@ Horse & Groom, Curtain Road, London
30th November 2007
Mistress Genocide lubricated her ‘man on a chain’, inserted a dildo-like sparkler up the place the sun never shines, and lit her makeshift anal contraption. The small congenial crowd of young city workers, Hoxton trendies in the main with a smattering of latex clad fetishists, spluttered with animalistic glee. This was undoubtedly the high point of a night characterised by cheap thrills and amateurish entertainment.
StripLite is for those wanting more than just the regular ‘pint and chat’, and anyone interested in dipping a tentative toe into the murky waters of fetishism. The StripLite dirigeant, May, a smallish black haired girl with big eyes, dressed in a red corset, and whose voluptuous legs were packed tightly into gleaming black latex trousers, explained that whilst her hardcore fetishist gathering “Festival of Sins” took place in the north of the city on a Saturday night, people had been asking for something in the east.The Horse & Groom, a refurbished pub, lost somewhere between Old Street and Liverpool Street, was the perfect venue with its ‘back streetness’ and blend of opulent and traditional interior.
‘Burlesque’, a theatrical form of entertainment, was the term May used to describe the first act, a male transvestite called Blanche Dubois, who dressed in a lion’s suit was looking like something out of a disturbing version of the Wizard of Oz. Blanche crooned to an Edith Piaf soundtrack, stripped off his lion suit, and went as far as revealing his buttocks, which to the mild amusement of the audience had two gaily dancing tassels attached to them.
The night was convened by a red haired girl, Crimson Skye, who struggled with an affected broad deep-south drawl. In some senses this amateurism was ‘tolable’ after all it was just a bit of fun, but the perfectionist in me expected more.
It was the second and final act, Mistress Genocide, and her man on a chain, that was most attention grabbing. Mistress Genocide spent the first five minutes smacking her man's latex clad arse with an object which I can only describe as an elongated plastic spatchelor. She then proceeded to loosen his latex plants, rub some kind of lubricant into his backside, and stick a sparkler up his arse. The sparkler was lit, and it fizzed and cracked, and then unexpectedly fell out of its fleshy holder - Mistress Genocide put it back in. The little devil in all of us wanted to see the guy yelp as the sparkler burned to an end, but Miss Genocide took it out long before the poor bugger's rectal beard begun to singe.
By the end of the night most people had been entertained, although gently so. There were one or two who seemed disappointed at the tameness of the fare on offer – this was not the adrenaline fuelled forray into the velvet underground that some first timers had hoped for. I looked over to ‘Tsu Matapamorphosis’, a Chinese girl who had turned up with a box full of ornately decorated tassels, looking to sell. It was the end of the night and she was leant against the wall, looking into space, full set of wares still in her hands.