My first European encounter with this Vietnamese-American bundle of fetish energy was in Berlin, at Martin Pelzer’s Saturday night Guerilla ‘Revolution’ party — part of the German Fetish Ball Weekend . I’m hovering near the bar looking for photogenic people, then the crowd parts, and I’m suddenly presented with a rear view that looks oddly familiar — long, dark, straight hair, a long, slim, tightly corsetted body, a nicely rounded butt and seamed stockings. It looks just like… but it can’t be… The girl turns to face me and I see Asian features.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?” I ask.
“Of course!” she says in American.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this but from the rear, you look just like a pro-domme friend of mine from LA called Veronica.”
“Oh yes,” she replies. “I trained under Veronica at the Dominion .”
Small world or what? Anyway, we get chatting, I do a few shots, and I find out later that she’s in Berlin checking the GFB out on her own. Although as I discover later in London, Mya’s idea of being on her own can involve being escorted by anything up to four men simultaneously. Marc Poelmans, aka BelgiumMarc , is photographing her and squiring her around a bit, and at the end of the evening we agree to meet up again in London when she comes over for the next Torture Garden party on Saturday June 17.
As things turn out, I don’t make it to the TG party itself but Mya is keen to hook up the next day, and suggests Sunday brunch, followed perhaps by a trip on the London Eye (the big ferris wheel on the Thames opposite the Houses of Parliament). She’s brought “a boy” over from Berlin, and Marc has come along too, and they’re all going to be having beers on the terrace of their hotel until I arrive, which will be at around 5pm, possibly a bit late for brunch (not that they seem remotely bothered).
So I turn up in my car and pull over to the kerb opposite their hotel, and I’m scrutinising the hotel entrance through the passenger-side window when there’s an almighty THUMP against the other window next to my right ear. My immediate reaction is that either a pigeon has flown into the windscreen, or someone has rear-ended me. The latter turns out to be closer to the truth.
I turn around to be confronted with a caramel-coloured, fishnet-clad butt banging itself enthusiastically against the glass right next to my face. The rear end in question belongs, of course, to Mya, right. (If this is how the Vienamese greet each other, I wonder what they did before car windows were invented.) I wind the window down, and she guffaws manically then announces that she’s just off to get the others.
So I sit in the car waiting, looking out of the driver’s side now. Moments later there’s another BANG, this time on the passenger window, and I turn to see Mya again, this time with her face and chest rammed up against the window, sliding squashed features and, I suddenly realise, exposed nipples slowly down the glass. I mean, really, on a Sunday afternoon in the centre of London — does this girl have no shame? (Answer: don’t be silly.)
The rear doors are opened and in she jumps with Marc and Robert, her Berlin boy. All three pile into the back, with Mya sandwiched in the middle, leaving the front passenger seat empty. They look very silly, all huddled together.
“I’m not a cab driver,” I say, a little irritated. “One of you needs to ride in the front.”
“OK,” says Mya, launching herself headfirst through the gap between the front seats and ending up sprawled face down with that already infamous ass jammed against the passenger seat headrest (a position which Marc thoughtfully documents with his point ’n’ shoot).
After some gymnastic limb rearranging and more manic laughter, she eventually ends up occupying the passenger seat in the style dictated by the Highway Code, and I prepare to drive off.
“Don’t go yet,” she says. “We’re still waiting for one more person.”
“Oh, I see. So that’s… why the three of you… all got into the back seat.”
“Yes of course.”
“Did you think… maybe.… it might have been an idea… to tell me?”
“Sorry,” she giggles. “I forgot to tell you. There’s one more person — is that OK?”
My fourth passenger turns out to be an English boy Mya collected at TG the previous night, and after introductions, we head off for the London Eye. You may know that each of the glass capsules on the Eye holds 25 people. In our capsule, that meant us four blokes, one hyperactive female sporting the world’s shortest skirt and the world’s loudest laugh, and 20 innocent tourists whose lives are probably never going to be quite the same again.
www.boundfortrouble.com
www.missveronica.com
www.martinpelzer.com
www.german-fetish-ball.com
www.belgiummarc.com
www.torturegarden.com
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