I pride myself on being a scholar. A scholar of cocktails, of pop culture and cinema. A scholar of sex, of perversion and all things taboo. As a general bon vivant, I pride myself on being able to carry on a great conversation and not laugh at my own jokes. What I really enjoy is telling you, the reader, about my trysts through tinsel town. In most of the exploits I’ve come across, the men in my wake are purely for the sake of my writing. As I carry on from one soirée to another man’s bedroom, I leave without a peep, an observer, a voyeur, always taking notes.

It’d been awhile since the last exploit, and I’d been getting bored. Sure the drinks and the bad dates were all fine and dandy but I had to push up the ante. To something truly exquisite that would keep me on my toes, to make my sleepy head wrestle wise awake with renewed vigor. I’m still waiting for that moment, but I have a delightful little take on one of my new excursions in finding more than just a cheap thrill.

I went to the Eagle on Santa Monica on fetish night with a few friends. The place was packed and I wore a pencil skirt, beret, black fake fur, 5-inch stiletto boots and a tight turtleneck; like Jackie O on acid. I didn’t have any fetish wear, but I thought this would make do. It turns out it did. Everyone was wearing corsets, knotted ropes, laced thigh high boots and latex unitards. These outfits, although beautiful, seemed horribly uncomfortable. I once had a slave, but he only cleaned my apartment. This was a whole different ballgame. I’m far too apathetic to take on a full-time slave and I’m way too full of myself to be someone else’s. This is a lifestyle and these people live this lifestyle. They have real jobs, but this is who they really are. It’s a huge commitment. I can’t even commit to a cable company.

That’s when he came up and asked me to take his picture with his friends. He was very hot, big blue puppy dog eyes, a pouty mouth and a hard body. He was covered in head-to-toe vinyl. Maybe I could get used to this. Before I snapped the picture, he put on his mask: a black leather pig mask. He said he was a pig bottom. His name was Joel and he wanted me to be his mistress. He bought me a few drinks and stopped drooling over me long enough to talk about normal things: his job, his apartment, his cat. It took me off guard and honestly, I was appalled at him for messing up this whole fantasy. I pictured Joel wearing a suit all day long, every day, wearing it to the grocery store, to church, to spin class. This is who he was. I looked around the club, people were having a great time and there were no judgments. I liked that. In every bar I’ve been in, the crowd judges one another. Girls look you up and down, guys look for someone better.

I liked the fact that these people in this fetish bar could be who they wanted to be and feel okay. I decided not to take Joel’s number even though he offered it. I went home instead. Fetishists are fine for a night, but it’s not for me.

I feel I’m a bit more informed from that night at the Eagle. I decided if mood strikes me, I‘ll go back and indulge my fantasies or someone else’s for that matter. I mean, who doesn’t love to be adored? I’m more into one on one, playing nice with a few toys or a cheerleading outfit. Hey, we all have our things, don’t we?