What started as a perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening suddenly took on an edge when my flatmate interrupted my half-burnt dinner with a suggestion so out of left field, I nearly choked on my chicken.
As if she was casually suggesting a weekend trip to the pub, she told me her plans for the weekend ahead with the new guy she was seeing.
‘He’s invited me to a sex party,’ she said. ‘And I really think you should come with me.’
As you might imagine, being the third wheel with my flatmate and her latest love interest isn’t exactly my idea of the perfect weekend, so my first reaction was a firm ‘no thanks’.
While I certainly don’t consider myself a prude – I’ve seen the infamous sex shows on holiday in Thailand, witnessed all sorts of hedonism on a girls’ trip to Ibiza, and even posed naked for charity – going to an all-out sex party had never crossed my mind before.
There’s a big difference between being a carefree observer on holiday, where anything goes, and diving headfirst into the world of the ‘kink’ community.
But despite my initial reservations the weight of a recent heartbreak made me start to wonder if a sex party might be just what I needed to escape my routine of work, wine, and evenings at home.
After all, my philosophy is live and let live, and at 27, I couldn’t ignore the voice in my head whispering: ‘Life is short – if not now, when?’
A woman, 27, has revealed her eye-opening experience at a sex party in Central London (stock image)
The past few months had been a blur of almosts – an almost-relationship that left me soft, sore and overthinking. Not quite grief, but something that hung around in my chest like secondhand smoke.
My friends had enough of me moping around the house, complaining about how I wasn’t letting go or putting myself out there. They knew dating apps weren’t going to cut it for me.
I’d already been through the sadness and exhaustion. Now I had to admit I was feeling a little curious.
And that’s how I found myself at the pre-drinks with a group of strangers I’d only heard about.
The flat was near London Bridge, and judging by the postcode alone, I figured this guy my flatmate was seeing wasn’t exactly new to this kind of thing.
Sex parties, from what little I knew, don’t come cheap – tickets, latex, memberships… it all adds up. This man, I figured, could definitely foot the bill.
There were about ten people already there – including two other women he was apparently seeing as well. Everyone was a little older than me – comfortably in their late 30s, exuding that confident vibe of people who’d long stopped blushing at terms like ‘playroom.’
At first, everything felt surprisingly normal. No whips or chains in sight, just drinks, cushions, and casual small talk.
While nursing a broken heart, one young professional decided to push herself out of her comfort zone (stock image)
But the conversation soon veered into unfamiliar territory – casual mentions of ‘impromptu orgies’, anecdotes about who had been with whom in the group, all shared with the breeziness of ordering a take-away.
I nodded along, game face on, trying to project the air of someone for whom this was all completely standard.
Inside, I was slightly spiralling. But they were kind, looking at me not like an outsider, but like a precious cocoon, moments away from hatching into something far more interesting.
A butterfly, sure – but with a harness.
We set off for the event, Klub Verboten, and the moment we walked in it felt unlike anything I had ever experienced – equal parts strict, surreal and strangely structured.
Before you even step foot through the doors, you’re quizzed on a detailed list of rules that you have to study in advance. They’re not playing around. You don’t abide by the rules, you don’t get in.
As the club puts it, the rules and strict dress code aren’t just for show – ‘they’re there to protect you and ensure the space remains safe for everyone.’ Everything revolves around consent, respect, and clear boundaries – no touching without permission, no photos, and zero tolerance for discrimination.
Once past the checkpoint, you show that you’re in the proper attire – nothing casual, nothing boring. If you’re not wearing your outfit already, you need to present photographic evidence that you own it and that it’s in your bag.
Leather, latex and chains – whatever makes you feel like your sexiest self – are the order of the day. I went with what felt like the safest option – a sleek latex ensemble, paired with long gloves.
Only then are you granted access to the lockers, where you leave your things – and your inhibitions – behind.
The space was a layered fantasy – each floor a descent into techno and unspoken contracts, where every glance could be an invitation and every room had a safe word echoing inside it.
Everyone you meet greets you like an old friend.
‘It’s not about the sex,’ one of them told me, arms still around my shoulders. ‘It’s about the family.’
The first floor looks like any other rave – loud music, flashing lights, bodies swaying to the beat.
But then you notice something that reminds you: this isn’t your typical night out. Right next to the entrance, a couple is inside a cage, engaged in their own world, providing a clear reminder of what’s different here.
Still, nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment I heard someone call my name. I froze, thinking: ‘Who on earth knows me here?’
Turns out, it was my flatmate’s freshly-dumped ex. She’d broken up with him just a few weeks earlier, saying ‘he was too boring.’
The man was now fully nude, except for a pair of gladiator sandals, and was negotiating a threesome under a strobe light.
Security was there to remind him, though: if you want to play, you need to head to the designated floors.
Once you ascend to the second and third floors, the vibe shifts – this is where things get serious.
The playrooms are dark, filled with the soft glow of red lights and the scent of smoke in the air. Some are more intimate, others more daring, but all are focused on consensual exploration.
A large, sturdy swing hangs from the ceiling, gently swaying as people approach, eager to take their turn. Couples, threesomes, and even more are the norm, with most people decked out in collars, animal masks and harnesses.
At one point, a girl tapped me on the shoulder, asking for a condom – all while she was in the middle of getting hot and heavy with someone else.
I politely replied that I didn’t have one, though the request was made with a matter-of-fact ease.
As I moved between the rooms, the compliments started flowing – about my body, my accent, everything. Married men were offering me as a gift for themselves and their wives, claiming I was the perfect fit for the profile they were looking for.
They said they knew me just enough that it wouldn’t be an issue with the wife, but I wasn’t exactly one of their best friends.
They recommended I check out one of the club’s ‘sex socials’. It’s a chance to meet people in advance and build a connection before heading into the actual club. All you need to do is pay for a membership and pass a quick vetting process.
Apparently, these socials are almost as kinky as the club itself, complete with their own playrooms. However, you can show up straight after work, dressed in regular clothes – no need for the full latex look, unless you want to, of course.
By 6am the night was winding down. People headed back to the lockers, looking almost unrecognisable once they put their clothes on.
As a straight woman in a space dominated by queer and sexually fluid dynamics, it was both exhilarating and alienating.
I’ve always been someone who craves deep, meaningful connections with people. Can that truly happen in a place like this? I’m not sure I can say yes just yet.
But one thing’s certain: I’m not done being curious. I’ll keep exploring – and it certainly took my mind off my heartbreak for an evening.
