In adulthood, our modesty is founded only on the conventional semaphore of sexuality – the woman who stood proud and brazen and unashamed in front of an interloper might be thought to be declaring that she welcomes his attentions – on the surly suspiciousness with which a miser shields his gold, on courtesy founded upon the modesty of others and on residual ignorance and fear. Once shed it as nudists and swingers do, and again, as with healthy  adolescents with their fear, it is at once lost forever, and we are glad to be rid of it. We can be proud rather of possession of the ultimate twin beauties – of functionality and vitality - and we can take pleasure in our shared humanity.
At last, at a swinger’s club in Birmingham, my sexuality and the power and weakness which it confers were not merely acknowledged but honoured and admired. I felt as I might have done had I worn dark-glasses since puberty and only now been permitted to see the sea and the sky and to recognise that others too had retinas which expanded and contracted and eyes which blinked and watered.