(Not a worksafe link, folks, but if you need to be told that you probably ought to be sacked.)
The website also reckoned Saturday was to be strap-on night rather than furry. Hmm, does a prosthetic tail count?
Now, I am not, unless you count my lifelong predeliction for trenchcoats, a fetishy kinda guy. (Heck, I'm not really a clubbing kinda guy. 11 PM generally finds me making definite bedward motions, if not already curled up with a plush companion or two and a Biggles adventure, rather than preparing to paint the town a pleasing shade of scarlet.) The only item of rubberware you will find in my wardrobe is the button on my rugby shirt, and I haven't worn a uniform since I quit the Air Training Corps.
Lucky I've got a collar and lead, really.
Tippus's cozzie, complete with vast furry booties, was a wild success as usual, and he was undoubtedly on to a sure thing with the topless bunnygirl until the rest of us got sick of the loud music and dragged him home. I stuck mostly with my own little group, drinking Smirnoff Ice through a straw and trying not to stare; though everyone I spoke to was friendly enough, especially the bodypainter done up as the Devil, I worried about the etiquette. If I said to someone 'Wow, I really like your spiked collar', for instance, would I actually be implying that I wanted to lick their shoes while they spanked me with a small but serviceable cat-o-nine-tails?
To be honest, I felt a little like Arthur Dent at Milliways:
"The people! The things!"Still, it's good to know that dressing up as an anthropomorphic husky appears just as perverse and odd to other folks as going out for the evening in a gasmask and no knickers does to me.
"The things are also people."
"The people! The other people!"