Skirt Club: zero judgement (Picture: Victoria Dawe for Skirt Club)

I’m bricking it. I agreed to this in a yeah-I’m-so-cool-with-this kind of way.

I’ve fantasised about women before. I meet and talk with women who I find so beautiful I can’t take my eyes off them.

But there’s a big difference between fantasy and reality.

Skirt Club is a sex club for women only. Women who consider themselves more or less heterosexual – some even in relationships or marriages who come with their partner’s knowledge and consent – but who have a curiosity they want to explore.


The founder, who goes by the pseudonym Genevieve LeJeune, says she wanted Skirt Club to be a place where women could feel liberated enough to explore their sexuality:

‘What I love most about Skirt Club is that there’s zero judgement’ ‘I’ve personally struggled with this for years, concerned about what others thought of my sexuality. ‘I now realise it doesn’t matter and there are no boxes to categorise us, nor do there need to be.’

As the days pass and the night is fast approaching, I feel freaked out and too embarrassed to talk to anyone other than my unfortunate flatmate about it.

It’s cool. I’m cool. I’m not cool. I’m not f***ing cool.



Dear God, what have I got myself into this time?

I’ve kissed women before. Silly, drunken kisses. But what do you do past that?

I’ve never got past first base and I have no idea how it works.

What will I do?

Curious to experiment? You're not alone In a recent survey, 91 per cent of women said they’d had sexual thoughts about other women, while 62 per cent said they’d had a sexual experience with a woman.

As the night approaches, I start to hope that something will ‘come up’. That someone will magically have to take my place.

But then, the night is here and I have to ‘woman up’.

There’s a dress code: 1920s Berlin. Great. I’m bloody awful with these things at the best of times. And now I’m dressing for women.

What do you wear to impress women? Women you might, possibly, maybe get intimate with?

Thank the Lord for said flatmate who clearly has a more interesting sex life than my own and lends me a corset, suspender belt, stockings, heels and a trench to cover it all up.

As I put my outfit together I begin to feel empowered. Sexy.

I am a strong, independent woman who is thanking her lucky stars she’s been working out of late.

Not only do I not hate my body when I look at it in the harsh truth of the mirror, I’m actually bloody loving it.

This is new. This I like.

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But I feel that the underwear-under-mac look is one step too much towards stripper and I slip on a cocktail dress.

I also have the first-person-at-a-party fear that I’ll be the only one who rocks up in a look-at-me-in-my-underwear theme.

The door to the private five-storey house in Notting Hill is not easily found. They said it was hidden. But there’s hidden and there’s this-could-have-come-off-the-set-of-Harry-Potter hidden.

As I step inside, a fellow explorer swiftly skips through the doorway behind me.

Exchanging nervous glances we lock on to each other and walk up the stairs. En route she bumps into a friend – neither of whom saw that coming.

At the top of the first flight we take a left into the kitchen where a pop-up bar is serving champagne and Berlin-themed cocktails.



In the living room hypnotic electro plays while around 20 women, mostly in LBDs, talk in small groups.

The drinks flow (they’re free all night with the £60 ticket) and bowls are scattered around full of nuts and gold-coated, aphrodisiac chocolate balls.

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First-timers are marked out by a key tied around their wrists. There are quite a few of us. But there are also regulars who greet each other warmly.

I stick to my fellow explorer like a Siamese twin. Her friend joins us to make triplets and together we make our way upstairs to see what the rest of the house has to offer.

It seems much like any other, with the exception of an extraordinary number of faux sheepskin rugs. No one likes carpet burn, no matter how much they’re enjoying themselves.

Up on the roof terrace, we look out over West London, lit up and with the excitement of a Saturday night wafting up from the streets below.

If only they knew.

I feel much more relaxed now I’m here – it’s not nearly as scary as I’d made it out to be in my mind.

I had no idea how I’d feel when I entered the party, but apparently I behave just like I would at any other party and park myself and my new-found companion by the food back downstairs in the living room (also scattered with those for-one-night-only rugs).


The atmosphere is civilised, much like a networking event or house party. Just with all women.

About an hour in, the numbers have swelled to around 50 and we gather for a talk from luxury S&M wear designer Darkest Star, who hands out lace blindfolds ‘for later’ and demonstrates some of her products.

During the talk, one woman suddenly arises, walks with purpose across the room to my Siamese twin, holds out her hand and takes her out of the room.

I breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn’t my hand she was grasping for. And I hope my companion is returned. Soon.

One woman volunteers to be the first to take off her dress and reveal her ‘outfit’ underneath. This is not a party to turn up to in your safe M&S knickers, that’s for sure. And the rest of us now look overdressed.

Then a tiny, nymph-like thing prances into the room and jumps onto the coffee table, freezing in an uncomfortable-looking pose, only for her to stay like that for minutes while the hosts rally round to sort out a technical hitch with the music.

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The nymph remains statue-like, smile painted on her face. Eventually the track blasts out and she begins to contort herself in ways that make me grab various parts of my own body in empathic pain.

It all feels pretty normal up to this point, but then the nymph finishes doing her thing, and the coffee table that acted as her temporary stage is pushed to the side so the rugs can come into play.


Now the party really begins.

A volunteer is called forward for tequila body shots and a nervous but excited first-timer steps forward and obediently lies down.

I look around the room and realise that, though these women have been vetted by LeJeune via an online form and are clearly attractive, I haven’t even asked myself if I’m actually attracted to any of them. The thought never occurred to me, but it’d be the first thing I thought about in a room full of men.

This may not be a perfect reference, because none of the women here consider themselves lesbians, or even bi-sexual. But remember that episode of Sex and the City where Charlotte gets in with those power lesbians? That’s what I expected.

Career women, who have no time for BS and who know who they are and what they want.

Women who are perfectly manicured from head to toe.

Women who you wouldn’t mess with.

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But these women, though beautiful, are more real and WAY less intimidating – they’re natural, they smile at you when you look at them and they’re approachable.

They’re definitely attractive, and they’re wearing the most incredible underwear, while one or two catch my eye and cause a hot flush to surge up my neck, no one here is the kind of woman I couldn’t keep my eyes off.

There are few women here that I would pick out from a crowd to put in this room right here, right now. Which goes to show you really can’t judge a book by its cover.

But, as I now stare up at the ceiling, the faux fur of the rug warming my back, I can judge them by their tongues.

One is now leaning over my naked torso, skilfully licking salt from the top of my thigh, reaching my breasts, that jiggle as I giggle uncontrollably – then enveloping my nipples with the warmth of her mouth – before taking the lime seductively from my teeth with her own.

Before slamming back a tequila shot.

It turns out a corset might have been on-point for the theme but it gets zero marks for practicality when it comes to this game and so I set the bar to be the first one to go naked from the waist up.

There’s now a queue – everyone wants in.

The night has definitely stepped up a gear and these women are in the mood to play.

When I pull myself out of this fun and now sticky (I’ve introduced sugar in place of salt) frenzy, I’m not sure how long has passed but most of the guests have dispersed.

And before I know it I find myself on the sofa with two women – one is the girl I walked in with – kissing each other while our hands begin to head south. It turns out moving past first base is surprisingly easy.

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(Picture: Victoria Dawe for Skirt Club)

Time has no place here – I have no idea if it’s been 5 or 50 minutes.

I pull away, deciding I’ve had enough for now, and make my way to kitchen for a refill and to pop a chocolate aphrodisiac ball in my mouth before I wander back upstairs to see what everyone else is up to.

The three bedrooms are now full of women gasping for air and groaning with moans of pleasure. I feel it’s more strange to look away than it is to watch.

One of the rooms contains (an occupied) sex swing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sex swing in person, but here it is now. In full…

You’re free to come and go as you please – some women remain in couples, but most branch out to threes or larger groups. Electro music continues to play out, interspersed by the raspy sing-song of pleasure. The air is charged, but the moments are tender.

The thing about women is that we’re very 50/50. There’s as much giving as there is taking. I thought I’d do no more than watch, but before I know it I’m doing things with women that I never thought I’d do in a million years. Or let them do to me.

(Picture: Victoria Dawe for Skirt Club)

I’m not even sure how it began. It was a switch. Someone turned a light on, the pace picked up and I went with it.

And it doesn’t feel dirty or sleazy, as you might suspect. It feels supportive, loving, new and enjoyable.

But I have to admit it feels a little surreal. At times I pull back, but there are no awkward moments or pauses, it all feels strangely fluid and you’re able to leave as freely as you can return.

The girl I entered the party with has a smile that invites me in. Time and time again.

Picture: Victoria Dawe for Skirt Club

Interestingly, though some women nail it first time, others need as much guidance as men. Which surprises me because I’d just assumed we’d all instinctively know what to do.

I stay until the end. I say goodbye to the same woman who is the first and last face I see of the night, and step outside to brace the cold, 3am air.

And I feel totally and utterly liberated.

Though I clearly find something about women very attractive, I have no doubts in mind that I’m drawn to men and remain heterosexual, but I feel like tonight will help me bring something new and much more free to the bedroom with my next partner.

LeJeune wants the lasting memory for her members to be ‘one of pure indulgence and liberation.’

And Skirt Club has achieved exactly that.

To apply to Skirt Club visit their site here.

Find more from Hannah Berry George at hannahberrygeorge.com or on Twitter and Instagram @veryberrygeorge

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