It’s a Friday night in Soho, London.

I’m dressed in a stylish black cocktail dress and find myself in a spa where the air is heavy with chlorine. The space is filled with barely dressed strangers sipping on champagne and vodka tonics beneath purple lighting.

At the center of the room is a large, geometrically-shaped jacuzzi bubbling away. Above a neon-lit bar with white stools and black-tiled flooring, pornographic videos play on flat screens.

Bowls of condoms sit in every corner.

This is not exactly what I had in mind when I signed up to attend what is marketed as London’s most exclusive sex party.

‘Killing Kittens’ began to make waves in the media back in 2005. For those unfamiliar with the name, it’s derived from the old saying: ‘Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten.’

For the last 20 years, KK has been building a reputation as an erotic club for the elite. Think velvet ropes, NDAs and strict vetting (you must submit pictures of yourself to be considered for membership).

Invitations and background checks are tightly controlled (or so I thought). Men are banned unless escorted by a female member, and, even then, participants are instructed that here, women make the first move.

It’s a Friday night in Soho, London, and I’m wearing a sexy black cocktail dress and standing in a spa that reeks of chlorine, surrounded by half-naked strangers sipping champagne and vodka tonics under purple lights

For the last 20 years, KK has been building a reputation as an erotic club for the elite. Think velvet ropes, NDAs and strict vetting (you must submit pictures of yourself to be considered for membership)

I had pictured high heels clicking on marble floors. A stately home dripping in chandeliers. A handsome masked man in a tuxedo offering me oysters.

What I got was a converted health club – formerly known as The Stable – tucked between pubs and a gelato shop.

It was less Eyes Wide Shut, more eyes wide… oh, okay then.

I’d reached out to KK earlier this summer and was invited to this event called ‘Hedonism.’ In preparation, I ordered a bright orange lace set from Honey Birdette – bra, g-string, suspenders – the full glamazon swingers starter kit.

I figured, if you’re going to a sex party with posh people, the Marks & Spencer multipack just won’t do. But a last-minute message from the organizers reminded me cocktail attire was required on arrival. So, I swapped the lingerie for a little black dress.

At the door, my friend and I were waved to the front of the line and handed lace masks. We descended a staircase and stepped into an underground space cast in moody blues and reds, pure 90s clubland.

The furniture was modern but not luxurious, more functional than opulent, like a nightclub that hadn’t seen a renovation since Queer as Folk was canceled.

It had charm, but not quite the Castle-in-Venice I had envisioned. (In hindsight, the 20 pound membership fee was a clue).

At the bar, there were blue pills on offer. Whether they were cheeky vitamins or the real deal, I don’t know.

I ordered a champagne to calm the nerves, while my friend noticed several guests heading to the locker rooms out the back.

They soon reappeared looking very different.

The women were in immaculate lingerie. The men had stripped to briefs, jocks, even the occasional leather harness. (I regretted not packing my Honey Birdette set.)

The members were a mix of couples from their thirties to sixties – a lot of glam, confident women and handsome, quiet men.

I’d reached out to KK earlier this summer and was invited to an event called ‘Hedonism’

The members were a mix of couples from their thirties to sixties – a lot of glam, confident women and handsome, quiet men

I met a young married couple – very sweet, very normal, and, dare I say it, slightly dorky – who were there for their third time.

The wife told me that they first started coming so she could explore her sexual side with women, which seemed to be a theme among many of the married guests. So they came as a team and his job was simply to enjoy watching her get it on with female participants (which she did!).

Another posh school mum with a cute, sensible blonde bob told me she’s in an open marriage, and she swears KK has saved her sex life. She explained that she and her husband used to get up to all sorts of kinky adventures before they had kids, but then family life took over and they lost their spark.

After she was invited to a party, he actively encouraged her to go without him, under one strict condition: she tells him every single detail of what she got up to upon arrival home. Turns out, that’s his kink.

Then there was the billionaire. Everyone pointed him out. Late seventies, trim, quiet. He didn’t speak to anyone. He didn’t join in. He just watched. Drink in hand, eyes calmly scanning the room, like a man at an art auction.

The night took about 45 minutes to warm up, as people chatted and sipped their drinks. Then the flat screen TVs flickered to life with full-blown, hardcore porn. That seemed to be the signal.

People who had been milling around began gravitating toward the hot tub. Others slipped quietly into private rooms at the back. Though, the word ‘room’ is doing a lot of work here.

Even brothels have a theme – perhaps red velvet, cheetah print or old-fashioned lamps – but these ‘rooms’ were barely furnished with a desk and a bowl of condoms.

Where were the candles and rose petals? It didn’t seem to stop anyone – or so the audible moans suggested.

The women were in immaculate lingerie. The men had stripped to briefs, jocks, even the occasional leather harness. (I regretted not packing my Honey Birdette set)

One guest I spoke to had sex with a man she’d just met. It was her first time attending a KK event and she was surprised by how little she cared if people watched.

There was a lot of same-sex activity between female guests, often with male partners watching quietly nearby.

One couple told me they’d brought along a third – a female friend who regularly joined them for threesomes.

The vibe was casual and consensual. I never felt pressured to join in or nude up, even if a few cheeky digs were made about me still wearing my cocktail dress.

One thing did shock me – there seemed to be no mandatory STD testing. At least, not for me or my friend or the two guys who we met at a bar beforehand and tagged along like hyper puppies.

I was also surprised by how respectful everyone was. This wasn’t a Bonnie Blue-orchestrated orgy.

In fact, I found myself getting… bored. At one point, I started thinking about what snacks might be left in the minibar back at the hotel.

So, I left quietly.

I wasn’t going to hook up with anyone and I had seen enough willies to last me a lifetime.

For the right people, I can see how KK may be the perfect way to reignite a fire. And while this wasn’t the party that I was expecting, I’m told that there are far more luxurious events – including an upcoming 20th anniversary event being held in a castle in Venice.

Would I go again? Maybe.

But next time, I’m bringing the Honey Birdette – and setting my expectations accordingly.