London is crowded.
As someone who came from a small northern town and who has worked in a sweaty plethora of shops and cafes in this overpopulated metropolis, I can tell you it is overwhelmingly crowded.
My personal space bubble has tripled, and I now defend it aggressively. I have also perfected my “don’t fuck with me” look for pubs, tube trains and streets. I hate crowded places. I hate being surrounded by other people’s body odours and passive aggressive tutting. I also hate not getting a good table at the pub.
London is filled with millions of humans who all seem to want to be where you are, and want it more urgently, at any given moment. It is oppressive and it gets my blood up. There is only one use I can think of for crowds, and that is camouflage.
London is perfect for people to meet and talk about filthy things. I have enjoyed several pleasant munches in central London pubs, and I have met with fellow submissives to gossip about dominants like we were vanilla girlfriends at a cocktail bar. Think Sex and the City but with more intellectual fixation on belts, chains and safe-words.
There is no place for shame when you are surrounded by masses of oblivious citizens engrossed in their own pints of cider.
sir and I would go to pubs to plot our next scenes together. We preferred noisy, dark pubs to talk and to tease. The busier the better. The crowds helped to mask a variety of sinful pleasures. I have sat holding ice cubes under the table while insults were whispered in my ear.
It looks like I’m having difficulty hearing in the hubbub.