Twisted Vagabondage Tale From London

Mum, can I put this plastic bag on my head?

There are rubber balls for children, old men's rubbery balls (sorry for the imagery there), and then there's The Rubber Ball: a big fetish gala held once a year in London where pervs and fashionistas alike dress up in latex and party till the wee hours of the night, when all children are home under covers and where an old man's balls might well take cover lest they come into contact with a riding crop.

I once had the honor of attending the famous London Rubber Ball. After traveling across the pond, I met my friend Byron Night. (Do you think that's his real name? - me neither.) Anyhow, Byron was an acquaintance from LA who just happened to be attending the party and also had an independently-wealthy friend with a place where I could crash: a big flat in Notting Hill, one of London's cushiest neighborhoods. Let's face it: perviness and affluence often go together.

Coach said "Always use a rubber!"

The prospect of attending such a fetish fete in London was exciting to me. London is recognized as the birthplace of fetish fashion including rubber wear. Apparently, the idea of donning an accouterment with the purpose of fulfilling some erotic urge is thought to have evolved in London sometime after World War II, with the country's gay leather culture.

Then in the sixties, thanks to the influence of rock musicians such as the Stones and the Who, this leather subculture became more mainstream. It didn't hurt that British TV shows of the era, such as The Avengers, which saw actress Diana Rigg decked out in a full-body leather catsuit with latex gloves and boots, also came into vogue. Meow!

The late seventies brought the British punk movement, which fully embraced fetish fashion. Designer Vivienne Westwood is seen as largely responsible for defining the punk-rock look, borrowing from the bondage world to create her signature pants, plus inspiring punk rockers to strap on bondage bracelets and shake their rumps in leather minis and fishnets.

The best thing about my Rubber Ball weekend in London was that there were lots of other events organized in conjunction with the party. My London fetish extravaganza began with a fetish fete on Friday night, shopping for fetish clothing at the House of Harlot (a famous latex clothing manufacturer) on Saturday afternoon, another party till dawn at the Torture Garden (a famed fetish club) on Saturday night, more fetish clothing shopping on Sunday afternoon in preparation for the big gala on Sunday night – The Rubber Ball.

I ended up purchasing a candy-apple-red rubber dress that began at my neck and ended at my ankles. It would have worked well in one of those countries where women aren't supposed to show any skin. Only, what am I saying? I was showing everything, except my skin had a coat of latex paint.

Saran Wrap fresh consumables!

The dress clung to my curves like Saran Wrap. I was sweating bullets after only five minutes, since latex isn't a breathable material. The only problem was what to do with my hands, as the dress didn't cover them. I found the solution in a pair of black-latex, opera-length gloves that just happened to match the black-latex heart that had been adhered to the arse of my dress. Lucky me.

Getting ready for The Rubber Ball, I shook baby powder all over the inside of my dress in order to get it on. Otherwise, it just stuck to my skin. After the dress was powdered, I rolled the latex up over my form. Suffice it to say, life got better once I actually had the outfit on, shined up nicely with silicon spray.

Fittingly, The Rubber Ball was held in an old church. In attendance were the best electronica DJs and every perv from England plus the continent. We spent the night dancing, drinking, watching latex fashion shows and wildly cavorting. Along the way, I lost Byron. I didn't feel like forking out a fortune for a London cab, so I took the Underground back to Notting Hill.

Maybe I am a technology lover!

Wasn't I a sight to behold amidst that Monday morning's commuter traffic? Fortunately, I wasn't propositioned by one of the cheeky, suited-up Brits to meet him later in some dungeon and help him remember what public school was like with headmistresses who carried canes along with their chalk sticks.

My train reached Notting Hill. My feet couldn't stand another second in stilettos. I ran over icy sidewalk barefoot in exiting the train. That's just part of the adventure of traveling rough. Sometimes you've got to take your pleasure with a bit of pain.

Lara Sterling authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). She has written for Playboy and Larry Flynt Publications but now hosts an online radio show and blogs at yourplotthickens.blogspot.com.