Every winter, like clockwork, I make the pilgrimage to my favourite London-based fetish party. It’s become a ritual for me: the train into the city, the hotel check-in, the nervous-excited energy as I unzip my bag and pull out the latex in preparation. Latex feels so much better in the cold. Outside in the queue, my thighs prickle under the rubber before it slowly starts to cling and warm. By the time I step through the doors, it’s a second skin.
Inside is another universe: heat, bass, bodies gleaming under strobes. There’s a unique smell of sweat, lube, and perfume. There’s always a moment when you strip off your coat and suddenly you’re revealed; now a part of this shimmering shiny underworld where everyone is there to play.
Tonight, my partner and I haven’t come with a plan. We want to wander; to let the night find us. So, we start drifting through the playrooms, lit in cinematic reds and greens that make me feel like I’m in Club Hel in The Matrix. Some even have cameras projecting whatever you do inside onto the dancefloor, so the whole club becomes an audience; a tantalising horde of latex and scantily-clad voyeurs.
Soon aroused by what we’ve see — scenes playing out like living porn sets around us — we’re unable to wait any longer, and my partner pulls me into a playroom, bends me over a perfectly-heighted bench, and spanks, teases, and torments me. People pass by, some glancing, some stopping for a moment before moving on. One man lingers longer than the rest. I don’t notice straight away, but my partner does.
After a bit more prowling, we eventually end up in the members’ room. It’s quieter and silver-lit, with couples scattered around fucking on leather furniture. The bass is muffled, almost like a second heartbeat under the moans. My partner gets me on my knees in front of him, and orders me to suck his cock and play with myself while he surveys the room — his favourite. That’s when he notices the man from earlier, watching us again. He catches his eye and, with a sharp tilt of his head, beckons him closer.
“Do you want to play with us?”
Everyone's clicking on...
My partner knows my boundaries, the safe words we’ve agreed on, and, with that trust, I let go. My whole body is already screaming yes, and I assure both men, with an enthusiastic, almost geeky nod.
The man doesn’t hesitate. His leather trousers unzip with a sharp rasp, his cock hard and waiting. He steps forward. My partner slowly guides my mouth to him, grinning as I open wide. The stranger’s leather-gloved hand presses against the back of my head, insistent but never harsh, and I let myself be steered between them — cock to cock, spit dripping all down myself, latex squeaking as they shift around me.
The air is thick with contrast: my partner’s dominance, steady and knowing, and the new man’s raw hunger, twitching against my lips. They don’t trip over each other, though; they move like they’ve rehearsed this, a rhythm that passes me back and forth.
At one point, I’m bending forward, thighs spread, one cock filling me while the other presses down my throat. The bass rattles the floorboards in time with their thrusts until it feels like the whole room is vibrating with us. I try to keep my eyes open, to take it all in: the blur of silver light, the slick of sweat on my chest, the faint shuffle of curious onlookers just outside the threshold, hanging back watching the scene amongst the safeguards (you are not allowed to interrupt).
And then, the moment I’ll keep replaying: one man grips my hand tight, grounding me, while the other drives into me from behind. That anchoring touch against the intensity of being split open and devoured, the awareness that both are fully, totally focused on me. Worshipping, using, cherishing, all at once.
Afterwards we laugh, giddy and sweaty, before walking back to the bar for a drink and a debrief. I don’t even know his name, and never will, but I’ll never forget this feeling of the perfect mix of surrender and power, of being the centre of someone else’s world for a night.
And that’s why, when winter comes back around, you’ll find me in latex again, shivering in a queue outside an unassuming door, waiting for whatever magic the night decides to hand me.
Helena Kate Whittingham is a woman with deep and multifaceted experience in working with The Erotic. She founded Lover Management in 2019 at just 24 years old, creating a pioneering agency that bridges intimacy and talent management in multiple industries from art to entertainment and more.
Her innate ability to connect people has honed her specialty in talent management within the sex realm, working with some of the biggest names in the industry. Under her leadership, Lover Management has collaborated with top brands such as Lovehoney, Ann Summers, LELO, Mubi, Coco de Mer, Channel 4, Atlantic Records, Deliveroo, London fashion week, Monzo, and many more.
Prior to this, she was the assistant curator at VITRINE (London and Basel) until 2019 and has long been interested in the intersection of art, sex, and film.
Beyond management, Helena is an occasional model and erotic writer, writing for titles like SCREENSHOT Media and Cosmopolitan.
She shares a collaborative curatorial and creative practice with her partner, Harlan Whittingham, under the title CONTENT WARNING, exploring fetishistic desire and erotic cinema, which has exhibited at ICA, Barbican, Leiden, and London short film festival.
