Black Label Lingerie sponsored fiXE Magazine’s anniversary party this past Saturday night, October 18th, at Leftfield in NYC. But this wasn’t your ordinary family anniversary party. This was a New York City style fetish party. And all of the party hosts were dressed shoulder to thigh in my line.
As the owner of Black Label Lingerie, I would consider myself to be an insider in the lingerie world. But in the shadowy world of kink, I was now the outsider. And though I was a strange, new face, those who were there welcomed me like an old friend.
The girls filed into the kitchen, where we made a makeshift dressing room: Metalizzy, Onyx, Dolly, Nicole, Megan, Jess, Opal, Pale N Pretty, Rachel, Silvana, Starshine and Autumn.
As I handed the girls their outfits, we talked about everything and nothing, about where we lived, where we worked, parents, kids, boyfriends, girlfriends. We talked about our bodies and our insecurities. There are girls there who know my dirtiest secrets, skeletons I haven’t even revealed to my best friend. It wasn’t the tequila, I assure you. There was a level of comfort among strangers that was unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.
Once out in the main area of the bar, I came across a man called ‘Carpet’ who got down on the floor and covered himself in a piece of carpet and asked for people to walk on him. All that was visible of the man was a mustache and a pair of lips pressed together in a smile. My husband said that when he stepped on him, he felt the man’s body shudder. Odd. I was dancing on top of him in my red heels to Marilyn Manson’s “Personal Jesus” and didn’t feel a thing.
A man who appeared to be in his 50s approached me with a smile, asking me to share my fetish. I explained I was there representing my lingerie line. He raised an eyebrow and replied, “I bet you’re a submissive.” Maybe he was right. I do like when my husband takes control.
Husband. Where was he anyway? I looked around.
The man then asked me if it would be too forward to ask me to spit in his beer. He continued, “And if there’s a line for the bathroom, I can help you out with that too.”
I handed him a business card, and looked around for an easy exit. There was my husband a few feet away, showing off an overly courteous smile to one of the girls in our lingerie. I grabbed his arm. “Busted with your hand in the cookie jar.” I would never consider myself to be a jealous person, but I made sure he knew to watch his boyish ways.
I found a seat by Carpet once again and rested my feet on the soft subject beneath me. A short, dark-haired man made his way past two girls spanking each other and toward where I was seated. He leaned in close to my ear and tried to talk over the bass of the speaker next to us. Something about a massage fetish. And a butt massage. And please, just one. I felt my cheeks flush. Was he asking for a butt massage?
I’m sorry, Massage Man, but a butt massage was not high on my to-do list for that night. I stuttered a no thank you to his offer.
The music waned and he started to chuckle. “Oh dear, oh no, no, no! I said a foot massage, not a butt massage!”
Still, after dancing in heels all night with no socks on (you know where I’m going here) if I had taken off my shoes, I wouldn’t have just cleared out the bar, but likely the entire lower east side of Manhattan. I’m sorry Massage Man, no foot massage for these tired feet.
But he didn’t back down and asked if he could massage a hand, just one. I submitted and handed him my left.
As he massaged up and down my fingers, my eyes connected with my husband’s. He glanced at the man with my hand in his, and continued on with his business.
Onyx stepped over Carpet and found a seat next to me on the bench. I leaned over to her and whispered, “The guy next to me does amazing foot massages.” Her eyes scanned to the guy sitting on the other side of me. I excused myself, stepped on the breathing rug beneath me and escaped into the kitchen.
One of the girls followed me into the kitchen. She touched my shirt collar. “This is cute, but you know, you really should wear less clothes.” I realized at that instant, I wasn’t dressed for a fetish party — I was dressed for a day at the office. I unbuttoned my shirt, exposing the leopard print camisole I was wearing underneath. “That’s much better!” She squealed.
“You know, I want to do something really crazy,” I told her. I grabbed a leather bustier from the box and pulled it around my torso. I pulled up on the zipper. She took a step toward me and unzipped it a little lower. “Perfect.”
The kitchen door handle jiggled and opened. My darling husband poked his head through the opening and smiled at my wardrobe change. I looked down and realized, my bustier was nearly entirely unzipped.
It was closing time, yet the party was just getting started.
Jennifer Hague of Newark, Del., is the owner of Black Label Lingerie, www.BlackLabelLingerie.com.