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.
The friendly security staff then checked us in, covered our phone cameras with stickers and, beyond those doors, it was an assault on the senses, in the most titillating, theatrical way. Latex catsuits, lace bodysuits, elaborate masks, leather harnesses, cowboy chaps with strategically missing fabric, nipple tassels. It felt less like walking into an underground sex club and more like stepping backstage at an outrageously glamorous cabaret. For the first time in years, my body dysmorphia simply… disappeared. I felt so confident and at ease. I’d never seen so many different bodies, young and old, slim and large, toned and soft, all treated as equally desirable. Most of the venue was like any other nightclub. There was techno, a smoking area, people dancing, flirting and chatting. I wandered into one of the smaller playrooms and watched a couple having sex just a few feet away. It wasn’t shocking or seedy; it simply forced my brain to recalibrate. Every social and religious rule I’d grown up with, that sex belongs behind closed doors, was suddenly ignored. I had been taught that female pleasure was something to be hidden, and if you enjoyed it, you were a “slag”. This was the opposite of that.
But that wasn’t what shocked me the most. It was the fact that in this sex club, I was completely safe.
Men and women would come over and politely ask if they could dance with me, kiss me or put a hand on my waist. If I shook my head, they backed away immediately. If I said yes, they’d often check again a few minutes later. Consent wasn’t a one-off question. It was an ongoing conversation. I’ve spent years in pubs, clubs and festivals where wandering hands, persistent flirting and blurred boundaries are often just “part of a night out-out”. Yet here, in the place I’d assumed would feel the most intimidating, I felt the most respected I’d ever been.
The unisex toilets had all the magic of a girls bathroom on a night out: people were readjusting nipple tassels, lending each other lipstick and bonding over the fact it was their first time. It felt strangely…wholesome. That’s where I met another first-time couple. Before long we were dancing and kissing. What fascinated me wasn’t our chemistry; it was our choreography. Every time someone wanted to take things a step further, there was another glance, another check-in, another quiet “Is this OK?” Consent wasn’t an awkward interruption. It was simply part of the flirting.
There was another couple I met in the smoking area. The man rolled me a cig and we made the sort of polite conversation you might make outside a Wetherspoons.
“How was your Sunday?”
“It was alright, we made a spag bol just before coming here, and watched Stranger Things.”
I almost forgot where I was, had it not been for the latex gimp masks. Ten minutes later the couple were queuing for a playroom while a ‘”sex bouncer” with a clipboard calmly let people in two at a time. It was simultaneously extraordinary and oddly ordinary.
It made me realise how warped our collective imagination is when it comes to places like this. I went expecting the shocking thing to be the sex. Instead, the biggest surprise was the culture built around it: communication, boundaries and respect.
As I climbed onto the top deck of the 453 bus that night, I already knew I’d go back in a heartbeat. Not because I suddenly wanted every weekend to involve latex and playrooms, but because the evening had dismantled assumptions I’d carried for years. It had made me feel better about my body than I had in a long time.
More unexpectedly, it had shown me a version of nightlife where asking, checking in and hearing “no” weren’t awkward interruptions, they were simply part of the evening. And that, more than anything else, felt revolutionary.
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