iansie.com: gay london (updated)

Underwear Nights

This is what I wrote in 1999: for updates scroll to the end

Call me a pervert but I really like Underwear Nights.

Even better, I like telling people about them, and watching them go slightly glassy-eyed as they try to compute the obvious advantages against the prospect of somebody you know seeing you, eek, in your scanties.

There is little more liberating than knowing you've found the courage to go somewhere few other people dare to go. (Which, who knows, might be why some of us started coming out in the first place.)

For the hardened pervert, of course, London's several and various Underwear Nights must seem desperately vanilla: no leather? No whips? No fist-fucking in slings with eighteen people looking on? No thank you.

But this is not really a fetish thang - if it were I'd guess you'd see a rather more lavish selection of lingerie than the wall-to-wall Calvin Klein that appears to predominate. Calvins plus, of course, the odd red satin jock-strap or down-home Marks and Sparks y-fronts. Some people have no taste.

Cool: not only are there a lot of people here you fancy, there's also a fair sprinkling of people who are, quite definitely, less attractive than you. And it doesn't matter.

The body fascism that can be such a daunting aspect of the gay scene has much less force here. There's a much wider age-range, and a noticeably wider choice of ethnic types than you'll see in most gay bars. And, when all's said and done, that plump bus-conductor from Balham with the sagging crotch, just like you, had the balls to come into a club where he has to take his clothes off to get a drink at the bar. (Let's just hope you don't get his clothes back by mistake at the end of the night.)

The sex (did I mention the sex?) is similarly light-hearted. Maybe it's the faint air of public-school changing-room that hangs about the place, or maybe its an exhibitionist/voyeur gestalt, but you rarely see people shagging at an Underwear Night. (And, trust me, I've looked.)

It's a gentlemen's excuse-me, and once you've filled your dance-card there's no greater pleasure than sitting at a darkened corner of the bar watching the people come and go, dressed like a Michaelangelo. Good thesis material too: see how their left hand holds onto their beer on the bar whilst the right hand toys absent-mindedly with their genitals. And the way those few people that meet who already know each other both stare fixedly at each other's faces, desperately avoiding a glance...down there.

If you've never been to an Underwear Night, you really owe it to yourself to try, if only so you can grin a secret grin to yourself all the way home on the night bus.

Pay your money on the door (it's rarely expensive) and you'll be given a black plastic bin-liner. Keep an eye out for a pile of small plastic money bags at this stage: there's nothing less attractive than standing at the bar on one foot shaking coins out of your boot.

Move confidently towards the dressing area and begin, calmly, to undress. If you had a spliff before you came (and it helps, it helps), think extra carefully about how you fold your clothes so that your keys don't fall out when you shove them in the bag.

Sort out just enough change to get you the number of drinks you expect to need, plus two. Crease your cigarette packet so that it will fit into your sock without digging into your shin. Slip your cash bag into the top of one shoe, and your fags into another. (Boots don't just look better than trainers, they hold more too.)

Hand your bag in at the coat check and take a moment to put your cloakroom ticket securely with your cash. Move to the bar and order your drink. Supping, leisurely turn to survey the crowd with a knowing yet attractively open expression.

You're in! Your first Underwear Night! Now then...

(Next week: 'Boots-only' Evenings.)

Re-reviewed 17/03/04
Current Underwear nights:
Sun afternoons and Wed evenings at the Man Bar,
(Boots only Monday and Thursday)
Monday nights at Sub-Station South,
certain evenings at The Fort.

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