Sex Den Soundings
Middle class clandestine sex dens are enjoying something of a resurgence in vogue of late. My friend Rosa discovered one being built upstairs from her warehouse conversion flat in Limehouse only last week. Curious about the large number of mattresses being carried up the stairs past her door, she began to suspect some sort of refugee racket and went upstairs to investigate, only to be greeted by the warm handshake of Mr X, the don of the den.
We were all rather excited to hear her descriptions of the plush new pleasure dome, as he’d taken the time to show her the ropes (literally), as well as the Hans Wegner armchairs, Farrow and Ball decorated bathroom (Elephant’s Breath, naturally), Audiofile sound system and even that most nouveau-posh of trappings; the obligatory fancy dress chest complete with drummer boy jackets and Aunt Genevieve’s Victorian eyeglasses.
Unfortunately, none of us can find any information about this glory hole on the Internet, so we are going to have to wait for an invitation from Rosa to see it first hand. I’ve already offered to bring her breakfast in bed (at 4am) every Saturday from now until Christmas.
Meanwhile down in the leafy town of Beaconsfield, plum in the epicentre of Home Counties smugness, there is a hallowed railway arch that once a month plays host to the thrill-seeking platinum tennis-honed housewives and roguish commuter men of its rich environs. It’s called ‘Joe’s’. I discovered this over a glass of wine not with my triple-barrel surnamed friends, but with my boyfriend’s mother. She wouldn’t confirm whether she’d been or not, but she was able to describe the swings and arrows of outrageous sexiness that happens there thanks to hearsay from her chattering class friends.
Personally, I like a sex den to be as far away from my day-to-day existence as possible. Not for me the Torture Gardens, ever since I bumped into my dad’s accountant trying to get into the Couple’s Room with a male friend (he’s straight). Nor the likes of those supposedly upscale parties which purport to being for ‘the sexual elite’ but in reality are a Lambrusco-fuelled free-for-all for the sexual saddos of society. No, for me, the invite-only, can’t-be-found-online situation is the answer. I’d much rather a Le Corbusier chaise longue and a French 75 from a cut-glass coupe over a mattress and a wet wipe any day.
So how do you get an invite? Darlings, ask. Ever since sexual deviancy became polite dinner party conversation (St Andrew’s Cross with your Ottolenghi lamb kofte, dear?) it is ok to ask people for a number. Just don’t expect me to reply if you tweet me. Some clubs have to remain clandestine, after all.