Читать книгу Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules - Emma Sayle - Страница 8

‘For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.’

Virginia Woolf

Back from Ibiza and that incredible wedding, I was fired up with enthusiasm for what I’d seen. I’d decided I would quit my job the moment I returned, but once I was actually back and facing the reality of my life in London, it didn’t seem as easy as I’d imagined. By Monday, I was back behind my desk, working away at my corporate PR job and wondering how I would go about setting up a sex-party business. I didn’t have a clue, and researching sex parties while at work didn’t seem a particularly wise move.

It might have ended there, but Fate took a hand.

A friend of a friend approached me to ask if I would do PR work for a company called Heat Bomb, which specialized in sex parties. This was the perfect opportunity to get some experience and I jumped at the chance. Now I would discover a little more about the mysterious world of free love that I was sure existed with far more prevalence than anyone suspected. The thing I had taken away from the wedding in Ibiza was how accepting everyone was, and how keen to take part, either as a monogamous couple or in a more adventurous, exploratory way. It wasn’t confined to just a few people. And that made me think that this phenomenon must be happening everywhere.

I didn’t know much about this particular company, but I had the feeling that very few parties were going to match the glamour and beauty of the Ibiza wedding. I had visions of bored, middle-aged couples swapping partners while dressed in comedy S&M gear, but while it wasn’t as utterly seductive as Ibiza, it wasn’t like that at all. The first sex party I attended was the reverse of the tacky, suburban scene I had anticipated. It was held in an apartment in London and 60 people attended, all aged between 25 and 50. They seemed like professional, sophisticated people, the men in suits and ties and the women in smart dresses and heels. You would never guess from looking at them that these people were about to break down all the normal barriers of social convention and start having sex with each other, but that was exactly what happened. Gradually the mood of the evening changed and became more highly charged, and then it kicked off. Soon, clothes were dropping to the floor, people were openly kissing and caressing each other and then more. The vibe was free and uninhibited, and I saw couples allowing each other to experiment and indulge themselves with others, or just letting the atmosphere charge them up to a peak where they wanted to have fierce sex with each other, turned on by what they were witnessing.

This was my first taste of what was on offer in the UK and I wanted to know more. I decided to go freelance so that I could be more in control of how I worked and concentrate on those areas of most interest to me. I helped promote quite a few of Heat Bomb’s parties, which were always held at the same venue, and I began to understand their appeal. I saw many couples evidently in strong relationships but wanting to spice up their erotic life. By dipping their toes into the swinging scene, they could do so with honesty and safety. Sex parties allowed couples to experiment and satisfy their desires without the deceit and underhandedness of an affair. If anything, as far as I could see, it kept them together. And if a couple made that decision and were happy with it, then who were we to judge them?

I soon discovered there are hundreds of clubs and hotels up and down the country that exist purely for sex parties. Most of the people who go to them look perfectly ordinary. You could be sitting next to someone on the bus and never suspect that the night before they’d had sex with six people or more at one of these private orgies. Obviously it’s not for everyone, but there are many ‘normal’ people who want to explore this side of life – and why shouldn’t they? We’ve all been given the amazing gift of sex and the pleasure and enjoyment it can bring, and life is short. There are plenty of people who tell us it’s bad and wrong, but as long as it’s between consenting adults and we don’t hurt anyone in the process, why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves? People are complex and fascinating, capable of living and loving in many different ways, and I don’t think we should judge each other for making different choices.

Heat Bomb’s parties never replicated that incredible vibe I’d experienced at the Ibiza wedding. The truth was that men still dominated and I sometimes got the feeling that they were busy making sure their own private fantasies got enacted, as though they were directing and starring in their own personal porn films. There was also an element of fetish; at one foot party, the men paid to have women walk all over them and be allowed to suck their toes. Fine if that floats your boat, but not exactly fulfilling for the women (unless they got off on having their toes sucked), and I wasn’t keen on that kind of dynamic.

I couldn’t understand why no one was aiming these parties more at women and what they wanted. The Ibiza wedding had been about women pleasing themselves at least as much as men and had provided the kind of deliciously glamorous atmosphere that could stimulate female sexuality, but no one here seemed to be catering for that.

Then I was asked to do some work for a group of US women who’d formed a company called Cake that put on sex parties for women. They wanted to launch their business in London. At last, someone was doing the kind of thing I had in mind. I went out to New York to attend a party and enjoyed myself enormously. It was a brilliant and highly entertaining night, but it wasn’t at all what I’d envisaged for a female-friendly sex party. The founders of Cake had done women’s studies at university and their parties were a feminist statement, a riposte to the male-dominated porn world. Men could only attend with a woman and everyone was wearing all manner of hilarious and outlandish fancy dress. The pole dancers were men, and generally men were put in subservient roles. It was great fun and very amusing, but it was too aggressive for me, too interested in making a point to be successful as a really erotic experience for women. It was more like burlesque with a very hard edge to it. Working on the London launch of Cake was good fun, but still there was no one putting on the kind of parties I envisaged.

Meanwhile, my relationship with the organizers at Heat Bomb had run into trouble. The guys wanted to run a really huge party and get media attention for it. I told them I thought this was a bad idea; the papers were bound to try to reveal the identities of the attendees. They wouldn’t listen, though, and insisted that we went ahead with getting publicity. I did as I was told and when the Sunday Mirror did a front-page splash headlined ‘VIP Orgy’, naming everyone involved and trying to speculate on who had been at the party, the guys at Heat Bomb did not like it one bit. So I decided to leave, with the plan of taking them on at their own game and turning my vision of that glorious night in Ibiza into a reality. I would beat them by miles and show them all how it could be done.

Whenever I wonder whether to do something or not, I try to imagine the worst-case scenario, and if I think I can handle it, then fine. If I started my own sex parties, what was the worst that could happen? I would have to put all my savings into the venture, which meant that if I lost everything I would be made bankrupt and would have to go back to working in PR. Well, neither of those things was the end of the world. I could cope with that. The start-up costs would be low, so the risk wasn’t that huge, and I already had a lot of experience and contacts to draw on.

I remembered the Eyes Wide Shut atmosphere of the Ibiza wedding and decided I would have the masks, and I set out my party rules like the Fight Club rules. It was fun, almost jokey. If it worked out, fine. If not, I could live with it.

I drew up the ethos of my parties – first, in order to attend, people would have to be members of the club, which meant I’d be able to vet applications. That way I’d be able to keep out people who might want to subvert the parties for their own ends, and I’d make sure I could keep the environment as safe as possible. It also meant that guests were likely to meet people with the same mind-set as their own, and the more comfortable everyone felt, the more likely they were to have a great time. I knew from experience that the organizers of some parties didn’t mind if the party-goers went to extreme places, indulging fetishes and some of the more niche practices. But I didn’t want that. My parties would be more normal, if that’s the right word, where people who were not into particular scenes would feel at home. I would charge £150 for a couple to attend, and £50 for a single woman; no single guys would be allowed. It may cost more than your average Saturday night out, but the price included canapés and free bubbly till midnight, and was designed to ensure that only those willing to play attended.

But what would I call my new enterprise? I remembered the college joke I was told about the morning after the Ibiza wedding party, and I decided I would call my business Killing Kittens in tribute to that night when everything changed. It felt just right – it was intriguing, naughty and would keep people guessing. I set the date for my first Killing Kittens party. First, I needed a location. With the help of friends, I found a sauna bar in the middle of London. It was perfect, with a large mosaic-tiled spa, lounge bar, sauna room, steam bar, wet room and a dozen private rooms – small dark cubby holes with massage tables in them. It had a friendly atmosphere and, most importantly, the owners and staff were discreet. It was going to cost a bomb to hire it for the night, but I was prepared to take the gamble and I used all my savings to do so. Then I invited 40 guests. I had built up a database of contacts from all the parties I had worked for, the kind of people who’d be interested in parties like this, and I emailed out the invitation to them. I didn’t broadcast the fact that I was starting a sex-party business, but I invited a couple of friends I thought would get into the spirit of things: Miss D, of course, and another good friend of mine I’d nicknamed Plaything. He’d been my friend since childhood, and now that we were both living in London, we saw each other all the time. He was my best male friend and my wingman, always looking out for me. He was also young, handsome and very keen to party, and I knew he would be just the right kind of person for Killing Kittens. Word spread fast and soon I had people emailing me, asking where and when the parties were held. Before long, my guest list was full.

Now I had the most important things in place: a venue and a set of ready and willing people who’d paid good money to attend my party. Even though I was sure it was going to be a success, I was still nervous. I’d been at enough parties by now to know that people would get into the spirit of things, but I worried that this time no one would lose their inhibitions sufficiently to start the action going. Would I be able to create the right vibe?

I needn’t have worried. I had the sauna bar looking perfect – sophisticated and welcoming in the bar area, where candles flickered and trays of drinks awaited the party-goers, and a little more steamy and enticing further on, where the large pool and darkened areas promised pleasures to come. Baskets of condoms were placed discreetly around the place; I’d ordered hundreds to make sure that, whatever happened, we couldn’t run out. A security guard stood on the door to ensure that only invited guests were allowed in – I didn’t want anyone straying in from the street by mistake. People began to arrive as soon as the doors opened at nine o’clock, and I was delighted to see that they looked fantastic, dressed in glamorous evening clothes and wearing glittering masks. This was what I wanted – sophistication and style. And, of course, I wanted to see those glamorous clothes well and truly off by the end of the night. I certainly did. The atmosphere of a smart drinks party changed subtly until it was sexy and permissive. People sought playmates and found them. By midnight the entire club was full of naked people and wherever I looked, I could see unbridled enthusiasm for the sex that was taking place everywhere. Couples, groups, threesomes, foursomes, together in every variety. Some were partakers; others were watchers. I saw one man happily observing his girlfriend as she fucked another man fast and hard in front of him. I saw girls caressing each other, kissing and making love for their own pleasure, not so some man could enjoy it (though some did, of course). I saw all manner of high jinks and sport in the pool, the sauna and in the recesses of the cubby holes: if the doors were left open, then the participants welcomed being watched or even wanted more partakers.

Miss D and Plaything launched themselves wholeheartedly into the action, getting into each other first and then exploring a wilder side of things with two other girls. It was kind of strange seeing my two old friends getting down to full and frank sex, throwing themselves into the whole thing with gusto. But it was also strange how quickly I got used to it. Nudity is natural when everyone is carefree, uninhibited and accepting, and even the wildest sex soon ceases to be shocking when you’ve witnessed it for a while. The main thing was that people were happy and enjoying themselves in safety and comfort. There was one hairy moment when security was temporarily breached – a photographer had sneaked into the club, trying to get some snaps to sell to the press to cause a scandal and put the new members off the club, but my security chased him away and nicked his film. After that, everything ran smoothly. The fun and games went on until the early hours when, at last, exhausted and satisfied, the final party-goers left.

Killing Kittens was up and running. I was now a bona fide sex entrepreneur.