I tend to wear comfy crop tops I pull on over my head. It is 1am on a Saturday night and I'm sitting by a lemon tree, on a balcony overlooking London. I'm wearing a slinky red dress and so is the woman next to me. She reaches out and bounces the underside of my boob, saying, "feels like an F cup to me. I've drunk a case of Champagne by this point, and I'm not sure I can recite the alphabet, let alone identify the letter that best describes my boobs. Oh really? I reach out and touch her boob back.
Then I wonder if men do something similar with their ballsacks. I'm at Skirt Club , a women-only event for the bi-curious and bisexual.
There's a pile-up of semi-naked women on the balcony's al fresco furniture, and someone is smoking a post-coital? Inside, I can see a melee of limbs on a camp bed that was earlier strewn with synthetic gold leaves, like you might get in a Christmas pack of potpourri from Morrisons.
There are six bare-skinned girls in the bathtub, and something resembling the game "suck and blow" is going on in the bedroom. Skirt Club encourages its members to explore, and these women are out to make Sir Ranulph Fiennes look lazy.
It started off a tad corporate. Fully dressed, sober, and making small talk, we might have been in a conference room wearing name badges. Only the sight of the hostesses, in stockings and suspenders, indicates this isn't just another networking event. Wearing black lingerie and bird feathers, the hostesses replace our flutes with half-full ones as we empty them.
