It was a cold Sunday in November when I went to my first sex party. It had been on my bucket list ever since I became single and decided I was going to embrace an era of fun and casual sex.
I’d met a brilliant sex educator at an event a few weeks prior, and when I admitted I’d always been curious about sex parties, she offered to take me under her wing. Before I knew it, I was studying the dress code and etiquette guide for my very first one like a GCSE chemistry exam.
The dress code intimidated me: “latex, PVC, chains”. I possessed exactly none of these but fortunately my new friend came to the rescue with a skimpy top and I was good to go. The venue was at an iconic nightclub in south London, somewhere I’d spent countless nights as a journalism student. Coming back for a sex party felt like a homecoming.
One of the most surreal moments came at the entrance. Most people arrived in hoodies, jeans and trainers before disappearing behind a pair of double doors to transform. The crowd was nothing like I’d imagined: every age, every background, every size. One woman looked like she could have been my old teacher; another guy looked like he came from the office. No one was giving “sex party energy” at that point.
