Club RUB swingers club

What an excellent night out! We visited Club Rub for the first time on Saturday (Sep 08) and was very impressed.
The venue is wonderful for a cosy intimate club that just oozes atmosphere. The underground cellar, built brick and with arched roofs really added to the feel of the place. The music was really cool sexy funky house, which kept the crowd dancing on the small, dark and sexy dance floor.
Elsewhere there was plenty of seating for those who wanted to have a bit of a sit down. There was a curtained off seating area for those who wanted to play, there were a few single guys in there but none that really made a pest of themselves. In the club info it said that there was ‘no sex’ at the club – this rule though appeared to broken pretty regularly! As soon as we hit the dance floor we spotted a discreet threesome on the go in the corner. Within a short while of dancing together we were also fucking at the side of the dance floor! Later in the evening I nipped off to get some drinks, when I returned Jo was kissing some young Italian guy on the dance floor. The three of us groped and danced for a while before we disappeared to the curtained off area for a threesome – much to the appreciation of the single guys in there!
Although Club Rub is not a ‘swingers’ club it certainly has a very sexual charged feel about it and was a great place to spend a Saturday night. The people are all really friendly and welcoming and the venue spot on. The only two gripes are that it finishes at 4.30am, not good when the first train home if 7.15. The other problem is for smokers, there is a smoking area but it is full view of everyone walking past the club – not good for people who are in full fetish wear or with next to nothing on!

I went to Club Rub on the 16th December, 2006. I had heard a lot about club rub, so i wanted to
experience the night for myself.
The venue is situated in Aldgate, in the East of London, it is easy to get to and there was parking
available. There was no fuss to get in, i just strolled in paid my £18 entrance fee. There was no changing rooms available, so you had to use the toilets which where cramped. The coat check was £2 per item. The prices for drinks was normal for London

The night was packed and there was a lot of people in, the atmosphere was electric and there was a real buzz about the place. There was two levels, up-stairs where you could chill.
The downstairs was open plan and divided in to three areas, there was the dance area, a play
area, in this area was 5 peices of equipment. A small area that was curtained off which had cussions on the floor. Against the wall was a black box where you could go inside and be gropped.
The music was really good, Boy George played a set on the wheels of steel, spinning out
some up-lifting house music. It made me feel like i was in Ibiza. This is not a place for a single person to go to, people came with their own established groups and socialised amongest themselves.However people where freindly and said hello.

To make a successful fetish night there are many ingredients, a major element is ' play '. There was a ropped off play area and there was some play going on, but i felt it was just set up as a side show.People where standing around gawping at the players. This is deffinately not a players club. I would say club rub is a club night where you can dress up in fetish attire have a good dance and socialise.

Club Rub bills it self as a fetitsh club, after sampling the night in my opinion it fails to acheive this aim.If someone went there, they would have a mis-leading impression as the what fetishism is all about.

Cliquey, a bit prudish maybe, lots of flesh and some couples action to see, plus porn on screens and BDSM playroom. Recommend it to couples but single men on their own may feel somewhat 'non grata'.

We have been to club rub loads of times. It's a great venue, loads of nice bodies to be seen and to show off your own. Good dance music too.

Only one problem, my wife doesn't like the amount of single men that hover around wanking.

Club Rub rocks, haven't been for some time,still on the mailout, you can't compare TG to club rub TG is full of "look at my piercing and tatoo crew" whereas at Rub everyone is chilled and very very comfortable about themselves and WHERE they are

Jezebel wigs out at November’s Club Rub

I love Club Rub. It’s a magical place where trash meets flash and tits-out full-on sex shop gear is groin-to-groin with the Skin Two fashion pages’ most gorgeous rubber bikinis. It’s not as in-yer-face trendy as Torture Garden - at bottom the venue, a wood-panelled City wine bar with brass fittings, sees to that - but the total experience is a probably a happier and more smiley one. I think this is because the pressure to be cool that makes TG more a surface kind of a place is just not there. That’s not to say Club Rub is not cool: it’s the coolest thing ever in the warped world according to Jezebel. You can rest assured that I wouldn’t be seen there if it wasn’t pretty much a la mode. The point is, it’s not so much like bloody hard work as TG and that’s why I like it unreservedly.

Where TG goes with fashion over passion, Club Rub is a kinkier sort of a place. It’s not necessarily about hardcore sex - you can just dance if you want to - but rather the backroom is less conspicuously about putting on a good performance and more straightforwardly about acting out a scene - in spite of people being dressed to kill. It’s good to talk there, too: Club Rub is friendly, really friendly. Look around and you can see people who’ve never met before speaking to each other as if their lives depended on it. The 40-something dom in front of me in the cloakroom queue chatted all the way to the coat hatch and when I sat down on my own a little later with my drink I wasn’t short of conversation for even a minute. It’s so friendly that if you’re not a vastly out-of-condition single bloke with sandals and a very public masturbation habit, you can probably go on your own.

Paradoxically Club Rub’s strengths lie with what ought to be its weaknesses: the venue, again - a row of decorative bronze dishes set directly behind the dungeon equipment somehow comes off as inspired irony, when it isn’t, at all. Then, more or less the whole of human life is there. This ought not to work, but it does, and if there was an I-Spy book of fabulous deviancy you could check most of the boxes in a single night. At Club Rub, tousled drag queens straight out of Ron Storm’s on the Commercial Road totter past glittering rent girlz taking a night off from Madam Jojos, and hardcore fetishists mix it with goggle-eyed 30-something blokes out for the first time in slightly the wrong clothes, wondering how they too can get a piece of the action.

I went to Club Rub with Nick: we were a select party of two. Sally had been so miserable at October’s TG (those who read my last review will remember her 6-inch heels were giving her a lot of pain and no pleasure) that she cried off (although she did plead pressure of dance rehearsals as an excuse), whilst Sacha, it emerged, had gone to Glastonbury (bit late in the year, but no-one had the heart to tell him). So, that left Nick and me. He rolled up to collect me about 10.30pm. Unfortunately I’d reckoned without having no girly friends on hand to deal with make-up problems and when he rang the doorbell I had a faceful of grotesque chalky blotches, although I’d aimed for all-over Gothic white. I probably looked something like a Friesian cow.

'Nick,' I hissed from somewhere behind the front door. 'I look really weird, OK.' He stalked in and stared at me with some distaste for a moment. Then he collected some cranberry juice, marched into the front room and sat himself down in front of Match of the Day, whilst I went to wash it all off and start again.

I’d been looking forward to getting dressed up for this one because I’d bought a wig - a brilliant, brilliant bright orange wig with red and yellow plastic extensions - for the first time. I’d picked it up from the wigmakers that afternoon and loved it - and now all other wigs, ever - from the moment it went on. The going-to-work, everyday me has short hair. As it goes, I like my short hair and spend what seems like a fair amount of time and money trying to look as deeply fashionable and as much of a classy bird as I can manage. But to have instant, edgy, long hair in the form of my fabulous wig was totally transformative. It was real-name me, businesslike me, get-up-in-the-morning-and-go-to work me, changed in a moment to Jezebel me. The Jezebel me showed Nick the wig. He laughed (I think it was the shock of the new), then drove me to Club Rub, through a fine mist of luminous late night rain.

When we rolled in about midnight there was a bit of a tailback at the cloakroom. I lined up whilst Nick went back to his car to get something he’d forgotten. Didn’t matter that I was now on my own - I’ve already told you that friendly talk is the primary currency at Club Rub, earlier on at least. I wandered about and fell in with Dr. K and Bishop Bruce, both high priests at the Church of the Fallen Angel, then J., a chef cookin’ up on his own chat. Later, delightfully, I saw someone nice I knew from the Real World, who didn’t recognise me at first, because of the wig.

Meanwhile Nick, back from his car, was trying his hardest to get even a glance from a stunning but frosty domme in a leopardskin coat.

'Wait for her friend (another woman) to go to the toilet,' I advised, helpfully. 'Women need to go to the toilet loads. When the friend gets up, you can go and sit in her seat and get stuck in with Mistress Leopardskin.'

I went to dance then - to one side of me a peroxide colonel in peaked cap, on the other Mik Scarlet surrounded by a bevy of rubber lovelies and near the wall a big guy in a baby doll nightie - and when I looked up to smile benignly at no-one in particular because I was having a really, really excellent time, there he was, a vision of Satanic cool dancing in front of me - shoulder-length black hair, nose ring, black leather trousers, tight black mesh T-shirt - and he told me his name was Jo.

We danced, went to the back room for a spliff, danced some more very close, then moved out back again to get more intimate. Whilst two dommes beat the living daylights out of a grovelling male sub on the floor nearby, we found ourselves a corner. Jo kissed me and I went down on my knees. He groaned and leaned back in his chair and I gave the first public blow job of my life. I’m still smiling inside about that. Not the last time I go down in front of everyone, I think …

Sometime later I saw Nick - who had earlier been sighted holding a familiar-looking leopardskin coat and handbag at the side of the dancefloor - chatting rather morosely to a couple of girls nearby. Mistress Leopardskin was nowhere to be seen.

'Five minutes,' he instructed (it was about 4am). I went back to Jo.

'Listen, I have to go,' I told him. 'I’ll see you here next time, maybe.'

'Don’t go,' he said, crinkling up his forehead. 'Come back with me.' On the basis that it’s generally a bad thing to go back to someone else’s place if you’re wearing loads of freaky make-up and haven’t got any cleanser or indeed any normal clothes immediately to hand I told him I couldn’t because Nick was going to give me a lift.

'Can’t I come with you?' he asked, plaintively - and so he did.

Picking up men in ordinary clubs doesn’t always guarantee satisfaction - but perhaps it does at Club Rub. This one seemed to know instinctively what I liked and gave it to me - in between bouts of sleeping - until about 4pm on Sunday afternoon. I don’t think I shall bump into him again for a while - he’s off travelling next week, for a bit - but if any of you other laaydeez out there cross his path in the future, please note he comes with my fullest recommendation.

And Nick and the lady in leopardskin? Torn between his intuitive sense of cool and an urgent desire to see her again he talked in the car on the way home of his plans to send flowers to her at work. I’ll keep you posted on this one, readerz…