Naughty Paris

Fetish in Paris soirées tend to have a younger age average (30-something) than most fetish events. Perhaps it's because the emphasis is on the outrageous fetish fashions instead of BDSM dungeon stuff? Or maybe it's because one of the organizers is a young fetishwear designer herself, Mademoiselle Ilo.

It's time for the 7th annual Nuit Démonia, not just one night, but FOUR nights of events in Paris crowned by the one of the biggest fetish parties in Europe. No matter if you've never been to a fetish party in your life, get out that sexy latex Halloween costume and check out the action!

The biggest fetish party in Paris, Nuit Dèmonia, takes place every December. Of course I had to go. Not just for research, but for the wardrobe. Because while “echangiste” sex clubs may be all about increasing your odds of getting lucky -- very lucky, even! -- fetish clubs are all about le look. I recruited a brave lady friend of mine (we’ll call her Lila) who was intrigued with the evening’s strict dress code: leather, latex, vinyl or uniform. Lila is the kind of Parisienne who has the perfect outfit for every event. But this was new for her. “What will I wear?” she asked in wonderment. I asked myself the same thing; remembering sadly that I had recently given away a leather miniskirt from my college days because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn it.

But never fear. This is Paris, after all! And of course I knew exactly where to “get kitted out”, as the Brits would say. There are two excellent boutiques on Rue Quincampoix (near the Pompidou Centre) selling fetish wear, corsets, uniforms, stilettos, and even accessories like whips, chains, and hand-cuffs. The little police uniforms were cute, but we already had our corsets, so we were looking for skirts. I found a cute little black vinyl skirt, not skin tight but shaped a bit like a cheerleader’s skirt. But I felt a little, well, naked. A pair of long black gloves would complete the outfit. But they had to be shiny (to match the skirt), and they had to fit my skinny little arms.

“We don’t sell latex,” said the shopkeeper at the largest fetish boutique on the street. She explained that it was too fragile and the outfits always got damaged and couldn’t be sold. Meanwhile, Lila is an Amazon, too tall for most Parisian clothes. Not finding anything she likes, we both cross the Boulevard Sébastopol to the goth boutiques of Les Halles.

Goth boutiques are not the most elegant places in the world (nor are they trying to be), but it’s a great place to find black vinyl skirts in every shape. Lila finds her bliss in a long, flowing skirt (straight out of Cruella DeVille’s closet). I try on the elbow-length vinyl gloves. I frown at the way they’re baggu around myupper arms. “You going to the Nuit Dèmonia tonight?” the heavily-pierced shopkeeper asks. I nod. We’re obviously not the only ones who waited until the last minute. I pass on the vinyl gloves, and resign myself to a trip to the Dèmonia boutique on the other side of town, where I knew I’d find latex gloves.

But on the way to the métro, the window displays along the Rue St-Denis caught my eye. If you know this street, you know that it’s best to ignore the tacky sex shop and sex show store fronts. But of course there they were: latex gloves, for sale in one of the “toys and videos” shops. These are not places for Good Girls. But in the interest of time, Lila and I give it a go. It’s hard to know how to act in a boutique surrounded by absurdly-sized silicone body parts and even the more absurd covers gracing the XXX-videos on the shelves. We focus on the gloves.

One pair are made of rubber, so thick that I could have used them to clean up toxic waste. Impossible to bend my fingers, though, so we move on to another pair that are just too long. Finally, we find a pair that I think might work. Keep in mind it’s December, I’m wearing eight layers of clothing that I need to mostly take off to get the gloves up to my elbows. The owner is smoking heavily as he talks to us, and maybe we rush a bit because we’re sure we’re going to pass out. He includes the silicone-spray in the bag with my purchase and we burst out of the shop into the fresh(ish) Parisian air.

Silicone spray is one of the necessary accessories when buying latex, because it’s what gives the latex its shine. Otherwise you’ll look like you’re wearing deflated balloons. It’s only when I get home I realize the bottle is mostly empty. Maybe it leaked, but maybe it came that way. No way I’m going back, though.

Getting ready for the evening, I apply a ton of talc powder so that I can get my gloves on, smooth the air bubbles out of the fingers. This takes almost twenty minutes. I apply the silicone and buff them up to a nice shine. In the métro on the way to meet Lila, I wonder if anyone notices the shiny black hand clutching the steel bar. Otherwise I’m completely covered by my winter layers, my stilettos in my backpack.



The gloves look awesome, like a second skin. I feel like Aeon Flux. Fetish nights are, after all, really just Halloween for adults. Who doesn’t love to dress up all sexy? But then I start to notice a funny feeling. Or rather, a lack thereof. By the time I reach Lila’s house, I have to rip the gloves off, terrified that the loss of circulation will make my fingers fall off.

We have a glass of wine, pose for some funny photos (that will never see the light of day if we have any say in it), and head off to La Loco. The flyers advertise a “changing room” so that no one has to arrive in their outfits. But it’s really just one huge room with a coat-check service, and everyone is in different corners assembling their outfits. The first two people Lila and I spot are a fat man and a dwarf. But more on the actual Nuit Dèmonia in another post. We peel off the layers hiding our tiny outfits, slide into our stilettos, and – rather too quickly – I attempt to put my gloves back on. But since they’ve been silicone’d, they’re now “fragile” (the words of the first boutique owner echoing in my head). I put in one hand, give a gentle pull, et voila. I now have a fingerless glove. Lila glances over in my direction as I curse ever-so-inelegantly.

“No one will notice,” she assures me. I glance out into the darkened club, have another look at the growing expanse of exposed skin in the dressing room, and suddenly don’t feel so naked in my skirt and corset. I rip off the gloves and toss them into the backpack with my sneakers.

My latex love affair got off to rocky start. But I’m not ready to give up just yet. I saw these amazing latex thigh highs at the Salon de la Lingerie. To be continued…