There’s nothing sexy about a sex party

‘Sorry sir, the rules clearly state that all single men must be accompanied by a woman.’ As the frustrated guest is ushered off the premises, my female companion and I are welcomed into a grand reception room where the organised sex party is being held. A barmaid offers us some complimentary condoms and a handful of Quality Street, along with some fluorescent orange punch served in plastic cups.

Should we be engaging in small talk or ripping each other’s clothes off? No one seems to know

The organisers of tonight’s paid event claim they cater for the world’s ‘sexual elite’ but there’s something disarmingly ordinary about the snaggle-toothed mid-lifers trooping in behind us – hardly the glamour models I’d been expecting.

The ‘strict selection process’ appears to be anything but. Applicants are supposedly judged on ‘charisma, interests and success’ as well as on looks, so I’m assuming my wildly exaggerated claims – ‘chalet in Verbier, job in finance and a penchant for business-class travel’ – have yet to be verified.

Tonight’s party goes by the name of ‘Fantasy Fling’ but that doesn’t mean I can just fling myself at any passing fantasy. In an effort to ‘challenge gender stereotypes’, men must always wait to be approached.

The atmosphere is endearingly English as couples dressed in ill-fitting eveningwear stand around looking embarrassed. Should we be engaging in small talk or ripping each other’s clothes off? No one seems to know. And what if none of the women makes the first move? Can we ask for a refund?

Upstairs two couples are writhing around on an enormous bed surrounded by guests, but something feels off. Why are they so much more attractive than the rest of us? And why does their lovemaking appear to be simulated? One of the women even stifles a yawn. Could they be plants, employed to get us in the mood? If so, the strategy doesn’t appear to be working.