‘Well, as you know, these events rely on exclusivity and … discretion,’ she put a finger to her lips. ‘But if Flick vouched for you then it should be fine. Can you just sign the form here and put your phone in this box?’
I thanked God for the magic word. Flick, the posh white-girl name guaranteed to open doors in certain situations. There’s always a Flick – she might be a party PR girl, or a gallerist or just a friend of a friend. Mention her and you’ve signalled that you’re OK, on the inside, that you probably know Floss and India too.
I signed the form, which basically told me that I am not to talk of the Pleasure Parade to others, nor mention the names of any high-profile guests. I am not to take photos or record anything. I must pledge to keep things ‘safe and fun’ at all times, and respect the boundaries of others.
I handed over my phone and headband girl gave me a condom with a wink. ‘Remember that the blue room is for kink play. And if anyone gives you hassle, Marco is in the bar.’
‘Oh sure, I’m all set,’ I said, as I handed her my coat and went through the door behind their perch with more confidence than I felt.
I like sex. I’m not squeamish or repressed about it. It’s a fun stress-busting activity, even when it’s done poorly, which is a lot of the time when you’re shagging men raised on porn who think that women need minimal foreplay and desire a lot of flexible positioning. Orgasms are a wonderful thing, especially when received alone and followed by silence and not the desperate need to get a strange man out of your house immediately. But I’m not enamoured of the rampant sex positivity we get bombarded with. Women who want to tell you all about their sexual journey as if enjoying sex is a character trait. Couples who put up photos of themselves entwined in bed sheets on social media, pretending that their post-coital bragging is art. Terrible essays and amateur poetry about fucking. Do it, don’t go on about it.
Sex parties always seemed to me like a way for boring people to show others that there’s a more interesting side to them. Perhaps there would be if you suddenly kicked off an orgy in a supermarket on the local high street, but a fancy invite-only gathering in the West End where girls wear Alice bands doesn’t scream alternative to me. It’s like a luxury gym where the smoothies cost ￡9 and the shower gel is designer and everyone there is showing off their bodies in high-end leggings, barely concentrating on the fitness element. It’s all performative.
Entering the party that night did nothing to disabuse me of that preconception. The first room was the bar, where fully clothed people stood around drinking out of crystal glasses. The lighting was dim, but I could make out a Gucci bag, the flash of a diamond ring, the heady mix of too many Tom Ford perfumes blending together. It was rich and banal, and the fact that bodily fluids were being exchanged in nearby rooms didn’t make it any less so.
The music was cranked up, perhaps to mask the sounds of ecstasy coming from elsewhere, and I made my way over to the bar, trying to spot Lee in the gloom and hoping that he hadn’t already headed into a sex room, mainly because then this would be pointless but also because I desperately didn’t want to catch a glimpse of my uncle naked. I was ambitious in my revenge plans, but I had to draw a line and it turned out that the line was having to watch a relative sweating away over a woman I assumed would be at least twenty years younger than he was. Not where I thought my squeamish level was after killing three people, but there we were.
As the bartender fixed me a Martini （I hate cocktails but I felt like playing a role）， I studied the people around me. A good-looking couple in their early thirties – him in a blue shirt and chinos, her in a green silk dress with pink high heels and a slightly apprehensive look – were next to me at the bar. He was holding her hand and looking back at me with a smile. I returned it, but looked away sharpish. I didn’t want to get bogged down in conversation. From her frequent whispers, and his comforting back rubs, it was obvious she was only here to please him. I hoped they didn’t peg me as the ideal choice for their first unhappy threesome.
Towards the other end of the room I could make out two women, both as thin as greyhounds and just as elegantly nervy, sitting together on a plush velvet sofa as a slightly stocky man crouched down at their feet and talked at them. From his gesticulating hands, he was clearly trying hard to be entertaining, but their polite smiles and wandering eyes screamed boredom. It certainly didn’t look as though they were desperate to climb the guy like a tree. In fact, there was very little sexual energy vibrating off anyone around me. The room felt muted and slightly awkward, as though everyone was waiting for someone else to take the lead and kick things off. Perhaps nobody had yet had enough alcohol.