The author of this story has chosen to stay anonymous, but is known to Mamamia.
Let me start with this: I didn't go to a sex party to reclaim my power.
I didn't go to find myself. I didn't even go to have sex.
I went because I was heartbroken, a little bored, insatiably curious and tipsy enough to say yes when my friend leaned over her spicy margarita and said, "Wanna come to a sex club next weekend?"
I said yes because I had nothing better to do. But also — and this is the part that made it feel just unhinged enough to be equal parts healing and delicious — my ex had begged me to go to one for years.
When we were together, he'd whisper about it like it was some shared, simmering fantasy. But it was never mine. It felt like one of those things women are supposed to be cool about — like threesomes, breath play or pretending to be chill when he orders fries but ends up eating all of yours.
He wanted to watch me. Swap me. Share me. Experiment and push boundaries. But I never felt like he wanted to push mine gently. It didn't feel like it was about us — it felt like it was about him being turned on by the idea of me being turned into a performance. I was the prop, he was the director. It was lights, camera, action, but I didn't know my lines.
I said no. And he acted like I was small-minded. Like I didn't get it, or was too repressed to see the self-actualisation of being watched by strangers while a man named Trevor* gently spanked me with a vegan leather flogger.
For the record, I don't have a problem with sex clubs, or kink, or group sex. I just didn't feel safe or free enough to do it with him. Not when it felt like my boundaries were being bartered away for his pleasure.
But when I found myself single and spiralling and on the brink of reinventing my entire personality via sex-positive chaos… of course, I said yes. Not because I wanted to prove something or wanted to make a statement, but because, for the first time, I was able to say yes without anyone else's fantasy wrapped around mine.
The club was tucked behind an unmarked blink-and-you'd-miss-it door of a sandstone townhouse. It was the kind of place you'd walk past without knowing that inside was pure velvet-soaked hedonism.
Low light. Soft furnishings. A flicker of candlelight on polished concrete. And right inside the entrance: a giant, champagne coupe with a half-naked woman perched inside like a perfectly chilled garnish. She handed me a glass of bubbles with a grin, like she knew exactly what kind of night I was about to have.
There was a welcome speech — part rules, part ceremony. Consent was sacred. Condoms were mandatory. No pressure. No shame. Say no and it definitely meant no. The vibe was… oddly wholesome. Like a TED Talk, if TED stood for Tits, Eroticism and Dungeons.
For the first hour, everyone milled around chatting and drinking. It felt calm and grounded and hot in the way confidence often is. Everyone already knew why they were there, and no one was trying to fake it.
People had arrived in jeans and sneakers, but they slowly started peeling off their layers — literally. The change room had the energy of a sexy locker room before the big game.
I slipped into black lace lingerie and stilettos. My friend wore a sheer robe that concealed nothing. Most men wandered around in boxer briefs. One guy — clearly a regular — emerged in a leather harness and combat boots. One woman went fully naked and I wanted to high five her.
We wandered through the rooms, which included an open lounge with velvet couches and bowls of lollies; private rooms with moody lighting and enormous beds with soft sheets that whispered secrets; a basement "dungeon" with leather contraptions and racks of paddles; and a multi-bed orgy room complete with showers, sheer curtains and a sense that something deeply feral (and very, very hot) was about to happen.
I perched on a couch in the orgy zone, nibbling on a jelly snake and watching two couples warm up like they were stretching before a high-stakes sporting event. There was moaning. Whispering. Strategic finger placement. I didn't feel grossed out or freaked out — I felt… intrigued. Relaxed, even. Everyone was respectful. No one touched without asking. I got approached a few times — "Want to join?" — but when I smiled and said no, they nodded and went right back to it.
There was no shame, no pressure, no creepy lingering or suggestive comments. Just pleasure unfolding in a thousand different directions.
I floated between rooms, drink in hand, like a confused but horny tourist. I wasn't sure what I was looking for — just that I wasn't ready to leave yet.
And then I met them.
A couple. Sweet. Attractive. Magnetic. Married parents -of-four. Hot in that "they definitely have a cellar full of natural wine and a shared Notes app sex bucket list" kind of way.
She wore a sheer black lace bodysuit and a tight leather skirt. He wore a colourful unbuttoned shirt that revealed a chest covered in tattoos. They were playful. Softly commanding.
We chatted and laughed, as if we were just flirting at a dinner party.
Then, we kissed. First, just me and her. Then him. Then all three of us. I remember thinking, 'this is what it feels like to be completely present.' No weird internal monologue. No dissociation. No performative moaning. Just curiosity and closeness and… heat.
They asked if I wanted to find a room, and my mouth said yes before my brain had a chance to catch up.
Inside, she took control. She told me what her husband liked. She told him where to touch me. She kissed my neck and directed my hands. Positioned my body and whispered instructions with the confidence of a woman who'd done this before and loved it.
She mostly wanted to watch — but also wanted me to enjoy it. I did.
There was laughter. Lightness. It wasn't slow or romantic, but it also wasn't rough or degrading. It felt like play. Like adults doing something slightly absurd and very pleasurable just because we could. And yes, the sex was good. Like, really good. It was sensual, intimate and real.
Eventually, a staff member knocked on the door. The party was wrapping up and we'd somehow lost track of time.
We got dressed, said our goodbyes and I left with the taste of her lipstick still on mine feeling… calm. Not giddy. Not broken. Just light. Like I'd shed something I didn't know I was carrying.
A week later, my ex found out.
He called me a slut. A whore. He said I'd humiliated him. That I'd betrayed some kind of sacred, unspoken post-breakup vow neither of us ever agreed to. He told all of our mutual friends, framing it like an exposé, as if he'd caught me in some act of depravity that would finally make people realise I was the unstable one.
The irony, of course, is that it had been his fantasy. His obsession. But it only became "dirty" when I did it without his permission.
That's the part that made me furious — not the name-calling, but the assumption that he still had a claim over my body. That he could demand purity from the ruins he helped create. That he was somehow entitled to be the gatekeeper of my pleasure.
But I didn't feel ashamed. Not even for a second.
Because going to a sex party with him would've been a performance. Going without him and saying yes to something because I wanted it — not to impress anyone, not to prove anything — but because the thought of lace and lips and being seen and touched and to be wanted, thrilled me? That was the sexiest part of all.
So yes, I went to a sex party. I wore the outfit. I had the threesome. I watched the orgy. I ate the lollies. I looked hot. I felt alive.
No, it didn't fix me.
But it reminded me that my body is mine. That my yes means something. That sometimes the most radical thing you can do is want something — and then go and take it.
Feature Image: Canva.
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