Sex parties are a lot. They’re sweaty and fun and a little bit performative. They’re the perfect place to live out your sexual main character that you’ve created to keep you safe, confident and thriving.
Imagine this: I’m in my early twenties. I’m single. I’m at a sex party I was invited to last minute by a girl I’m casually dating. I find myself intertwined with an array of couples, singles and girls. It’s a red light fuelled, mesh stocking laced fever dream — with real life pleasure sound effects and pump-up music. I’m in my element.
But until a week ago, I hadn’t been in that environment for years. Since before I dated my ex, actually. I hadn’t really thought about my lack of sex party attendance until someone alerted me to a new sex party underworld, Nocturnal. Sometimes I hear about things happening in the underground sex scene, and my ears prick up. This was one of those moments. Nocturnal are doing sex parties in a classy way. “Think champagne and caviar, architecturally designed spaces, a sexologist on-site, all senses activated…” founder Madelene Kadziela told me, when I caught up with her on Zoom.
I was immediately intrigued. An elevated sex party with champagne, caviar and an open dialogue felt like the perfect opportunity to explore a sex party with my boyfriend.
I’d avoided it for all the obvious reasons. I didn’t want to feel jealous. I didn’t want him to feel jealous. I didn’t want our relationship dynamic or communication to be impacted by questioning eyes holding kink apparatus. I didn’t want to find out we had different tastes. Or that he’s into girls who look nothing like me. But most of all, it felt like stepping into the unknown — which is always scary. I have no control over him and he has none over me. Although this might be universally true, it’s a more daunting reality in the naturally overstimulating environment of a sex party.
But it kind of felt like my duty to try it, as a sex writer. How can I speak on relationship structures and desire and the constructs of a patriarchal society and how they impact monogamy if I’m not willing to put myself and my relationship to the test?
We both agreed we’d do it. We had lengthy conversations about our boundaries.
“Let’s just stick together, okay?” he said.
“Yep,” I agreed. “Let’s not lose each other on the night.”
We decided that as long as we were together everything would be okay. We were okay with kissing people on our own, but actual play would be done together. We were open to whoever, but we’d decide on the night if it was a vibe or not. We were open to doing anything and everything, as long as we were both involved.
It felt simple enough. Like a joint adventure. Like a cool, edgy, hot couple activity. It would be a bit of extra spicy fun, like a chilli hot chocolate — you know? The same as usual, with a little bit of something more.
I’m sure you can assume from the headline of this article that it wasn’t a mere chilli hot choccy. The way the day, evening and everything that followed unfolded was… unexpected.
The day of
On the day of the sex party, my boyfriend was super busy all morning. He has an almost-four year old daughter and he spent the morning with her going to ballet and running around doing last-minute errands. When it was time to start getting ready, I realised he wasn’t home.
I felt a pang of disappointment at this realisation, a feeling of “I’d like to be doing this with you”, but I let it slide. I’d gotten ready and pumped myself up solo so many times before. Maybe this was no different?
I got dressed in a see-through floor length gown, curled my hair and drank a gin & tonic. I felt cute and sexy, my skin was glowing and my butt looked great — but something was not quite right. I knew it in my gut.
By then, he’d come home and was fluffing around upstairs.
“How’s this no make-up look working for you?” I asked him, coming into the bedroom and doing a spin to show my whole outfit and make-up free face.
“It’s fine,” he said, clearly distracted.
Again, I felt that pang. “Fine?!!!!” I squeaked.
“Oh sorry!” he said, coming back to reality. “You look great. I was distracted.”
“I could tell,” I said, with a bit of attitude.
In truth, I felt like a sulky little kid. You know when you want attention because you’re about to do something big and whoever you’re trying to impress is doing something else? Whether you like it or not their distractedness impacts your mood and you feel defeated and offended — probably more than necessary.
An hour or so later, we headed off. He’d organised his parents to look after his daughter and the handover wasn’t going well. She was crying — she didn’t want him to leave — and we lied to his parents about where we were going. The whole thing all of a sudden felt icky to me. Like I was taking him away to do something ‘naughty’. I hadn’t even thought of this as being a possibility. I’d not imagined that we’d have such a hard time leaving, or that it would affect me so much.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to unlearn the shame-based narratives that a patriarchal society has built for women. That women who like sex are sluts, are dumb, are generally less respectable. That to be a horny woman is something to hide rather than something to celebrate. And while I’ve been pretty successful at re-writing the narrative for myself, this particular situation took me right back to that feeling of inherent sexual shame, washing over me in an unexpected and undeniable way.
The party was a two hour drive away in the country. I spent the entire car ride feeling guilty and emotional. I felt annoyed about falling so neatly into the naughty ‘new girlfriend’ trope (we’ve been dating two years but being the girlfriend and not the ex-wife makes me feel like I’m still new on the scene). I felt bad that I was not feeling into it, because I knew my boyfriend was excited. I felt bad about feeling neglected in the pre-game process when he had more important things to do. I felt a whole bunch of complicated things. I had a cry and tried to explain where I was at. My boyfriend was understanding, but I could tell he wanted me to push through. I wanted to, too. We’d accepted the invite and I’d committed to writing a piece, so I felt added professional pressure. Plus, I’ve often felt nervous before going into new sex spaces. I think it’s normal — just like stepping into a new circle of friends or an unfamiliar industry. Immersing myself in them as part of my job has always given me motivation to push through, and I’m almost always glad I did. I also really wanted to have this experience with my boyfriend, and the opportunity felt too good to miss.
Finally, we pulled up to a gate with an intercom. There was a car in front of us, full of people dressed in evening wear. They followed the instructions that the invitation — sent a few hours ago — had stated and we watched on as their silk gowns billowed in the relentless wind while they punched in the code and opened the gate for us all.
We drove up a winding driveway to a beautiful house surrounded by rolling hills, cows, a divine sunset and no other houses as far as the eye could see. We were greeted by Carl — handsome resident butler and “consent angel” — wearing a white tuxedo. He told us we looked great and ushered us into the lobby, where we were given champagne by girls in lingerie, with a side of caviar bumps. Madelene came to greet us, with her partner Tristan. We mingled, we ate charcuterie and we looked around the house.
Each room had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a beautiful country landscape. Each bed had faux fur throws strewn over them, candles lit the walkways, the bathrooms were decked out with touch-up stations and one room had a bath full of champagne. The bedrooms were themed — some had an array of sex toys, card games and lube, some were more neutral and one was set up for full kink and BDSM. It was — as promised — an extremely sensual experience. Much more boujee than the sex parties of my early twenties.
The first two hours had me feeling better. I’d found my social persona and was feeling a buzz — a combination of adrenaline and champagne. I was still a little fragile, but I felt energised to explore and get to know people. Everyone was dressed to the nines, in-keeping with the James Bond theme of the night. From the outside, it looked like a group of wealthy, well-dressed individuals with an edge of sexual tension. We made friends with a couple who seemed keen on us, and both my boyfriend and I were into it.
A sex party — or ‘play’ party as they’re often called today — are spaces for sexual exploration. They’re either run by organisations or clubs, which is set up more like a usual dance club vibe but with dedicated rooms for play. People walk around in their lingerie, have sex in designated areas, mingle on the dancefloor and buy drinks from the bar. Alternative — and more intimate — communities are independently run, at private venues or residences. They follow the same format, but usually have fewer and more considered attendants. They’re also more expensive to attend, but are definitely worth it if a more chill environment is your vibe.
Most sex party communities have an initiation process, including an introduction interview, STI tests and thorough Ts&Cs. Nocturnal also has a mandatory Meet & Greet. They happen each month and you need to attend at least one, before heading to one of their play parties.
We’d met the couple at our first Meet & Greet the week before and vibed there too. I felt like they’d found us at each social moment — which to me meant it was ‘on’.
Let the sex party begin
After the Nocturnal team gave us a consent speech, laid down the house rules and encouraged us all to “set intentions” with each other, we found ourselves in a bedroom with the other couple. It had come after a card game of sexual questions. We’d all taken some clothes off and were easing in — or so I thought. We’d all made our way to the bedroom — seemingly together — did some mouthwash in the bathroom and started making out on the bed. There were two other girls there too, who’d joined the party while playing cards. They’d come alone. Their focus was on the other couple; they were complimenting how hot they were together, giggling in an excited school-girl kind of way and there was an entire dialogue going on between the four of them. After about 10 minutes of making out I realised that our vibes were somewhat separate. It was the four of them and the two of us. As soon as I picked up on the energy, I stopped kissing my boyfriend and gave him a quizzical look. He’d noticed, too.
“Hey guys, should we merge?” I asked, attempting to create the environment I thought we all wanted.
“We’re okay,” said the girl from the other couple. “We’re just going to take it slow.”
I was surprised by her answer. Had I read the vibe all wrong, and they didn’t want us there at all? I’d started to pick up on their separate-ness when we’d all started making out, but I’d assumed it was my own discomfort. It’s normal to feel a bit nervous to make the first move in an environment like this. Sometimes it can be hard to initiate, to be blunt about what you want.
“Oh, okay…” I said. It felt apparent to me that my boyfriend and I should leave them to it. That we weren’t welcome in their space. I grabbed his hand and guided him out of the bedroom.
Weirdly, I felt kind of mad. I also wanted to cry. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes before I could stop them. I felt I’d worked so hard to get myself back on track, back to feeling sexy, confident and open and just as I was getting comfortable, a door had been slammed in my face. I also realised that I’d never been in this situation before — rejected at a sex party. Or in a sexual scenario in general.
My experience as a woman in sexy environments has always been pretty welcoming. As a pansexual woman especially, I can be fluid — sex with a couple, man or woman is on the table. I’ve never found myself so far along in a sexual build up — actually in the bedroom, making out and undressing — to then be told I’m not welcome in that space. It’s not a reality I’d ever experienced.
And TBH, it felt like too much. I didn’t feel resilient, I just wanted to go home.
My boyfriend tried to get me back on track again. He encouraged me to come into a bedroom with him and try out some of the toys. I liked the sentiment, so I agreed. We started making out again and he was being really sweet and experimental, but I couldn’t get out of my own head. I was annoyed at myself but I knew I needed to listen to my body. It wasn’t turned on. There were too many emotions that had built up throughout the day for me to let go.
I wasn’t sure what to do with this strong urge to leave an environment that had always been such a big part of my dialogue, my experience and my identity. Being open and explorative in my sex life is literally my job! I think, talk and enjoy sex in a way that leads me to want to create discourse about it in public forums. But at that moment at the sex party, I wanted to be as far away from it as possible.
I got serious with my boyfriend. “I want to go home,” I said firmly. “I’m not feeling myself and I don’t think I can come back from feeling this way tonight. I’m sorry.”
He was okay with it, but I could tell he was disheartened. It had been something he’d been looking forward to, as someone who hasn’t had as much experience and exposure to this world as me. But I was done feeling bad about it. I just wanted to go somewhere quiet with him and regulate my nervous system back to normalcy.
Madelene and her partner found us on the way out. They asked us what had happened and if we were okay. I explained the situation to her, from the stressful departure, to the emotional drive, to the rejection.
“These kinds of events can be like a mirror,” she said. “Getting rejected is all part of it. It happens to me all the time. It can bring up stuff for sure, especially if you’re feeling vulnerable.”
That’s it! I thought. Being a single woman at sex parties feels somehow less vulnerable. I can create the armour that best suits myself in any given situation, there’s no pressure to get it ‘right’ or ‘survive’ it. That’s been my experience, anyway. In my early twenties I went into sexual situations as a version of myself that was performative and protected while still being honest. With my boyfriend, I’m the most vulnerable version of myself I’ve ever been. I’m in love, I care about things in a different way and I’m much more myself around him. I was so aware of us being in it together, that I forgot to listen to myself.
I’ve never been in a sexual environment that has challenged me in this way, or that has affected me emotionally in the moment. I’ve never had to deal with explicit rejection, feelings of shame or carrying the guilt of someone else’s expectation. I’ve heard people say that to venture into a sex party with a partner can bring up conversations and challenges that are hard, but worth working through.
I’d never seen that happen in real time, until now.
But as someone who likes to explore things — especially when they’re complicated — I have a feeling it will make us closer. My boyfriend is also someone who is open to exploring parts of himself that are uncomfortable and sit outside of the mainstream norm.
The aftermath
We’ve stayed up a few nights since the sex party, talking about our differing experiences with sex and the sexual world. We’ve learnt that we need to be even more open with each other. We’ve booked in to chat to a sexologist next week to unpack it all even further, because honestly there’s more to discuss than we have the language for.
I’m glad we went. I think we’ll go again and do it differently. We need a bit of recovery time, though. Time to work through the things it’s brought up and time to prepare for how to do it differently. Also, time to get to know the community better. Perhaps throwing yourself and your partner into a sex party with only two weeks to prepare isn’t the best way — especially with an entirely new group of people. But give us a couple of months and I think we’ll be ready again. Watch this space.
Lead Image: Keera Hoogendorp / Nocturnal
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