The Night of the Senses

I could have summed up my last post thus: estate agents are wankers! Hooray! They are in the same box as recruitment consultants. It is a box marked “Cocks, etc.” and sits next to my enormous costume jewellery collection, just underneath all the crayon drawings of ponies.

Nearly a week has passed since my jaunt at the Night of the Senses Ball. Compared to the Rubber Ball the weekend before, it had a much kinder, more bewitching atmosphere. The Rubber Ball was more edgy, more dangerous and dark (like being in The Matrix, in that lots of people are wearing black, shiny stuff and I was never quite sure what was going on).

The Night of the Senses was, as the name suggests, a lot more sensuous. It was decorated with care, all velvet drapes and twinkly lights. Mass in Brixton is full of little cave rooms, a dimly-lit and twisting venue with alcoves and corners everywhere. Spread over a few levels, it was easy to get lost, but, unlike the Rubber Ball, getting lost and being alone was not an invitation for others to stalk you as prey. I wore a black velvet corset, a pink tutu and a pink and black fascinator. My friend Lily had on a lovely black dress with a real and lovely corset, with a lilies tucked behind each ear. One woman was dressed only in a tiny lace waistband, accessorised by endless blonde dreadlocks. There were people in rubber things, lace things and leather things. All sorts of people wearing all sorts of things.

I had brought my amp and microphone with me, so when I arrived Bob showed me where to store it and went at once to get me a gin and tonic. We then went off to the photo booth to get some photos taken. For Bob’s story of his day/night/day, and some pictures of us, you can go to his blog (you will need to scroll down a bit).

I watched the Erotic Awards show, sitting at a distance from Lily, who was on the judging panel and therefore could not be influenced by mere observers. I sat next to a couple who told me that they come to the Night of the Senses every year and love it. The woman was wearing a sparkly white corset and beads in her blonde hair, and the man had on a top hat and black waistcoat. They looked fabulous, but their demeanours didn’t seem to match their exteriors. As I chatted with them I felt that they were shy. They watched the acts intently, clapping politely at the end of each as I whooped and cheered enthusiastically. One act involved a woman picking the feathers from her fan and sticking them through the skin on her arms and breasts. The feathers turned out to be needles, and the act got increasingly dark. Bubbles of blood appeared and then smeared over her skin as she took the needles out and danced on the points of her feet to Swan Lake. I turned to the woman next to me and she wrinkled her nose at me. “I don’t like this” she said, as her partner shook his head and frowned. “Too much” he agreed. I felt unfazed, fascinated by the darkness of her performance. I wondered what drew the seemingly nice and normal couple next to me to this event every year, and reflected once again how much more inclusive it was than the Rubber Ball. There, a needle through the arm would have seemed trivial.

After the show Lily, her friend Raf and I wandered around together. We went outside to the marquee. We came back in. We talked to people and explored the different rooms. We hung around, and I sang. I sang in the Sensuality Chamber, otherwise known as the Couples’ Room. A room where anything goes.

In what will probably go down as the weirdest gig I have ever done, I sang for ages. There were some bongos, and at times people picked them up and jammed along. For the most part, though, I sang on my own. I sang my own songs and jazz standards. Songs from the shows. I made up songs. At one point a girl came over to me and asked me what my “status” was. She pointed across the room to a dark haired girl wearing a nurse’s outfit. “My friend thinks you’re beautiful and asked me to find out.” I told her that my status was “most definitely taken”, and she shrugged and smiled. “Cool. Well can you sing a song about my friend, anyway?” I asked what her friend’s name was and obliged, singing a whole song which, of course, I have now completely forgotten.

Around me people were doing all sorts of things. For the most part I was in my own world, so happy to just be given license to sing and sing and sing. A couple watched me, not engaged in activities of their own. A man and a transsexual woman. The woman watched me closely. I sang one of my own songs and she clapped sincerely. “That was one of mine” I said, into the mic.

At the end of the night she came over to me. “The songs that you had written were the best ones” she said, clasping my hand. “Don’t stop doing this.”

It was one of the best gigs I have done. I sang whatever came into my head, and it was so liberating. I felt confined by nothing. Perhaps the permissive atmosphere of the room had freed me from fear of judgement for my singing in the same was that it had freed others to express their sexuality.

Lily and I made our way back to my house at about seven on Saturday morning. We sat in my garden for a bit before going to bed and talked about the night. It had been beautiful. I will remember it as being the strangest but best gig I have ever done.