Sex Party First Timer: My first time at Skirt Club

Thinking about putting yourself forward as a potential new member of the glamourous and rather mysterious world of Skirt Club? What’s the inside scoop on this growing movement which is capturing the imagination of curious women, from San Francisco to Sydney? Is it as glam as their marketing suggests? Jem Kawasaki shares her first time experience at a recent ‘Mini Skirt’ event in London. She reveals how a 14 year partnership and marriage, a sexual awakening and a therapy confession played a part in leading her towards her first sex party experience.

The Arrival

With a knot in my stomach and weary from a long trip, I realise I’d arrived in London without any extra underwear for that evening or the next day. Ah – but of course. All jokes aside, this was not intentional or an indication of what I presumed would happen that evening. As luck would have it though, I happened to pass an Ann Summers shop on the way to the venue – call it a stroke of luck or a cosmic sign.

I hastily stuffed some lacy numbers in to my clutch bag and vowed to change them once I was at the secret venue – Skirters only find out about the location a day or two before the event, to protect the discretion and privacy of their members. I arrived at an attractive and upmarket location, an innocuous private members’ club opposite a leafy park. There was nothing to suggest from the hotel/bar staff what would lie ahead and I was respectfully shown through a grand-looking reception area.

Past a mahogany antique staircase, draped with festive garlands and glowing lights, into an old 1920s style lift with red snakeskin walls and through some underground tunnels to a bijous bar reminiscent of a candle-lit cabaret cavern. I was shown the way by a smartly dressed gent, who said he was born in the West End but was Lithuanian, he had an angular face and broad shoulders – eye catching, in other words.

I felt a bit of a thrill wondering if he knew why I was here and what he might think about that. 

The hostesses were delightful and greeted me as if I were an old friend. I’m given a key bracelet in a black ribbon to wear around my wrist and show that it’s my first time. Arriving as a newbie, you’re not sure what to expect. I explained this was a ‘research trip’. I had discussed my, erm, ‘motivations and extra-curricular interests’ with my husband but we’re not currently at a place where we’re ready to explore this more or open up the relationship yet. He was supportive of me attending to see if this is something I might like to get involved in later on. So, champagne and gin aside – I was on my best behaviour.

The background

When I met my husband 14 years ago, I’d identified as bisexual though was never really sure if the shoe fitted. It was a label I foisted on myself for the convenience of others – like an ugly sister who tries to force on a glass slipper that just won’t fit. My attraction towards women was something I’d been keenly conscious of, but I suppose never really found a suitable outlet (or person?) for.

At University, my curiosity had led me to join the LGBT Society, where I’d felt like a spectator and a misfit, too femme and too fussy to act on any advances. 

I’d spent one drunken night with a woman in my twenties. It was impulsive and she was hot, but the encounter was ultimately not very satisfying. I likened it to attempting to operate the starship enterprise without an instruction manual. I assumed that one night meant that I wasn’t ‘really’ into women, I would probably not enjoy sex with a woman again and therefore stayed with dick for the foreseeable.

Fast forward 17 years later, and in the space of a few weeks I’ve had what can only be described as ‘an awakening’.

 I couldn’t get enough sex. I couldn’t contain my own sense of horniness, I was itching to take risks, to branch out. My mind was a tangle of fantasies about illicit encounters, violent sex and general outrageousness. 

My husband was enviable in his enthusiasm to keep up with the increase in demand. I self-satisfied – a lot – while I was supposed to be working from home. I looked up sacred feminine retreats, tantric workshops, yoni massage. Anything to quell the fire inside and scratch that itch.

My therapist asked what was disturbing me, that my conversations were predominantly sexual, that he thought I was trying to push boundaries, both in the therapy space and in my life as well. I said ‘Basically, I’ve been listening to a lot of Nine Inch Nails recently – I want to be fucked into next Tuesday. I am literally fucking myself numb’. 

He wasn’t sure how to respond. Then I found Skirt Club. It’s a hell of a leap to go from following a group online to actually acting out on your fantasies. It took a lot of courage to admit to my husband – and even to close friends that I was having these thoughts, feelings, impulses. I kept pathologising my thoughts as if they were symptomatic of a condition or a depressive/anxious state.

I still feel a certain amount of guilt and shame, such is the pervasive nature of our conditioning that we should only want to exist in a romantic dyad relationship, that this should be enough for the rest of our lives.

Only sluts, freaks and degenerates go to things like sex clubs and engage in open relationships, right? I wasn’t so sure anymore. 

The ladies 

This was the fascinating part. I would be a spectator that night, so was conscious of my boundaries and how these would be perceived. I wondered if the glossy videos for Skirt Club were reflective of the type of women in attendance and as such – would I fit in? I’d fretted about wearing trousers, I don’t like showing my legs – and of course hadn’t anticipated ever opening them for anyone other than my husband.

At times I felt self-conscious, then I reminded myself that as an outrageous flirt with men when the mood takes me, it’s not really that much of a massive leap to be friendly and open with women either. Although I had questions about whether I was open or attached, they were never intrusive and my boundaries were respected.

I told some ladies that I’d be doing a write up about the event. One responded ‘Are you national press?’ Definitely not press, I said. I was surprised how open the women were about their own relationships and sexual interests. 65% of the women attending on this night were first timers and around 70% are in a long term relationship/married – usually to a man and had joined Skirt Club with the full consent of their partners.

Skirt Club is usually a decision for both the woman and her partner – and the hostesses and other members were really understanding and supportive about these issues, giving me advice and reassuring me that I was not alone. The overwhelming message I had? ‘Open communication – every time.’ Be open and talk – about everything.

Entering this world for the first time you need to be conscious and aware of saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Know where your comfort levels lie and use your voice if you are uncomfortable. 

I met a smart looking lady with a sharp haircut and flawless skin who was a swinger with her long term partner. ‘There are many layers to swinging,’ she said. ‘You can start off going at it next to a couple, then graduate to cross-contact, then full partner swapping’, she explained. Another lady in a long term open relationship told me ‘I love my partner and don’t want to be with anyone else…I just really love having sex with women, too’ - as casual as if she’d told me she takes sugar in her tea. It was the intellectual equivalent of a tequila slammer. Skirt Club is as much about mind and soul and it is about body.

There was an excited murmur when one saucy Swede confessed she’d be attending another party the following night and managed to find a date with a man she’d met on her flying visit to London. I hadn't heard about the other sex party event was but the Vet in our group assured me there was no animal cruelty involved and that it was a network for sexually liberated men and women who liked to fuck other people.

I imagined the scenes awaiting the lucky guy who’d be living out every heterosexual man’s fantasy. I like to think of myself as experimental and open minded but I’ve honestly never felt so vanilla in my life. The girls assured me that by the end of the night, I’d definitely be more ‘vanilla spice’. That had a nice ring to it.

As events unfolded, I came to see that this was in effect a Sapphic sorority of unapologetic women from across the sexual spectrum. I met a former lawyer who was now a ‘pro dom’ - her services include an array of Male and female centered domination and ‘unicorning’ where she joins couples to make a threesome. She’d met her current girlfriend at her first Skirt Club experience and the couple are now in an open relationship.

Wasn’t she a former lawyer, though? What made her decide that a career in law wasn’t for her? Her defining moment/epiphany, she replied was when she admitted to herself “Fuck the law, let’s be a whore!” I loved how casual the other skirters were about their sexual interests. Nothing was off the cards, nothing was taboo.

“Oh I run my own fetish club, when I’m not doing Skirt Club”, one hostess told me. There was a pretty brunette with wavy waist-length hair who was celebrating her divorce, which had come through that very day. It was her second Skirt Club. She’d met a friend at the last one and went on to join a threesome with her friend and her husband. “It was incredible- I have another one booked in for two weeks’ time”.  

I met a respectable young married woman with curly hair and glasses who’d had a very religious upbringing and was in a long-term marriage, having first met her husband when she was 15. She was bright, funny and engaging – I later watched her in the after party as she planted her Christian pussy on another woman’s face, seemingly oblivious to the Sodom and Gomorrah scenes in the bedroom around her.

Another guest had come from what she described as a ‘Muslim Fanatic’ background. She had at one stage ‘hated infidels’ and her marriage had been arranged. She is now loudly, playfully and unrelentingly flirtatious – a full blown lesbian who can’t wait to play upstairs later. She loves the pretty girls, she tells me.


At times I was self-conscious - of my height and my age, my baby belly (my daughter is nine - I really have no excuse) of feeling shy in an environment where so many liberated, overtly sexual women were gathered. I was conscious of gate-crashing conversations between cliques or couples. There were some attached couples but open to the advances from others.

One Scandi blonde with an undercut told me ‘I love kissing women...do you want to kiss?’ She then stood before me, tonguing a spikey haired, baby-faced Tom-girl.

There is, I discovered, nothing wrong with being a spectator. You aren’t obliged to look away. You can drink it all in, without feeling any pressure to take part. In a dimly-lit side-room, a game of spin the bottle had started. At least 30 women, by now titillated by the burlesque dancer who’d stripped only moments before - had stepped things up a notch.

The kissing, at first hesitant and tame - was becoming a little more bold. Hands were grabbing, cupping, wandering.  I overheard a hostess ask one of the Skirt Club regulars, who was monitoring the game, “Make sure there are no fingers slipping inside, we can’t have that down here - they’ll have to wait until they go upstairs.” 

Conversations in the bar were followed by the question “Are you going upstairs, later?” A sense of nervous excitement was building for the first-timers, some scrambling to upgrade their tickets after meeting other guests. “Pleeeeeease can you squeeze me in?” one Skirter purred. She’d met someone she’d really like to ‘know better’.

Her figure was a sight to behold and I made no attempt to hide my admiration of it. Perky, curvy - all tits and arse in a bodycon dress, with flawless cocoa skin. Even when Skirters were whooping and hollering at the burlesque dancer though, it didn’t feel seedy, it didn’t feel wrong. It was just women admiring and feeling excited by the female form...and of course potentially openly fucking them upstairs afterwards.

The after-party

It was with some hesitation that I joined the hostesses and other guests upstairs to get a sense of what really ‘goes down’ at the after parties. This one took place in a penthouse apartment with its own private lift.

Groups of four were escorted upstairs and there were champagne bottles and glasses waiting…a large bathroom, a bed ready and sofas and chairs, some draped with velvet throws. By the time I arrived, women were straddling, partially dressed or fully unclothed.

A shy girl who’d arrived alone earlier had her legs wrapped around another girl’s head in the corridor. Another couple were lying on the sofa, all thongs and leopard print French knickers, peep-hole bras. 

It was at times, hard to see where one encounter ended and another would begin. I watched as a hostess was finger fucked by one girl while she sat, legs open on a chair. The finger fucker was being eaten out from behind, who herself was being pleasured by another girl standing up. In the bedroom, girls made use of the cabinets and side tables, balancing their hips as they were eaten out, some hung over the bed, straddled, face fucked and grinded themselves in to a frenzy.

In the bedroom, there were audible moans, gasps and panting. Peachy asses, white thighs and nipples everywhere – inhibitions were out the window. The sexy cocoa girl from earlier strutted around naked, a demure girl who’d been super shy when I met her stood and had a conversation with me as she wore a red thong, stockings and suspenders.

‘I feel a bit pervy watching this’, I told one of the hostesses while I stood in the doorway watching the bedroom scenes. She stroked my back and held my hand, wrapping her arms around my waist. “You’ve told us what your boundaries are and we respect that.” 

It didn’t feel uncomfortable or weird being there – but I felt like I was in a mash-up film noir/Hugh Hefner Pussy Palace production. I stayed until around 12.45 when lots of people were pairing and grouping off. I went in to the bedroom to retrieve my bag and the sex musk, heavy breathing and panting continued all around me.

I liked what I saw but was glad I was taking it slow and was in observational mode only for the time being.

As I left the penthouse, the words of BBC TV’s funny man Louis Theroux rung in my ears and I laughed to myself:

“I wasn’t sure what I’d just seen, but I knew it was time to leave…” 

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Ready to join the fold and experience your first time at Skirt Club? Head over to our live events page, where you can purchase tickets for a London Mini Skirt experience or a full signagture party in one of our sister cities around the globe.