‘Sorry sir, the rules clearly state that all single men must be accompanied by a woman.’ As the frustrated guest is ushered off the premises, my female companion and I are welcomed into a grand reception room where the organised sex party is being held. A barmaid offers us some complimentary condoms and a handful of Quality Street, along with some fluorescent orange punch served in plastic cups.
Should we be engaging in small talk or ripping each other’s clothes off? No one seems to know
The organisers of tonight’s paid event claim they cater for the world’s ‘sexual elite’ but there’s something disarmingly ordinary about the snaggle-toothed mid-lifers trooping in behind us – hardly the glamour models I’d been expecting.
The ‘strict selection process’ appears to be anything but. Applicants are supposedly judged on ‘charisma, interests and success’ as well as on looks, so I’m assuming my wildly exaggerated claims – ‘chalet in Verbier, job in finance and a penchant for business-class travel’ – have yet to be verified.
Tonight’s party goes by the name of ‘Fantasy Fling’ but that doesn’t mean I can just fling myself at any passing fantasy. In an effort to ‘challenge gender stereotypes’, men must always wait to be approached.
The atmosphere is endearingly English as couples dressed in ill-fitting eveningwear stand around looking embarrassed. Should we be engaging in small talk or ripping each other’s clothes off? No one seems to know. And what if none of the women makes the first move? Can we ask for a refund?
Upstairs two couples are writhing around on an enormous bed surrounded by guests, but something feels off. Why are they so much more attractive than the rest of us? And why does their lovemaking appear to be simulated? One of the women even stifles a yawn. Could they be plants, employed to get us in the mood? If so, the strategy doesn’t appear to be working.
My friend Suzie drags me over to meet Gemma and Gareth, who have travelled down from Hertfordshire. They are in their late thirties and have been married for less than a year but say their sex life is in trouble. ‘We’ve come to spice things up,’ Gareth explains. ‘Sex with the same person can get boring.’ With that Gemma invites Suzie and me to join them in the basement hot tub.
I’m already having doubts about tonight’s so-called ‘party’. The whole thing feels horribly forced and there’s a whiff of desperation in the air. Erotic it most certainly is not. In the tepid, overcrowded hot tub a couple from Shrewsbury are playing footsie with me. Will they think it rude if I move my foot away? Gareth is trying to get it on with Suzie but neither looks enamoured by the prospect. Gemma, meanwhile, has hooked up with a random bloke, but their canoodling seems half-hearted. With clothes firmly back on, I head to the bar for another cocktail.
Suzie, who recently separated from her husband, invited me here, assuming I’d be interested in ‘pushing sexual boundaries’. But while it’s true that making out with more than one woman at a time is every man’s fantasy, the reality is rather more prosaic. I’m not sure you can just label something a sex party and expect everyone to start bonking. That’s not how human sexuality works.
Our longing to be sexually liberated is tinged with tragedy. Anyone trapped in a sexless marriage will have yearned for the promise of uninhibited carnality. The serial monogamist hopes that their version of freedom will deliver them unlimited choice, while ageing playboys and playgirls believe that liberation means never having to say ‘I do’. Sex parties may appear to offer a remedy to all these lustful yearnings, but loneliness and disappointment are never far from the surface.
Back in the 1970s when ‘swinging’ became a thing, conservatives such as Mary Whitehouse were concerned about where our so-called ‘permissive society’ might be heading. That particular phrase seems absurdly quaint in retrospect, but the permissiveness that Whitehouse worried about has developed into a much darker, more pornified culture, where organised sex parties are seen as just another lifestyle choice along with OnlyFans and Tinder. Morality, it seems, abhors a vacuum.
Tragedy lies in the impossibility of ever being wholly satisfied by the desires that plague us. Liberation doesn’t always set us free and can end up imprisoning us in a kind of restless unfulfilment. Noël Coward’s masterly film Brief Encounter perfectly illustrates, in its own understated way, the dilemma we all face in varying degrees. Celia Johnson’s lonely middle-class housewife longs for romantic adventure, but eventually ditches her secret lover for the staid respectability of a comfortable marriage.
Likewise, when passion runs dry, making out with a bunch of strangers can seem like a panacea, but – as with all quick fixes – it is unlikely to deliver on its promise. Watching an increasingly desperate Gareth fling himself at random strangers while his bored wife looks on is an unedifying spectacle. But I’d wager that most of the people here, Gareth included, aren’t really looking to expand their sexual horizons. What they are desperate to find is the intimacy lacking in their everyday lives. All the guests I chatted to were either in or had recently left loveless relationships. Sex parties can only ever offer a crude approximation of the human warmth we all crave. Interestingly, very few of the guests I spoke to at the end of the evening had indulged in any actual sex, let alone sex with more than one person. Most had been content to sit around and have a laugh with fellow travellers, which makes sense. If you’re struggling to find sexual intimacy with your actual partner, who says it’s going to be any easier with half a dozen strangers? Cheap thrills often come at a heavy price.
Several weeks later I received a call from Suzie to say that Gareth and his wife had invited us to a private sex party at their place in Watford. The masochist in me couldn’t resist, but that night, as the other guests crept into the dimly lit bedroom of Gareth’s tatty flat, I chose to remain in the kitchen chatting to Gareth’s neighbour about his recent separation. He explained how lonely he’d been since his wife walked out on him. ‘I only come to Gareth’s parties for a bit of company. You certainly won’t catch me in his bedroom.’
James discussed sex parties further with Sophia Money Coutts, Lara Prendergast and William Moore on the latest Edition podcast:
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