Stripping, Whipping, and Nipple Slipping, Part I

I’ll never knock anything until I try it…because as grotesque and awkward as things may look at first glance…I usually quite enjoy the experience every time…

Even if naysayers are nothing but shocked and vomiting at my expense.

If Miley survived the public MTV twerk-fest looking all 10-year-old white boy in this bitch…then I surely can do no wrong.

So I decided to take Persian Princess up on her request to go with her to the BDSM club downtown, Sanctuary LAX.

This morning I vomited up my French Toast with Vanilla Bean Paste and Homemade Whipped Cream on the sidewalk of Melrose and Fairfax (don’t ask).

Suffice it to say, if I survived THAT social ridicule…nothing in this world is too daunting of an adventure.

Now I’ve never been to one of these things (don’t get me wrong I do beg to and thoroughly GET spanked in bed…I’ve just never done it in a formal setting), but I’ve seen some shit on TV and I assume I need to look like a homoerotic mortician/executioner.

I call to ask for the dress code…I get no answer.

Considering I don’t have any masks, spikes, or spikey leather masks, I decide to don as much black and leather as I own in my closet…hoping to at least pull off Hollywood Boulevard Hooker.

This is a sex thing, mind you.

Here’s what I came up with:

(And yes…I’m reading “The 5 Love Languages” in the last picture…it’s only right)

Now rocking my lucky-crotchless panties, I throw on a pair of sheer, see-through pants as I don’t want to leave my apartment and further strut around downtown LA with ma butt cheeks hangin out (not because of rapists, I’d actually be too easy for them, but mostly because it’s gettin colder out…real talk yo).

Now what I’ve always seen (or heard of) the BDSM community is that it’s a collection of weirdos, overweight people, and/or super shy computer nerds.

Driving up to Sanctuary, I pull into the driveway and spot a bald headed man with glasses walking inside…not a single car or person in sight.

Stereotypes: CONFIRMED.

Me: *rolling down my window as I pull up to the bald and the bearing of glasses* Excuse me sir…!  Is this Sanctuary?

Him: *extending a wide open smile and approaching my car, squinting to see who’s inside* Yes!  Yes, yes it is!  Right in here! *pointing to the door and now walking closer to my passenger side window* Who’s that in there do I know you miss? *the excitement and arousal evident in his now-higher-pitched voice*

Me: *rolling away before he can look inside my car* NOPE!  Nobody knows me here!

I then roll down the completely filled parking lot and stop my car behind the building, which looks more like a truck lot than it does an S&M dispensary for the evil and naked.

“OK…the WORST that could happen is I could be nailed to a cross while people drink my dripping blood off stage…and even that would surely get me into heaven, right?” I tell myself as I tuck my phone into my glove box, perk up my tits, and unlock my pepperspray (ya know never in this town).

Leaving my car, I remember the words “No sex and no exchange of fluids” spanning across the top of Sanctuary’s website, as I breathe a sigh of relief and thank the Lord that I at least won’t be coming home with cum stains on my black outfit (always a bitch when me and the dry cleaner both see it at the same time and exchange silent stares as I shrug and slowly back away before darting back to my car).

I make my way over to the entrance, gulping and excited as the sound of my black leather boots on black asphalt now echo throughout the air, loudly ticking away the seconds to this Saturday-night sexcapade.

I then remind myself, “Go hard or go home, Jayla.”

Home is far away right now.