Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules. Emma Sayle
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did a front-page splash headlined ‘VIP Orgy’, naming everyone involved and trying to speculate on who had been at the party, the guys at Heat Bomb did not like it one bit. So I decided to leave, with the plan of taking them on at their own game and turning my vision of that glorious night in Ibiza into a reality. I would beat them by miles and show them all how it could be done.
Whenever I wonder whether to do something or not, I try to imagine the worst-case scenario, and if I think I can handle it, then fine. If I started my own sex parties, what was the worst that could happen? I would have to put all my savings into the venture, which meant that if I lost everything I would be made bankrupt and would have to go back to working in PR. Well, neither of those things was the end of the world. I could cope with that. The start-up costs would be low, so the risk wasn’t that huge, and I already had a lot of experience and contacts to draw on.
I remembered the Eyes Wide Shut atmosphere of the Ibiza wedding and decided I would have the masks, and I set out my party rules like the Fight Club rules. It was fun, almost jokey. If it worked out, fine. If not, I could live with it.
I drew up the ethos of my parties – first, in order to attend, people would have to be members of the club, which meant I’d be able to vet applications. That way I’d be able to keep out people who might want to subvert the parties for their own ends, and I’d make sure I could keep the environment as safe as possible. It also meant that guests were likely to meet people with the same mind-set as their own, and the more comfortable everyone felt, the more likely they were to have a great time. I knew from experience that the organizers of some parties didn’t mind if the party-goers went to extreme places, indulging fetishes and some of the more niche practices. But I didn’t want that. My parties would be more normal, if that’s the right word, where people who were not into particular scenes would feel at home. I would charge £150 for a couple to attend, and £50 for a single woman; no single guys would be allowed. It may cost more than your average Saturday night out, but the price included canapés and free bubbly till midnight, and was designed to ensure that only those willing to play attended.
But what would I call my new enterprise? I remembered the college joke I was told about the morning after the Ibiza wedding party, and I decided I would call my business Killing Kittens in tribute to that night when everything changed. It felt just right – it was intriguing, naughty and would keep people guessing. I set the date for my first Killing Kittens party. First, I needed a location. With the help of friends, I found a sauna bar in the middle of London. It was perfect, with a large mosaic-tiled spa, lounge bar, sauna room, steam bar, wet room and a dozen private rooms – small dark cubby holes with massage tables in them. It had a friendly atmosphere and, most importantly, the owners and staff were discreet. It was going to cost a bomb to hire it for the night, but I was prepared to take the gamble and I used all my savings to do so. Then I invited 40 guests. I had built up a database of contacts from all the parties I had worked for, the kind of people who’d be interested in parties like this, and I emailed out the invitation to them. I didn’t broadcast the fact that I was starting a sex-party business, but I invited a couple of friends I thought would get into the spirit of things: Miss D, of course, and another good friend of mine I’d nicknamed Plaything. He’d been my friend since childhood, and now that we were both living in London, we saw each other all the time. He was my best male friend and my wingman, always looking out for me. He was also young, handsome and very keen to party, and I knew he would be just the right kind of person for Killing Kittens. Word spread fast and soon I had people emailing me, asking where and when the parties were held. Before long, my guest list was full.
Now I had the most important things in place: a venue and a set of ready and willing people who’d paid good money to attend my party. Even though I was sure it was going to be a success, I was still nervous. I’d been at enough parties by now to know that people would get into the spirit of things, but I worried that this time no one would lose their inhibitions sufficiently to start the action going. Would I be able to create the right vibe?
I needn’t have worried. I had the sauna bar looking perfect – sophisticated and welcoming in the bar area, where candles flickered and trays of drinks awaited the party-goers, and a little more steamy and enticing further on, where the large pool and darkened areas promised pleasures to come. Baskets of condoms were placed discreetly around the place; I’d ordered hundreds to make sure that, whatever happened, we couldn’t run out. A security guard stood on the door to ensure that only invited guests were allowed in – I didn’t want anyone straying in from the street by mistake. People began to arrive as soon as the doors opened at nine o’clock, and I was delighted to see that they looked fantastic, dressed in glamorous evening clothes and wearing glittering masks. This was what I wanted – sophistication and style. And, of course, I wanted to see those glamorous clothes well and truly off by the end of the night. I certainly did. The atmosphere of a smart drinks party changed subtly until it was sexy and permissive. People sought playmates and found them. By midnight the entire club was full of naked people and wherever I looked, I could see unbridled enthusiasm for the sex that was taking place everywhere. Couples, groups, threesomes, foursomes, together in every variety. Some were partakers; others were watchers. I saw one man happily observing his girlfriend as she fucked another man fast and hard in front of him. I saw girls caressing each other, kissing and making love for their own pleasure, not so some man could enjoy it (though some did, of course). I saw all manner of high jinks and sport in the pool, the sauna and in the recesses of the cubby holes: if the doors were left open, then the participants welcomed being watched or even wanted more partakers.
Miss D and Plaything launched themselves wholeheartedly into the action, getting into each other first and then exploring a wilder side of things with two other girls. It was kind of strange seeing my two old friends getting down to full and frank sex, throwing themselves into the whole thing with gusto. But it was also strange how quickly I got used to it. Nudity is natural when everyone is carefree, uninhibited and accepting, and even the wildest sex soon ceases to be shocking when you’ve witnessed it for a while. The main thing was that people were happy and enjoying themselves in safety and comfort. There was one hairy moment when security was temporarily breached – a photographer had sneaked into the club, trying to get some snaps to sell to the press to cause a scandal and put the new members off the club, but my security chased him away and nicked his film. After that, everything ran smoothly. The fun and games went on until the early hours when, at last, exhausted and satisfied, the final party-goers left.
Killing Kittens was up and running. I was now a bona fide sex entrepreneur.
‘You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.’
Friedrich Nietzsche
I’ve met a few people in the sex business and a lot of them are dreadful, ruthless, cigar-chomping men driven solely to make money. Some are among the wealthiest people in the country. More often than not, they treat their money with more respect than they do their employees, most of whom are women. They lure young girls into the industry and exploit them until their appeal is gone, then chuck them out in favour of younger, fresher replacements. It’s about using women to service men’s desires and fantasies, and it can be an unpleasant business that I can’t help feeling is related to darker activities such as prostitution and sex trafficking.
I am not interested in that side of the sex industry and I’d be horrified to be like those seedy men getting rich on exploitation. My business might be about sex, but my aims were always to offer pleasure and entertainment, where safety and control were paramount. Besides, I was happy to start small and see what happened. When it comes to business, in my opinion slow and steady always wins the race.
At the beginning I kept my sex soirées small and intimate. I continued to use the venue in the middle of London, with between 50 and 100 people attending the parties. They all kept on coming back for more, and I got ever more enquiries from the one-page website I’d set up. It simply asked anyone interested in Killing Kittens to submit their email address for more information, and from there I went through the process of vetting my applicants.