At around lunchtime, I strolled into Robert Dyas and made my way to the back of the shop.
A little old lady was stood in the electrics and utilities section, staring at spark plugs.
I took my place beside her, and then, leaning down with a curious, darting motion, snatched up a packet of thin white cord.
Then another. Then another.
Then, reasoning that I might as well go all in, I grabbed a bagful of cable ties.
Halfway to the till, I lost all confidence, went back, and picked up a hoover bag as well to help cover my tracks.
Just an ordinary guy, I reminded myself. An ordinary guy, picking up some ties for my electrical cable, some rope for binding back the creepers in my garden, and a hoover bag for keeping my nice ordinary carpets pristine and clean.
The cashier swiped through my purchases one by one, then gave me a very long and suspicious glare. It began to occur to me then, as I awkwardly held her gaze, that most likely nobody in the 21st century ever purchased rope any more unless they had a night of bondage planned (what, you need it for securing your carthorse?). And also that - if anything - the hoover bag only made the entire thing look even weirder.
I nodded, paid by card, and left as quickly as I could.
And so my first BDSM session came about on a cold December afternoon.
It was, I’d mentally vowed, going to be a gentle easing-in. For me as well as for her. Nothing too rough, nothing too hardcore. To that end, my bondage equipment consisted of the three rolls of thin white cord, the packet of cable ties, a couple of ice cubes, a tie with a knot in the centre, and a scarf which I’d cut down the middle in the hopes that it would make an adequate blindfold.
There was also a pastry brush, because I’d read somewhere online that pastry brushes could be used to create intense arousal in a blindfolded sub. Since that day, the pastry brush has remained unused in the back of my bedroom wardrobe.
Do not purchase a pastry brush as an erotic implement. I cannot stress this enough.*
I’d also stopped by at the supermarket to buy a pack of condoms - my first in God knew how long.
You’re meeting with someone you find very attractive, I’d reminded myself, to act out your ultimate sexual fetish, after a period of extended inactivity. For fuck’s sake, be practical about this.
And so, very sensibly, I’d snatched up a packet of Durex Extra Thick, a prophylactic so substantial that wearing one is equivalent to having your manhood swathed in six yards of bubble-wrap, and practically drooping beneath the weight. My penis, I flattered myself, would be no more likely to become over-excited than a child visiting a steam and railway museum.
It was, in short, a motley and ill-thought-out collection of props. But I was still nervous about expressing my proclivities, and wary about creating an atmosphere that would make Suzanne uncomfortable. If I’d shown her into some kind of gothic dungeon festooned with whips and gags, she’d probably have run for the hills. And fair enough.
On the other hand, while spontaneity is all well and good, you really can’t beat the proper equipment.
‘What, you’re going to put me inside a hoover bag?” Suzanne asked later that evening, taking off her coat.
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*No matter how at ease you are with the innate theatricality and various eccentricities of BDSM, there is - as far as I’m concerned - nothing less arousing than crouching awkwardly to massage your blindfolded partner’s genitals with a pastry brush. It just ends up feeling like you’re washing an egg finish over the crust of a very confused pie.
