A gorgeous brunette is slowly undressing me. I can’t remember her name, but her face is somewhere around my waist, lips kissing my stomach, her hands grabbing my hips. We’re sliding over the edge of a black leather couch as she kneels on the floor, slowly slipping my black lace negligee over my head.
Her husband is sitting opposite us. Another woman is perched on the armrest above me, lightly stroking my arm and kissing my neck. Several men and women are standing around watching us.
It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever, ever experienced.
This is my first orgy — and it seems to be going pretty well. More specifically, I’m at an exclusive sex party being held by Killing Kittens. First started in the UK by Emma Sayle (who used to hang with Kate Middleton), these high-end events are all about the ladies — men are only allowed if they’re the guest of a woman. Female empowerment is central to Killing Kittens’ approach. Anything goes at these parties, but only when women initiate. Members are put through a vetting process before being allowed into the community and everyone signs a non-disclosure agreement.
Champagne and Moulin Rouge
It’s hard to believe how different my headspace is now, compared with a few hours ago.
Walking up to the front door of this terraced house in a leafy, conservative suburb in Sydney, Australia, I felt a mixture of terror and curiosity. The house’s exterior couldn’t have been further from what I imagined was happening inside. I was surprised to be greeted by two hosts, who were friendly, fully clothed and shook my hand in a very businesslike manner.
They writhe all over the bed, panting and giggling, all the while inching closer to me. They both grab hold of my thighs as the other goes down on her. Before long their heads are in my lap and they’re encouraging me to get involved.
The evening’s theme was Moulin Rouge. But instead of the token effort I imagined others would make, when I saw my fellow guests milling around the living room sipping champagne, I was impressed. The girls had clearly put in effort. Their hair is curled, breasts plumped up with beautiful corsets and feather boas draped around their necks. The guys are wearing crisp white shirts, black trousers, and masks. I had opted for a black negligee, thigh-high fishnet stockings, heels and a mask — I’d never felt more exposed.
I make a beeline for the bar. What the hell am I even doing here?
Truthfully, it’s something I need to do. Now perilously close to my mid-30s, until recently I’d spent my adult life in long-term relationships. Sex has been during those years pretty vanilla. It hasn’t been bad, it just hasn’t been this amazing thing. Eventually, any lust or passion disappeared and my relationships came to an end. Either I keep finding partners whom I’m not sexually in sync with, or I’m not sexually in sync with myself. What am I even into? I’ve been asking myself since I became single, and that’s what brought me here.
First steps
Vodka soda in hand, I plunge into the throng. The hundred or so attendees are chatting and getting to know each other, like any other party. There are couples, single girls, friends and orgy veterans — all completely normal people.
It is so far from the sleazy parties filled with handsy, middle-aged men every woman worries these events will be. Clearly the vetting process is a rigorous one — the first thing I notice is how hot everyone is.
We laugh at the family photos lining the hallway wall and wonder if these poor people who’d listed their home on Airbnb have any idea what would be happening in their marital beds tonight. They’d better have charged a hefty cleaning fee.
Ages range from early 20s to mid-40s, and rather than making awkward small talk about the weather while ignoring the dirty little elephant in the room until drunk enough to make a move, everyone is really honest about their reasons for being here.
Mostly, people are just as curious and nervous as I feel. Some, like me, don’t think they’ll participate, while the veterans speak openly about their experiences.
Watching my coupled-up friends in recent years, the biggest thing I’ve noticed is that their most serious problems stem from their sex lives (or lack thereof), which often ends up in infidelity.
But the couples here tonight are operating on a completely different frequency. They’re not trying to fix something that’s broken in their relationships. In fact, they say, their relationships are amazing and it’s because they’ve created space to communicate about what they want sexually in a safe and supportive environment. Some of these couples are 10 years younger than I, but they’re decades more enlightened.
Into the bedroom
Then the fun begins. A half-naked guy walks up to the bar, mentioning that it’s all happening upstairs. So I pound my drink, ask the female bartender for another and climb the staircase. From the room above me I hear laughing and chatting. Down the hall a woman is moaning really loudly.
Strangely, there’s a tepee in the corner housing a girl sitting on someone’s face. I don’t know if it’s her partner.
There are three bedrooms. I take door number one and steel myself.
I enter to find eight people having sex on a bed. They’re pouring over the sides, an erotic mess of moaning. Girl on girl, guy on girl, it’s all happening.
Strangely, there’s a tepee in the corner housing a girl sitting on someone’s face. I don’t know if it’s her partner.
Not everyone’s involved. People are standing around watching, but it’s all pretty casual. The vibe almost feels like that of a group of guys standing around drinking beers and kicking the tires of a car. Almost.
I venture next door.
Sapphic lust
It’s through door number two that I come across a girl who looks like Kate Winslet. She’s having sex with a stunning, petite redhead with alabaster skin. Winslet’s husband is sitting on a chair next to the bed masturbating. A short-haired blonde wearing a black trench coat is sitting at the head. Another couple are standing by the window watching, like seasoned voyeurs.
A voyeur I’m not. Best case I’m dithering in the doorway looking awkward as hell, worst case my resting bitch face will make me look like a total creep. So, me being me, I make a joke about it.
Everyone laughs and the girls ask me to sit on the bed and relax. By this point, I’m four vodkas deep and my heels are starting to hurt, so I oblige.
Wow, these ladies are mesmerizing. The room is quiet, all eyes fixed on these two gorgeous creatures as they explore each other. Winslet’s long, dark hair is falling everywhere. They writhe all over the bed, panting and giggling, all the while inching closer to me. They both grab hold of my thighs as the other goes down on her. Before long their heads are in my lap and they’re encouraging me to get involved.
And I actually want to.
Holy s–t, this is turning me on, I realize. What am I even into? I’ve been asking. Apparently, it’s this.
But I chicken out, not wanting to spoil their beauty with all my awkwardness.
Over the next few hours, everyone wanders between rooms, chatting and joking; people chop and change partners; splinter groups form in the living room; I witness folks having all kinds of kinky fun while I eat candy and oysters on the dining room floor with a few girls.
‘Hot and fun’
By 1:30 a.m., the questions start from other guests. Am I going to give it a crack? They were right, of course. I was stalling, but the urge to get involved was growing.
By this time of the evening, Winslet and I are friends. We’d chatted about life while watching two girls practicing Shibari (a form of Japanese rope bondage), and I’d gotten to know her husband. I felt comfortable with her, plus, she was hot.
Which is how we end up sliding half-off the living room couch, making out, grinding against each other and taking turns going down on one another.
Not only was it incredibly hot, it was really fun. We giggled and felt like we had no idea what we were doing, but somehow managed to do it all exactly right. It must be instinctive.
The safe and casual environment was a massive part of the reason I went this far — and didn’t care, when I came up for air, about seeing people watching our show.
It’s funny how things aren’t a big deal if you don’t make them a big deal.
After saying goodbye with fist-pumps by my proud new friends, I change back into jeans and order an Uber to take me back to my regular life.
But I feel like something has been unlocked inside of me. Something kinky — something I’ve long suspected is there.
This was my first orgy, but it definitely won’t be my last.