusions:
#1: There are a lot of crazy people out there.
#2: Don’t play with anyone until you are 100% sure that the players are respectful and discreet. Want more advice? Be PATIENT. Take your time getting to know new venues and players. If you’re really horny, go home, get suited up with your lover, watch some porn on www.kink.com if you need a boost, and get your freak on privately.
#3: If you value your privacy, be VERY SELECTIVE about which venues you attend. Better yet, make real kink friends and socialize on your own turf.
#4: Don’t buy into the kink PR spin of “safe, sane, and consensual” until you have judged for yourself that the people in question live up to this ideal in real life.
Stay safe,
E. xox
1 comment:
That has got to be the worst venue I've ever heard of. Hooray for you for explicitly outlining the things that were wrong there.
Great guidelines, especially the don't let anyone else tell you that something/someone is a good for you. Judge for yourself!
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