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Salaciously whisper the words “sex club” and you likely get the conventional image of a low-lit room with suspiciously sticky sofas and a pair of cuddly ladies writhing around on a bed, watched by a plethora of older men in the darkened corners. This unfortunately, was my first experience of an actual sex club - but I have certainly not been discouraged from investigating further. Consider me Sherlock Holmes, in stockings instead of a hat. Perhaps a whip in place of the pipe.
So, let me set the scene. It is only a moderately dreary English afternoon, sedate with Wednesday quietude that effectively curbs the noise from the highway running parallel. Myself and a friend are walking tentatively down a street that features a car repair business, a few warehouses and an abundance of grey tarmac. There is only the mildly ridiculous fear of being sexually accosted (not in the fun way, either) and adrenaline is beginning to fuel our steps. We are as nervous and as excited as two fourteen year old boys about to purchase their first Playboy. Well, download. Maybe they’re twelve. To be completely honest I’ve no idea what boys of that age do, but it’s likely as sneakily outrageous as creeping toward a club we planned to gallivant around naked in.
We find the entrance by a dirt-smudged sign above the door- The Private Club. It is simultaneously inconspicuous and as flamboyantly seedy as if it boasted the same window-doors of Amsterdam’s Red Light District, and succeeds in setting our hearts aflutter. Beyond an open doorway is a locked one, and a lady sitting in a booth. With the kind of cryptic sneakiness you’d expect from a drug deal, she asks us if we know what “it” entails. Indeed, we nod- we do. Had I deigned to go alone, my precious status as a single girl would have granted me free entry. Alas, however, I was feeling charitable (and, yes, in need of a little friendly support) and brought a male friend - couples cost, but nowhere near as much as you’d expect to pay as a single man. Sorry boys, that’s the world we live in; Beyonce isn’t singing a song about you any time soon. Inside, people are friendly and even the initially frosty lady-guard warms up once we’ve handed over money and proved we weren’t lost strays. I meet a lady in the bathroom and we bond over our mutually glorious red hair (it is indeed magnificent) and I notice how clean and innocent looking it all appears. Aside, of course, from a padded seat whose leopard print is covered by a sheen of clingfilm, which raises the question - are people here really getting freaky in the toilets, when they have rooms and saunas and sofas galore? I guess you never can tell when the fetish/lust will hit you.
When I return to my friend we are given a tour of the place- lockers, saunas, rooms where we can get busy with cucumbers if we so pleased, a dark room - where we could get prodded by unknown fingers and other eager appendages- and finally, floating down a short stairway of two or three steps into a larger room, with a circular bed in the centre and sofas against every wall. The lady from the bathroom looks up from the doggy position and gives me a cheerful wave- as does the man busily slapping his balls against her buttocks. The four other men that are crowded around the bed greet us equally warmly. Everyone involved (with the exception of the lady, who is clad in some form of nipple-exposing negligee) is completely naked and seemingly fine with that. If it weren’t for my big bad Princess character, I’d probably be giggling nervously by this point. After concluding the tour we find ourselves left alone to wander. My friend, in a rather impressive feat of speed succeeds in ridding himself of his clothing, and with them all social constraints. I, meanwhile, opt to remain inside my dress for a little while longer. (His abs are more impressive than mine).
Several hours later and we have chatted to several people - most of whom, my cynicism decides, are probably governed less by their desire to be a welcoming citizen of Birmingham’s underworld and more by the conviction that the nicer they are to me, the faster they’ll get to motorboat my tits . (Which is not necessarily a critical judgment on my part, by the way.) I’ve also discovered that a secondary ‘hostess’ is rather attractive, and worked up a point in the evening where I’m sucking her nipples whilst my friend gives me some rather delightful attention with his fingers. Our experience on the bed in the centre of the room has good and bad moments; I bask in the appreciation of the men at my naked form, like the Princess that I am, and get to touch boobs, which I have definitely not done enough of in my short life. However, something that agitates my friend a little more than me is the degree of unabashed touching administered by our spectators - whilst my Princess side has half a mind to make 15 men kneel at my feet for touching me so wantonly, I keep her reined in for the most part. After all, this is a vanilla sex club, not a BDSM one. I don’t think it’s nice to backhand gentlemen who aren’t expecting it. (usually.) That aside, the afternoon is an eventual and overall enjoyable new experience. There were moments when my friend and I wanted privacy, and there were lockable doors that gave us that- there were moments when we wanted an audience, and most were more than happy to oblige. At one point my cowgirl rhythm was interrupted with the polite query, “may I… may I lick your arse whilst you fuck him?” which was hilarious and comforting all at the same time. I was also offered a working position at the club which, whilst I did decline (already got my own sexy professionalism going, ey.) was still wonderful inflation-fuel for my already substantial ego.
What I took away from that particular afternoon is that (as I did suspect) the post-lunch lull on a weekday is not the best time to frequent sex clubs, but it is nevertheless a good time to try and ease yourself in slowly. It gets you used to seeing (and being) wild, liberated jiggly bits bobbing around wantonly. Seeing a horde of condoms wrappers, the likes of which even the Rio Olympian village might have been disconcerted by, becomes commonplace. It soon becomes the accepted norm to smile at a stranger across the room, ask them how they’re finding the club and then proceed to ask them if they’d like to bury their face in your pussy - who, after all, really needs to know inconsequential things like names?
What I mean is, sex clubs have the potential to offer the shy, introverted or sexually repressed individual a platform on which to experiment- to relearn. I’m not going to warble on about self-discovery and “finding one’s inner strength” but, essentially, I have done just that. Lovely, I’ve become *that* writer. Strip away the glittery-eyed joyousness of such hedonism-fuelled self-discovery, I can assure you that there are things about yourself you may not unearth until you’ve been fucked doggie against what I can only describe as a sex footstool, whilst several men groan in appreciation, or that might spark into focus when you have your friend’s cock in your mouth and an entirely different shuddering, moaning male human in your pussy. Whilst I can’t promise you’ll like every literal second of such a journey, it’s one I recommend you take regardless- live is worth living, after all. If you, please do drop me a message and tell me your version of the sex club story, I’d love to hear it. Happy Debauchery, G. (Also coming soon: how to use proper sex club etiquette - girls and guys)