I went to a bi-curious sex club with a high profile client — then we got caught

Recently, I visited a club for the bi-curious with a favoured client — let’s call him Johnnie — as he was keen for me to watch him dress as a girl and play with boys. 

I’ll be honest, I really didn’t have a clue what to expect. At all. I have always avoided recreational group sex as I find them not sufficiently profitable for my taste. Plus I am only gay for pay — I play with women in films and also occasionally in sessions — but outside work I am blisteringly heterosexual. 

But that day I was in town alone and idle, and Johnnie begged and promised me beer, so I succumbed.

Dressed in stockings, a short skirt, heels and a pretty blouse — more businesslike than slutty, but easy access, just in case I decided to dig in — I met Johnnie at Kings Cross and we headed for the club, which resides in a thrillingly dingy basement just round the corner. 

Every Monday it offers itself up for ‘group play’, chiefly for bisexual men, and their partners. To this end, they try to attract women, for where women go, men will follow. Single women go free; mixed sex couples go free; crossdressing men pay £10; single men, £55.

Despite being a seasoned pro when it comes to sex, I couldn’t help but feel nervous. Johnnie had told me he’d been there before, years ago, and described it as the most sordid night of his life, watching two city boys spit roasting a cross-dresser on a grubby cement floor. 

While I was planning on relying on my posh voice and natural air of authority to escape with my virtue intact, I also knew there might be a chance I might be overcome with lust and wind up in my first ever orgy. Who knew…

First, we went upstairs to turn Johnnie into a girl. He’d brought a basque, stockings, thigh high boots, a slutty skirt, long ginger curls, and kilos of glittery make up.

I began to apply false eyelashes and lip liner to his quivering excitable self, while next to us, sat in front of a three bar fire, was a short, elderly gentleman, glumly turning himself into a French maid. 

Once Johnnie was ready, we linked arms, took a deep breath and walked dwn the stairs and into a sweaty, squirming vision from the final days of Rome. There were mattresses on the floor and sex swings suspended from the ceiling, all occupied.

There was a bar, thank the good lord, and Johnnie had thought to stuff his credit card up his long red satin glove. ‘Wine’, I muttered, urgently. ‘Lots of wine.’ He tottered to the bar, and I turned to a handy, not too frightening looking, fully dressed couple. 

‘Hello!,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s my first time and I’m terrified! How are you?” They beamed at me pityingly.

Turns out this couple turn up every Monday afternoon. They seemed to be genuine enthusiasts, keen to play and experiment. The woman told me to only do what I was comfortable doing; not to be pressured by anyone; it was perfectly OK just to watch. 

There were signs everywhere emphasising this point: make sure you get consent before anything else. My anxiety levels drifted downwards from peak panic.

The man said he’d like to play later. I smiled politely and said I’d be looking round first. He smiled back, and nodded agreeably. 

And then, thank goodness, my wine arrived. I downed it with indecent haste and headed for the play zone.

Instantly I was a target. I was new; I was female; I was clearly fascinated by everything I saw. They came at me like zombies. Thirty or so men, dicks in hands, staggering in my direction, like a scene from Shaun of the Dead. Honestly, I quite enjoyed it. I like being the most popular person in the room.

Mostly I talked to people, but maybe I did enjoy just a little of the fun… It was an experience I’d put somewhere between a series of interviews and an orgy, but much closer to the chatting end of the spectrum. 

Mainly I watched — and there was a lot to look at. I even spotted the glum French maid getting drilled on a sex swing, which seemed to have cheered him.

‘I feel like a duchess at an orgy,’ I whispered to Johnnie, urgently, after twenty minutes of this. ‘Have you had enough? When can we leave?’ But Johnnie was staring, transfixed, at a well-endowed chap in the corner, with a distinctive braying laugh and come hither stare.

‘Fancy a bit of that, do you?’ I said, reaching for his wine. ‘Well, I reckon I’ll be alright for another ten minutes. Go enjoy yourself.’

He gasped, then staggered, like one about to faint.

‘That’s – that’s – Chris*!’ he mouthed. ‘From the office!’

‘Ah. Bother. Alright, let’s not panic…’

Too late. For Chris had spotted Johnnie’s transfixed gaze and come sauntering over to make his acquaintance. 

Happily Johnnie makes an excellent girl, really quite distinct from his usual macho appearance, and this, combined with the mood lighting and Chris’ evident tipsiness, meant Johnnie – that’s married, respectable, slightly famous Johnnie – calmed down somewhat when he realised Chris had no clue who he was.

He didn’t risk conversation though, just promptly got busy on the man’s impressive purple tumescence.

Soon enough, Johnnie was ready to leave, so we grabbed each other’s hands and ran for the cloakroom.

‘Come back soon!’ the nice couple called after us. ‘We wanted to play with you!’

Well, maybe. After all, it was a thrilling lark, safe, well-managed, and I thoroughly recommend it to the curious and courageous. 

For me, the social mores were the trickiest thing to navigate. I feel when entering a social situation one should first enquire as to the person’s health, travel arrangements, rough location within the country, state of mind, and probably compliment them on their outfits.

My new friends didn’t seem at all interested in these niceties, and most of them weren’t wearing outfits for me to compliment.

As Johnnie and I shared wine and pie on the train home, we giggled at our daring and wondrous escape, deciding we would definitely go again, now we had a better idea of what to expect. I have since even recommended the night to my clients who are bi-curious. 

The only nasty moment was the next day when Johnnie couldn’t find his work pass, which boasts his name, photo and work address and could have proved awkward in the wrong hands. (I’m not saying he’s definitely a high profile political figure, just that it’s not out of the question).

Happily he later found it stuffed in his shiny, thigh high, Barbie pink boot. Phew.

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