How do you know what to expect from an orgy? If you’ve never been to one, you’re bound to take your cues from popular culture. Tom Cruise put on his little mask, left Nicole Kidman at home and showed up to an orgy in Eyes Wide Shut – Maverick at an occult swingers party was probably even more unsettling than seeing him use Oprah’s couch as a trampoline. And anyone who’s tuned in to The Secret Diary Of A Call Girl over the years would have seen Billie Piper and her overbite at more than one achingly glamorous orgy, mostly in stunning country houses filled with charming, good-looking people – like a casting call for a Bond film but with more shagging. Apart from that, though, what does anyone know about how orgies work?

It is with this childlike curiosity, this open mind, that I show up to the most recent Killing Kittens party. For those not in the know, Killing Kittens hosts “exclusive adult parties” and operates an “elite casual dating” site. The name comes from the expression that ‘every time a woman masturbates, God kills a kitten’. Appropriately, Killing Kittens is all about the women – the men are essentially props, penises to dress the set. Consider the rules: single men aren’t allowed – it is only couples and single ladies – and men are not allowed to approach women. They must wait to be invited.

Having finagled an exemption from the ‘no single men’ rule – I am press, after all – I report for duty at the Sauna Bar in Covent Garden. It is a nightspot normally frequented by gay men looking for, shall we say, discreet encounters. Chaise longues line the walls – covered in black faux leather that is unlikely to show stains and will be easily hosed down – and bowls of condoms are placed prominently. The air is perfumed with the aroma of cleaning fluid and lube.

Porn loops on TVs above the bar and pretty much anywhere you look. After all, we can’t have people forgetting what they’re here for. Beyond the main area, an enormous hot tub bubbles away. Under-lit corridors snake deeper into the bowels of the venue; there are tiny ‘private rooms’ on either side – in reality, they are little more than airing cupboards with single bench-seats inside.

Gradually, though, involvement becomes more widespread. By the small hours of the morning, the hot tub has turned into a broiling potpourri of shared bodily fluids. There must be at least 10 couples banging away in there – from behind, face-to-face, girls on girls, guys on girls, vice versa. It’s all happening. All of it. And, by now, back in the main room, there are two separate ménage-trois – or ménage-six, if we’re counting – in full swing. There are two groups of three couples all tangled up together – it’s hard to tell who’s doing what to who. There are dicks pointed in every direction. As the hours pass, different combinations and configurations ensue, but it is surprising how quickly one becomes desensitised to it. And, by 3am, I’ve seen enough naked flesh and decide to hit the road.

The evening has been an eye-opener and I certainly don’t regret the experience, but nor is it one I feel desperate to repeat. In many ways, this is a relief. If orgies were to become my new favourite thing, and finding partners to accompany me my new preoccupation – well, let’s just say I have enough vices already without adding not-in-public fuckfests to the list.

Don’t get me wrong – everyone rutting away in the hot tub was enjoying themselves. Good luck to them. And if anyone is curious and wants to experiment, they should jump in feet-first. Why not? You’ve got the rest of your life to be a prude. But – and maybe I’m more conventional than I realised – there remains something slightly tawdry, slightly low-rent about the whole spectacle. The exhibitionism is assiduous rather than casual; it feels like people are trying too hard to break the mold, to do something naughty and, as I leave, the whiff of desperation lingers longer than the memory of anything truly erotic. Then again, maybe I’m just bitter that, even at an orgy, I didn’t get laid.

By and large, it is an attractive, well-presented crowd. There are probably two or three couples who fall into the category of exceptionally good-looking. Equally, there are enough less genetically blessed specimens to suggest that, although Killing Kittens claims all members are rigorously vetted, the censor took a couple of days off when ticket sales were a bit slow. Suffice to say, I do not feel out of my league.

I get chatting to Alex, a polite English lad in his late-20s. And, really, what could be less weird than two guys making small talk at an orgy? “Oh, hi – you’re not a woman,” he says by way of introduction, “So I can talk to you, can’t I?”

It is the chastening reality. On one hand, it takes all the pressure off men to initiate contact, to get the ball rolling, and puts the onus exclusively on the ladies. But it is an awkward inversion of the roles – the women are simply unaccustomed to making the first move and the men feel like they should be doing more, but aren’t allowed to. It is like being the nerdy girl at the school dance who has to wait for a boy to ask her to take a twirl; it is like trying to sprint up the stairs in a pair of too-tight jeans.

“Yeah, it’s a bit weird,” Alex agrees. “I’d happily go up and chat to some of these girls, but it’s against the rules.”

Fortunately for Alex, he has a female sidekick, Louise, who was happy to get on board. It’s totally platonic and both will end up doing their own thing, but in light of the intricacies of orgy etiquette, she’s his trump card. In Louise, Alex has a willing pimp who can bring him into the orbit of available women; he has a canary he can send down the mineshaft.

“We were all talking about it over dinner one night,” Louise says. “And Alex is very attractive but I just wanted to come and see what it was like. It’s no big deal.”

It’s nearly midnight and proceedings are starting to become less PG. Like Tour de France riders who break away from the peloton and force the others to follow, one of the alpha couples – a tall, dark handsome type and a leggy blonde with a bit of a ‘page-three girl’ look – have commandeered one of the single ladies at the party and are eagerly exploring one another on a sofa. To be fair, the girls are doing most of the work – on each other as much as on the fella, who is barely breaking a sweat. Off to the side, in a more secluded room, another couple is fucking noisily while, yet another – and these two are at the wrong end of the bell-curve – are 69ing in a corner. Everyone else just stands around and watches. Hey ho. Another Saturday night in London.

Gradually, though, involvement becomes more widespread. By the small hours of the morning, the hot tub has turned into a broiling potpourri of shared bodily fluids. There must be at least 10 couples banging away in there – from behind, face-to-face, girls on girls, guys on girls, vice versa. It’s all happening. All of it. And, by now, back in the main room, there are two separate ménage-trois – or ménage-six, if we’re counting – in full swing. There are two groups of three couples all tangled up together – it’s hard to tell who’s doing what to who. There are dicks pointed in every direction. As the hours pass, different combinations and configurations ensue, but it is surprising how quickly one becomes desensitised to it. And, by 3am, I’ve seen enough naked flesh and decide to hit the road.

The evening has been an eye-opener and I certainly don’t regret the experience, but nor is it one I feel desperate to repeat. In many ways, this is a relief. If orgies were to become my new favourite thing, and finding partners to accompany me my new preoccupation – well, let’s just say I have enough vices already without adding not-in-public fuckfests to the list.

Don’t get me wrong – everyone rutting away in the hot tub was enjoying themselves. Good luck to them. And if anyone is curious and wants to experiment, they should jump in feet-first. Why not? You’ve got the rest of your life to be a prude. But – and maybe I’m more conventional than I realised – there remains something slightly tawdry, slightly low-rent about the whole spectacle. The exhibitionism is assiduous rather than casual; it feels like people are trying too hard to break the mold, to do something naughty and, as I leave, the whiff of desperation lingers longer than the memory of anything truly erotic. Then again, maybe I’m just bitter that, even at an orgy, I didn’t get laid.

Words: Tom Sturrock