My Flatmate The Fetishist

Applying online to live with strangers is like playing Flat Roulette. They could be anyone. They could be sociopaths, dirty-knicker-hoarding kleptomaniacs or sleep-eaters that wake up with roast chicken carcasses in their beds. I have lived with all those types before, and those were people I knew. Advertising a spare room online is tantamount to sending a bat signal to the wealth of crazies that exist beyond the weirdoes you already know and love.

My new flatmate is a nymphomaniac fetishist and self-confessed kinky bitch, although she didn’t say that in her interview. She drip-fed the kinky hints for a fortnight, starting with the penchant for bodices and corsetry, building to the crescendo of her sado-masochistic photo gallery. As rope-bound breasts and spanking paddles stared back at me from the laptop screen, I felt we’d taken our flatmate friendship to the next level. Is bonding over bondage the 21st century house-warming? The new ‘fancy going for a pint’?

I started to get concerned about my house becoming a playground for dominatrix sex games. Would my pull-up bar become a prime asphyxiation rail to hang lovers from? Would my dressing gown ties become restraints? My bio yoghurt a delicious, digestion-aiding lubricant? I’m all about consenting adults getting their kicks in the boudoir (or dungeon) in whichever way is most pleasurable for them, but masochism, ball-gags and whipping don’t tickle everyone’s pickle. When I think of rope burning my wrists, having my nipples electrocuted or pouring burning candlewax on someone’s chest, my brain-to-vagina nerve pathways go into complete shutdown. Try as I might to get a tingle on, nothing happens.

It’s not that I haven’t dabbled in the lifestyle either. As a teenager, my first Sapphic partner was an enthusiastic masochist, but I always put it down to her infatuation with Placebo and her hyperactivity disorder. She’s now a sex club cage dancer and gets impaled and hoisted by industrial meat hooks for fun, so it’s safe to assume it’s more than just Brian Molko and an attention deficit.

Perhaps it’s all to do with believing in different kinds of sexual freedoms. I like the let’s-put-hallucinogens-in-the-reservoir Woodstock type free love scenarios, she prefers Guantanamo interrogation torture and vampire porn. We’re like nymphomania’s yin and yang. Even when faced with pictures of my flatmate’s tits and men gagged with PVC being prodded with needles, I kept my sexual cards close to my chest lest they all be trumped in one foul swoop. She then called me vanilla. Vanilla! I’d like to think I’m more mango sorbet, or a fucking raspberry ripple at least.

The only flattery is that my butter-wouldn’t-melt disguise is working – everyone knows wolves get luckier when they’ve got their lamb costumes on. Although she’s active in a sado-masochistic sex subculture and likes to get freaky-nasty in a plethora of pain inducing ways, the rest of the time we just hang out. Sometimes we build furniture. We make crafts. We bake. We do a bunch of family-friendly activities and eat ice cream. She is arguably the least mental flat mate I’ve ever had – she doesn’t steal my underwear or shake breakfast cereal over the house in midnight food raids. I wouldn't swap her for the Spanish couple that needed a summer let, or the prim receptionist who was worried about a residential parking space. Her exploits no longer faze me. We compare bruises – mine from everyday clumsiness, hers from sex beatings. She tells me there are spanking paddles that can imprint flower petals on your arse cheeks and a cat tail butt plug you insert in your bum before meowing around the room. When I asked her how she celebrated Andy Murray winning the tennis, she answered nonchalantly ‘With a victory flogging.’ Which blew my Pimms and strawberries celebration to smithereens. Shit, maybe I am a bit vanilla.