My name is Rob and I’m a suitaholic.
There. I’ve said it. I realize it’s a niche fetish, but there are many other guys who are similarly afflicted. In fact, the suit and tie scene is fairly big news in the U.K. This may well be a product of our class-obsessed society—or that men in suits trigger memories of school days and those well-dressed teachers we fell hopelessly in love with.
For many, the thrill of suited sex centers on the idea of doing something subversive, degrading, or sleazy while dressed in clothes that suggest dignity, wealth, power, and sophistication. Others love the idea of countless layers of clothing being slowly or partially removed. The recidivist suit-and-tie fetishist will often wear sock suspenders, buttondown braces, a suit with a waistcoat, cufflinks and, if he’s really going for it, a shirt with a detachable collar or self-tied bow tie. (Note to readers: Bow ties can be controversial at a suit night, so wear with confidence or caution!)
Before the pandemic, there were two main club nights for suited men in London. One, on the first Friday of every month, was at Central Station in King’s Cross. The other, on the first Tuesday of every month, at Back Street in the East End.
Central Station was the first and, for a long time the only, suit night. In its heyday, it was legendary. It was run in a dingy basement and had a loyal clientele that turned up every month. Which eventually became a problem as the night began to feel like a monthly reunion. Before long, I’d slept with all the guys I was interested in and spent way too much time dodging the weirdos.
Like the strange man—a sort of Mr. Tickle—who’d pop up from nowhere and start running his hand up and down your tie like a dick he was pleasuring. Then there was the old, old man who arrived in a school boy uniform and used to tap people on the ass, wave coquettishly, and squeal “Coo-ey!”
The venue got progressively grubby and while the appeal might be getting sleazy in finery, standing around a rundown room in a great suit was asking too much. Especially once the place started to stink overwhelmingly of urine, the walls began to sweat, and someone shat in the urinal.
Back Street was everyone’s favorite venue, attracting a slightly younger crowd in a much larger space. The venue owner always dressed in a suit to run the bar, and it maintained a workable balance of sleaze and sophistication.
Both clubs closed in March 2020 and never reopened. My much-beloved, bi-monthly adventures were unceremoniously ripped from my diary. Rumor has it that Central Station has gone for good.
You can imagine my joy, therefore, when it was announced that a new suit night was opening in an East London club, which got around stringent COVID laws by requiring people to book online before showing up. Organizers stated there’d be a maximum of 30 places. I couldn’t sign up fast enough. My time had finally come! I could don my best three-piece and have a night of smartly dressed decadence once more!
I turned up early, even by my standards. I didn’t want to miss a single moment. After all, the night was bound to be heaving. The community was back together at last!
I was the first to arrive.
The thing is, I’m not a fan of small talk. I prefer to skulk about in the shadows like some sort of nighttime bird of prey. Small talk invariably ends with a clumsy, unwanted pass, or a missed opportunity with someone you do like.
But when it’s you, a bar man, and the bar owner, there’s no choice but to engage in the type of conversation that makes you want to curl up and die. I was given a personal tour of the club. It’s an excellent space, but can you imagine anything more bizarre than a personal tour of a sex club? Even if the owner is justly proud of the renovations, I still fail to see why he lavished so much time raving about the paint job on the ceiling.
The second person to arrive came from my hometown, one that is so small and insignificant and, in my day, so homophobic, that I left as soon as possible. Meeting someone from the area often triggers feelings of nervousness or insecurity. And the accent can be rather grating. (Imagine how a scarecrow might talk.) And what’s worse, he wore a tie with a Disney character on it. (Note to readers: No self-respecting suit fetishist would ever wear a comedy tie!)
The third person to arrive was a 60-year-old man who pursued me around the space like a pigeon in heat. Every time I left one room to continue to “explore” the empty club, I was forced to keep my eyes glued to the floor in a way that couldn’t possibly be interpreted as a come on. Nevertheless, he followed, just like my Grannie’s dog Trifle, waiting for scraps. Every time he wAfter more thanAfteralked towards me, I darted in the opposite direction. At one point I pretended to be on the phone. (In an underground club with no reception.)
The fourth, and, I’m amused to add, final guest arrived half an hour later. A quick brush of the teeth wouldn’t have done him any harm…
Like some tragic murder mystery party, we congregated in our finest duds in a room where porn was playing. Not suit and tie porn. Just porn. A stilted conversation culminated in my feeling ashamed to be alive, so I made my excuses and went to the loo simply for something to do.
We Brits pride ourselves on wartime spirit. We make do and mend. We keep calm and carry on. When the chips are down, we make the best of a bad lot. And the other three men did just that. At various moments, they’d disappear in twos for messy encounters in the club’s brilliant darkrooms. At one stage, the club owner even got involved. And why not? He certainly wasn’t needed to guard the door!
They definitely had the last laugh, because it was me who sloped home entirely unsatisfied.
And the moral of this story? My inspiring final message note to readers? After this huge wait, during which business after business in the hospitality industry went under, we owe it to ourselves and to each other not just to jump at the opportunities that present themselves, but to get over our fear of sexual contact with strangers in a post-pandemic world.
Or one day we’ll turn up to our favorite club, hard as hell and ready for an adventure, and find it’s closed down forever.
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