Chameleon’s

So here I was, playing Cinderella again. The last time had been when I was permitted to put on a business suit and heels and to shift files in a dreary office.

This time, in a Vauxhall Corsa pumpkin on the way to an orgy in Birmingham, I had a somewhat minimalist ball-gown in my overnight-case – that scarlet and black corset, scarlet stockings, a tiny black dress with a skirt which flared and swung deliciously to end just below my stocking-tops, a broad black patent belt and black patent shoes with 4 inch heels and panels of scarlet moire.

And the ball for which I was bound?
I asked my coachman.
Swingers’ parties, as Paul explained them to me that wet and shiny Saturday late afternoon,

appeared to be a cross between the disco parties of our teenage years and the drinks parties and receptions of supposed adulthood. As at drinks parties, swingers meet, singly or in couples, form short lived groups which absorb others, fragment and reform, and chatter a lot about the weather, their sex-lives, the cost of living, their possessions, their children and the government.

As at the teenage party, however, at which initial communication is generally limited to hair patting, sneering and preening followed by a bit of mutual gut wriggling, the intention of the whole business is manifest. Slowly but surely at those sexually and dermatologically instructive gatherings of my youth, the dance floor would empty as couple after couple retired into dark corners to slobber over one another and to fondle one another’s crevices. So here too, couple after couple would drift off into the playrooms, remove their clothes and ‘play’.