Friday, August 10, 2012

50 shades of Fetish Con: POV scenes from the 2012 convention (NSFW)

Posted By on Fri, Aug 10, 2012 at 9:40 AM

I needed a reason to go shirtless amid the touchy-feely crowd attending the meet and greet at Fetish Con 2012. Shannon Holt of Bombshell Body Art gave me that reason. To match my captain’s hat and short shorts, Holt painted an admiral’s jacket on me — a short-sleeve jacket that did not conceal the natural splendor of my biceps. Her professionalism was unmatched. I base this not just on her work, but on her ability to keep a steady hand while violating my bellybutton with her paintbrush and applying a double-layer of body paint to my nips.
* * *

Fetish: an object or body part whose real or fantasized presence is psychologically necessary for sexual gratification and that is an object of fixation to the extent that it may interfere with complete sexual expression. ~ Merriam-Webster Dictionary
* * *

“My master wants to know if you do modeling,” a shy man with a camera asked me as Holt finished her paint job.

“What kind of modeling?”

Considering the context, and that this man had a male master, I had a good idea what kind of modeling it would be. Still, I had fantasies of getting paid to do some of the more tame fetish scenes, such as brushing my teeth or blowing up balloons until they pop. That and I like hearing people tell me how pretty I am, even if they are just trying to use me.

The photographer's master looked and sounded like a shopping mall Santa Claus. He explained how he had rented out a dungeon space for a photo shoot and was looking to fill it with straight men who lived the "lifestyle." As he spoke, his eyes kept dropping to my painted torso. I finally knew how women must feel when men ogle them: like sexual dynamos.

* * *

Of the three years I have attended Fetish Con, it has remained basically unchanged: a meet and greet party at the hotel on Thursday, workshops and vendors at the convention all weekend, after-parties by SecretRoom.net at The Castle and Czar, open fetish play in the hotel's "dungeon," and rooftop pool parties every night that last until sunrise. In a way Fetish Con is like sex; it doesn't change much from year to year but it is always fun.
* * *

The Meet & Greet: A man named Melissa with his coin-purse bulging through his skirt. Latex dresses so tight they require grease to slip in and out of. Kilts. A blindfolded and bound man led around the room by a chain attached to his leather briefs. G-strings eaten by mounds of cellulite. Water bottles filled with vodka. Men in tights. Men in heels. Women with wings. Women posing while bound in intricate rope-work. Enormous implants seemingly kept from springing leaks by strips of electrical tape. Corsets redistributing stomach fat into curves. Business casual men sitting at the hotel bar amid the fetishists, pretending to watch the Olympics on TV.
* * *

I stood in the middle of the bustling hotel lobby with two women biting my thighs. I had been telling various fetish models that I was a highly decorated thigh model — the reigning, Mr. Thigh 2012, with legs that were muscular yet inviting, powerful yet slender, masculine yet graceful. No one believed me, but that did not stop a few models from accepting my invitation to pose with my legs. In this crowd, this was not a strange request. The models' male escorts even stood by, snapping pictures and encouraging these women to bite my thighs.

“I may have gotten some lipstick on you,” a model named Goldie said after our photo.

I rubbed off the makeup to reveal bite marks beneath. I would not have to explain this to my wife. She had been to Fetish Con before. She also knew how photogenic and popular my thighs are with women when I whip them out in public.

* * *

The husband of the porn performer, Carey Riley, who I'll call "Mr. Riley," was disappointed that he could not bring his homemade glory hole to the convention. He mainly used the hole at swingers parties where he set up the sheet of plywood in place of his hotel door, then invite men to use it while his wife waited on the other side.

As I chatted with Mr. Riley, a man stopped by to show us a video on his smartphone of him having anal sex with Carey.

“Oh man,” Mr. Riley said. “That came out great.”

* * *

Workshops at Fetish Con 2012: Fuck saw 101, art of cupping, capsaicin play, cock & ball torture, consensual non-monogamy and kink, electrical play, erotic and sensual chains, finances for models, how to be a successful model, hypno orgasm, in's and out's of phone sex, joy of rigging, obscenity and the law, pain is for pleasure not injury, micro-branding, ultimate surrender style tickling...
* * *

The author falling under temptation
“Are you talent,” a porn performer named Margo Sullivan asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you do porn?”

The answer was no, though I was more than willing to hear her out, to listen to her explain in detail what shooting a scene with her would involve and why I was perfect for the role.

* * *

“It’s actually a pretty normal group,” I told my photographer friend Brian.

The hotel looked like it was simply hosting a risqué Halloween party in August.

“Yeah,” Brian said. “Actually no. Where else can a 300 pound guy walk around in a purple dress without drawing stares. This is a weird crowd."

He was right. In a way, everyone was almost too nice and accepting, to the point where I questioned the sincerity of some of their sadomasochistic tendencies.

* * *

fetish_con_2012.jpg
For sale at Fetish Con 2012: deluxe enema kits, rubber ducky vibrators, masks made of athletic cups, power tools rigged with dildos, electro stimulation wands, cock cages, inflatable butt plugs, leather lingerie, gynecological porn, hitachi magic wands, ball gags, leashes, gas masks...
* * *

Do not get me wrong. There are plenty of weirdoes at fetish conventions. Men with thick glasses, bad posture, questionable hygiene, and disturbing facial hair. Still, these men have found a niche where they can approach women above their league with lines like, “Are you available for tickle torture work?" By most standards, these men are strange, but they are honest about being strange, and they have found an acceptable way to exercise their strangeness.
* * *

The author with Mistress T
  • The author with Mistress T
Fetish gear was required for entrance into SecretRoom's after party in the Castle’s dungeon room. As a result of this regulation, two guys got in an argument with the door girl regarding whether their polo shirts qualified as fetish attire. They both stripped to their underwear before being allowed entrance. I was let in wearing a suit and tie without a shirt. In my mind this was not fetish attire. I just like wearing suits and going shirtless.
* * *

“Are you kinky?” asked a professional dominatrix who sat beside me at the dungeon's bar.

“What do you mean?”

She took my answer to mean I did not live the "lifestyle," at least not to the extent of her slave boy who sat quietly by her side wearing a girl's outfit. We chatted for a bit before the dom purposefully slipped in a comment about my height.

“I’m not short," I said. "I'm five ten.”

“That means your dick is six inches, max,” she said, getting up. She extended her hand to shake. “Have a good night," she said.

I could not blame her. We all have standards. I, for instances, am turned off by tattoos that look like a child's sticker collection.

* * *

Nikiski_Noir_fetish_con_2012_suspension_body_piercing.jpg
Nikiski Noir held a fashion show at the Castle featuring Apocalyptic-Victorian styles slung on gender bending models. As with most fashion shows, the designs were more artistic than functional. The final model was suspended from hooks pierced through her back and swung over the crowd. This too was unnecessary, but like the outfits, it was interesting to look at.
* * *

SecretRoom's after-part at Czar was my friend Don's first experience at a fetish party. He was a bit shocked after snapping a photo with a masked man in a ballroom dress.

“I think that's my advisor at USF,” Don told me.

“Why?”

“Because, when I took a photo with him, he asked when I was going to turn my thesis in?”

* * *

The three urinals in the men's room were occupied. One man held up his skirt to piss. Another man worked himself free of his skintight, latex briefs. Every time I saw this man, I wondered if he was a post-op, male-to-female transsexual. Watching him use the urinal, I had my answer. He had merely mastered the art of the tuck-job.
* * *

Kendra James and Rev. B. Dangerous
  • Kendra James and Rev. B. Dangerous
“Why does that microphone have a condom over it?” I asked Brian, as he stood at the front of Czar's stage, waiting to photograph the next performance.

A scruffy man in a filthy, red and white striped jacket grabbed the mic.

“Hey,” Brian said. “That’s the hobo from the bar. I was wondering why they let him in here.”

The one-man freak show, Reverend B. Dangerous, wasted no time getting to work. He drilled a hole in his nostril, hammered a nail into that hole, then snorted a live earthworm through it. When he held the wrapped microphone to his lips to capture the sound of him chewing a light bulb, I wished I was cloaked in a full-body condom to protect me from the greasy blood and sweat dripping off his face.

Rev. B. Dangerous and Kamila
Dangerous went on to staple his shirt to his forehead, swing around a weight dangling from a hook pierced through his tongue, and ignite a string of Black Cat fireworks in his pants. For the finale, he sat on the floor with a cinderblock braced against his groin. I tried to back away from the stage, but the crowd surged forward. Kendra James busted the block with a sledgehammer. Dangerous writhed in pain. The crowd roared. It was like watching an episode of Jackass in fast-forward without any of the laughs. I could not understand why he would risk the integrity of his genitals for applause.

Then, after the show, I watched as women lined up to take photos with the bloody performer. Suddenly, his sideshow started to make a bit more sense.

* * *

The fashion show by Chained Elegance
Chained Elegance had a fashion show featuring models in chainmail bikinis and little else. On stage, the models playfully whipped each other, possibly to demonstrate the importance of wearing medieval armor to a fetish party.

This brand of light flogging was a common occurrence. I am not into whipping, but I get annoyed by people who claim to be heavy players only to endure flogging sessions that are as intense as back rubs. Certainly there were serious floggers in the crowd who craved extreme pain. However, the people who volunteered to get whipped publicly at these events seemed more into being watched than punished.

* * *

I used to think I had a fetish for wearing costumes in public. Some might even consider this a role-playing kink. In reality, I am just an attention whore. Wearing outfits gives random women a reason to approach me. They ask why I am dressed up or if they can get a photo with me. Some might describe me as an exhibitionist, but even this is not my fetish. I do not get off on people watching me. For me, dressing up in public is merely a mating strategy.

I suspect a significant portion of those who attend Fetish Con are like me. They dabble in the fetish scene as a way of meeting kinky people who would otherwise be out of their league. Or, like the majority of fetish models, they are kinky for pay.

* * *

Fetich-Con-CZAR-foot_fetish_.jpg
A man in a shirt that read, "I lick feet," reclined on the stairs in the back of Czar while a woman crammed her foot in his mouth. I doubted he resorted to licking feet as a covert way of looking up women's skirts. He was not like me, going around pretending I was a professional thigh model as a gimmick to meet women. He was proof that many people do live their kinks, that some guys really do want nothing more than to wrap their lips around a mouthful of sweaty toes.

Most of the photos are courtesy of brianjamesgallery.com

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Fetish Con 2012

Fetish Con 2012

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