Shagging my boyfriend against the wall of a candlelit room, in an expensive-looking London penthouse, I become mildly distracted by a strange tickling sensation by my ankle. I nod, as she continues to kiss and caress my feet.
It tickles, and I twitch slightly, bumping into the couple standing beside us who are engaging in some particularly energetic sex. They notice my vertiginous Prada heels, and suggest I lean against their arms for support.
It turns out to be an excellent suggestion, as I am now afforded a better view across the room. We escape to the cloakrooms to change into more appropriate clothing, before heading home to continue our fun in private. Yet I am constantly surprised by the different types of people I encounter on my continuing journey of sexual exploration. Here I met a widower in his late 70s wearing platform stilettos and pink frilly knickers who was happy to just dance the night away; an attractive man in his thirties who lay on the floor requesting that ladies in heels walked upon the doormat strapped to his back; and a wife with her cross-dressing husband, who was thrilled to be somewhere where he could pursue his fantasy of having strangers pinch his nipples.
Indeed, most people attending sex parties simply enjoy the liberation of being in a place where nothing seems taboo. Paradoxically, the freedom experienced in sex clubs stems from a strict set of rules.
On the upside, it also means that the chances of any pictures of your naughty activities popping up on the internet are unlikely. Similarly, given the temptations of all those naked breasts, buttocks and other body bits on display, touching of any kind, unless invited, is prohibited.
