“Wait a second Adriana, I’ve always been curious about this place…”
Of course you have, it looks like a sex club. My eyes roll into the back of my head as I watch my friend cross the street and interrogate his interests further with the hostess out front. As I’m always longing for an enriching experience I can only wonder what could this place could possibly teach me- How to tie a man up? I already know how to do that. How to be a lesbian for fun? *Yawns * Other uses of Dom Perignon Rose? I don’t do DP.
I drag myself behind my friend whose sexual curiosity is mysteriously tickled by a conspicuous looking woman out front not doing my imagination any favors either, dressed in an oversized cape with hood- she could be London’s Leading Mistress. Rihanna’s lyrics from S&M echo as I take each step forward towards this unbeknown darkness.
Is it a sex club? Is it some secret AA gathering with misleading name? Nope, it’s just Alcoholic Architecture, the absolute opposite to rehab. Breathable alcohol? How the hell have I not heard about this place?
“It’s breathable gin?! Oh my god! We are going in NOW!!” I sound like a child whose just discovered Hamleys. Only, this joy involves gin.
Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, “She may never return, hope it isn’t Hendricks…” he tells the hostess as he pays an entry fee of £10 each (usually £20 but because we’re halfway through a ‘session’ oooh how kinky, we get a discount)
“I actually was looking forward to some BDSM scene…” he tells me as we make our way through the front door.
Of course you were, how boring. But everybody knows your own version of 50 Shades of Grey is a lot blacker behind closed doors. Who wants to be dominated in public? My point exactly. Anyways…
As we make our way down the narrow set of stairs, I’m still convinced there’s some kink involved in tonight until we reach the main bar area and all I see are twenty-something’s buzzing around like they’re popping molly. I’m way too old for molly but can happily reminisce on my time in Berlin when an MD bomb didn’t do its job. Besides, this room resembles more a school yard than a sex den. We look at each other and laugh out loud, fully aware of the fact we always end up in the most ridiculous places purely because we are bored Aquarians looking for ways to spice up our lives. Hey, what are good friends for?
Things become more ridiculous when we when we put on our clear ponchos, protecting us from getting gin on our clothing. I’m sure no one would complain if they were drenched in Armand De Bringnac, but I remind myself I’m in a playground and this is Borough Market, not Monaco in the summer time. I’m convinced this is a look I can channel for fall, my friend tells me this is in the top 5 most stupidest things I’ve ever said. I take this as a compliment, I can think of at least 14 that are far worse.
So what exactly happens downstairs in this potential sex den forward slash school yard? To be honest, once you make your way passed the ‘Breathe Responsibly’ signage there’s nothing more than a social club of friends breathing irresponsibly. Breathing in and sipping on drinks, it’s what the cool kids do, right? Obviously. I must admit that it looks a whole lot more luxe than outside Raffles in Chelsea at 215am.
Did I get drunk from consuming alcohol through my lungs and eye balls? No. But you’re reading the review of somebody that can drink, a lot. Everyone around me on the other hand was on the high of their life. Oh, trust fund babies- This is a Wednesday night after all… or were they back packers? Who knows. Who cares. I’ll blame the poisonous gin based cocktail I consumed at Rabot 1745 for my deteriorative outlook.
My friend, with his poncho, covers himself over the ventilators only to be told by a twenty-something that ‘All her guy friends do that too, ha ha ha…’ who wants to be typical in a place so exclusive and unknown? Not us. Now we feel the age gap, it’s time to move on.
We’re told you need at least 30 minutes to ‘feel’ the outcome of breathing in alcohol. Who’s got that kind of time to spare? I’ve got deadlines and my friend is obviously on the hunt for the next best BDSM club. We don’t last more than 20 minutes and emerge from this alcoholic mist laughing and giggling ‘What the fuck was that?’
Definitely not rehab although, we probably need some form of rehab.