After an amazing few weeks, this week has been very much back to real life.

For me, that meant school runs, homework, clubs and all the general day-to-day stuff that nobody particularly wants to hear about.

Paul, meanwhile, had a heavy week at work with a tight deadline. He was working locally-ish, though, so at least he was home every night.

Saturday night, we had plans to go to Alchemy with some friends of ours.

Alchemy is a swingers’ club, and it was Couples and Single Ladies Night—which isn’t usually my favourite theme night. But, as with any club night, it’s the crowd that makes it.

We’ve only been to Alchemy a couple of times before, but it’s absolutely huge.

When you first arrive, there are two enormous staircases. You can take either one and still end up in exactly the same place.

Downstairs, there’s a wet area with a sauna, jacuzzi and everything else you’d expect. I haven’t quite made it in there yet, mainly because once I’ve found the bar and started talking to people, there’s very little chance of me making it anywhere else.

The bar itself is massive and makes a lovely social space to meet people, chat and catch up with friends.

I’d definitely put myself on the social side of swinging. I genuinely love meeting new people and finding out about them.

Making genuine new friends as an adult can be surprisingly difficult. But on the swinging scene, people actually talk to each other. You meet people from completely different backgrounds, share far too much information within twenty minutes and somehow come away feeling as though you’ve known each other for years.

The sex is obviously a fairly significant part of it—but some of the genuine friendships we’ve made have been just as valuable.

On more than one occasion, Paul has had to remind me that it isn’t entirely normal to ask about your friends’ children’s GCSE results or their nan’s funeral while standing around in lingerie.

Upstairs, there’s a smaller bar and an absolute rabbit warren of playrooms. You could very easily get lost up there—especially if, like me, you have the inbuilt navigation system of a drunk homing pigeon.

Honestly, once I’ve turned two corners, I’m no longer exploring the club.

I’m missing.

I’d been genuinely excited about going because we’ve always had such a brilliant night at Alchemy.

Over the course of the week, more and more of our friends had mentioned that they were going too, so it looked as though it was shaping up to be a really good one.

Although, as we all know, the more excited I get about a night out, the more likely I am to spend the entire evening talking, forget to do any actual swinging and come home with nothing more than three new best friends, someone’s entire life story and twenty chicken nuggets from McDonald’s.

Still counts as a successful night, if you ask me.

Then Friday night arrived, and Paul was suddenly speed-dialling practically everyone he knew.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

There was definitely something going on.

Eventually, he admitted it.

“I’ve got to work tomorrow. This project has run over and I need to get it finished.”

“Are any of the lads helping you?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I’ve been trying to get it covered, but I can’t find anyone.”

“How much work is it? Like an hour?”

It is never an hour.

“Or are we talking a full day?”

He paused.

“I might have to work Sunday as well.”

I knew exactly where this conversation was heading: a cancelled night out, a takeaway and an evening in our pyjamas.

Usually, I wouldn’t complain. I love a takeaway-and-pyjamas night.

But the babysitter was organised. I had the perfect outfit planned. Loads of our friends were going, and I wanted to catch up with them.

There was only one option.

“Would it help if I came on-site with you?”

He jumped at the chance.

And that is how, on Saturday morning, I found myself pulling on steel toe-capped trainers—pink, obviously—instead of doing face masks and dyeing my hair.

I’m surprisingly useful on-site.

I keep all my health and safety certificates up to date, just in case I’m ever needed, and I’m not afraid to get stuck in.

As I was lugging boxes and tools around, Paul looked at me and said, “This is the side of you people don’t get to see.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not all holidays, Pilates, shoes and handbags. When something needs doing, you’re always the first one to show up.”

And he’s right.

I’m painfully aware of how hard Paul works and how much of our lifestyle he makes possible. I also know what it takes behind the scenes to support that.

Sometimes that means doing the admin, sorting the finances and keeping everything running at home.

Sometimes it means putting on pink steel toe caps and turning up on-site at the weekend because a job needs finishing—and because I have a swingers’ club to get to.

After about six hours, we finally started packing everything away.

We were done.

And, although I probably wouldn’t admit it too loudly, I secretly love the days when I work on-site with Paul. It feels as though we’re a proper team, and when we finish a job together, the sense of accomplishment is immeasurable.

Although saving our night out was also fairly motivating.

It was gone three by the time we got home, which left just enough time for a quick nap before getting ready for what was hopefully going to be an epic night out.

I’d decided to wear a black sheer cut-out bodycon dress with black and metallic Kurt Geiger biker boots and a matching crossbody bag.

Underneath, I already had my dress-down outfit on. Some of my lingerie requires a minor engineering degree to get into, and attempting it in a club changing room is not a challenge I’m willing to set myself.

I was wearing the Bluebella Azalea Open Bodysuit, which consists of a tiny thong, open cups and some strategically placed gold chains.

One of my friends described it as black dental floss with gold chains.

It was, to be fair, a fairly accurate description.

But I feel like a million dollars in it—and that’s the important part.

Paul drove, and I controlled the music.

I did offer to drive, but we both knew it was a hollow offer—and he’d already managed to get a full morning of manual labour out of me.

When we arrived, we paid, headed into the changing room and locked our club bag and phones away. Then we went straight to the bar to see who we knew.

Joel and Penny were already there.

We’ve known them for a couple of years now, and they’re an absolutely lovely couple. When we first met them, they were completely new to the scene and incredibly nervous, so it’s been lovely watching them grow in confidence.

We originally met them at a social in Chester. They’d been to a club by that point but hadn’t actually played with anyone.

Then we bumped into them again at another club—and we became the first couple they ever played with.

We were very conscious of letting them set the pace and only doing what they felt comfortable with. I was also the first woman Penny had ever been with.

We’ve seen them several times at events since, and we always have a great time together. Paul has even met up with them outside the clubs a couple of times, although my schedule hasn’t allowed me to join them.

The last time, what began as a social ended up back at their hotel.

Hearing about Penny getting spit-roasted was incredibly hot, but it was also amazing to realise just how far they’d come on their lifestyle journey.

They’d gone from being too nervous to play with anyone to confidently exploring exactly what they wanted—and it’s dead nice knowing that we’re a chapter in their story.

Storm and Steve joined us next.

They were the couple who had suggested Alchemy in the first place. Technically, they’d asked the whole group chat, but everyone else was busy that night.

They’re an incredibly hot couple, but they’re also funny and genuinely interesting. I could quite happily stand chatting to them all night.

Which, as previously established, is sometimes a problem.

The six of us stood around the bar chatting, and sparks were definitely flying. We talked about our summer plans and swapped war stories.

When you’ve been around the block as many times as we have, you accumulate quite a collection of bad swinger stories.

Depending on how you tell them, they can either be deeply traumatic or absolutely hilarious.

We prefer hilarious.

After about an hour, I nipped off to “dress down.”

That’s swingo lingo for changing out of your clothes and into your lingerie.

On my way to the changing room, I spotted Kate and Dave waiting in the queue.

We’ve known them for about five years, and they’re actual friend-friends.

Friends I frequently end up naked with, admittedly—but still proper friends.

Kate is about four foot eleven and absolutely tiny. She reminds me of a mischievous Christmas elf because she’s always up to something.

Remind me to tell you about the time she nearly decapitated Paul.

Completely by accident.

He survived, so that particular incident gets filed under hilarious rather than traumatic.

Kate gave me the biggest hug when she saw me. We’d both been away from the scene for a while, and I hadn’t realised quite how much I needed a massive hug and a familiar, friendly face.

We made plans to find each other again later.

When I returned to the bar, Storm, Steve and Paul decided it was time for them to dress down too.

Then the four of us headed upstairs.

Purely to explore, obviously.

For research purposes.

We decided to immediately explore the couples’ room—a designated play space for couples and single women.

In the middle of the room is an enormous orgy bed, surrounded by double-bed-sized cubbyholes, each with its own mattress.

Several couples were already fucking in the cubbyholes, but somehow the giant orgy bed was completely free.

Well, it seemed a shame to let it go to waste.

Shoes and glasses came off, and we got down to business.

Storm and I knelt facing each other on the bed and started kissing.

She’s an amazing kisser.

Our hands began exploring each other’s bodies as we slowly teased and played with each other’s breasts.

Before I knew it, my head was between her legs—and Steve’s cock was in her mouth.

After she came, I turned my attention to Paul.

I absolutely love giving head, and judging by how hard he already was, he wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea.

I glanced over at Storm and Steve and asked whether I could join them. They both eagerly agreed, and before long, all four of us were very much involved.

There was no longer any pretence of “exploring.”

The room was filled with tangled bodies, moans and hands everywhere. At one point, Steve was between my legs while Storm was practically screaming with pleasure.

Then Steve took me from behind—and I had my favourite view in the room: Paul having sex right in front of me.

Getting fucked while watching my favourite person fuck someone else?

Quite honestly, it was better than porn.

Unfortunately, once the hot, horny, thrilling sex is over, I become the most awkward person alive.

I instantly turn into Michael McIntyre, complete with unnecessary observations and an endless supply of dad jokes.

I honestly don’t know how Paul puts up with me.

After a few jokes and quite a lot of laughing, we realised there were other people in the room still having the time of their lives.

Not wanting to completely destroy the vibe, we made a swift exit.

We decided to grab some drinks and head outside to the smoking area.

Not to smoke.

We just desperately needed some fresh air—and to cool down.

While we were outside, we bumped into Kate and Dave again, along with a few other friends we know from another club.

We all stood around chatting, catching up and generally putting the world to rights.

Once we’d finally cooled down, we decided it was time to head back inside and get another drink from the bar.

A few of the others came in with us, and I asked Kate and Dave whether they were planning to play that night.

“Play” is another bit of swingo lingo.

It means fucking.

“Oh, we don’t know,” they said. “You know us—we’re the shittest swingers in the world.”

To be fair, most of us are.

People are generally very good at flirting. It’s making the move from flirting to actually fucking that everyone seems to struggle with.

“Well, if you want to bang, you can come upstairs with us,” I said, in possibly the least romantic invitation of all time.

They looked at each other.

Then they agreed.

“Shall we start an orgy train and see if we can pick anyone else up along the way?”

They were immediately on board.

We ran into Joel and Penny on our way upstairs.

“Orgy?” one of us asked.

“Orgy!” they agreed.

And just like that, they joined the group as we made our way towards a private room.

Keeping track of an orgy pack is surprisingly similar to herding stray cats, but six people felt like a manageable number.

We kept an eye out for Steve and Storm along the way, but they’d already found another couple and disappeared into a private room of their own.

On our way, we spotted another couple we knew and stopped for a chat.

We asked if they wanted to join us, but Phil explained that they’d just had some fun of their own and were getting ready to leave.

They promised they’d catch up with us soon, so we said our goodbyes and continued our search for a private room.

As soon as we found one and closed the door, things started heating up.

There were bodies and limbs everywhere. At one point, I genuinely couldn’t tell whose belonged to whom.

Then Kate broke out her strap-on.

Obviously.

It was such a good time. That’s one of the things I love most about playing with actual friends—nobody takes themselves too seriously.

At a natural break in the play, I checked the time and realised it was about one in the morning.

By that point, I was thoroughly cummed out and wanted chicken nuggets more than I wanted another round.

Paul and I said our goodbyes and left the other four in the playroom to enjoy the rest of their night.

I had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t planning to stop there.

I grabbed a quick shower and changed into my home-time pyjamas.

An experienced swinger always brings comfortable clothes for the journey home.

In my experience, you never leave a swingers’ club in quite the same condition you arrived in.

I go in dressed to the nines.

I come out in pyjamas, with a messy bun, looking as though I’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge.

And let’s not even discuss the state of my make-up.

Before we knew it, we were sitting in the McDonald’s drive-through ordering twenty chicken nuggets to share.

On the drive home, Paul and I talked about what an amazing day and night it had been.

Six hours of manual labour.

Two rounds of swinging.

One orgy train.

And twenty chicken nuggets.

Honestly, that’s what I call a productive Saturday.