Reports from the Edge: Skirt Club. By Jane Boon

Reports from the Edge: Skirt Club. By Jane Boon

. 4 min read

Take a glimpse into a woman’s-only sexy soirée where a high percentage of the attendees are married and everyone is glamorous.

I was sitting on the edge of a four-poster bed as three pairs of women got each other off. I wasn’t sure how I’d wound up in the middle of the throng, when normally I stick to the periphery at unfamiliar events, but the room was small and the orgy had moved to encompass me. There were arms and legs everywhere, and the lingerie was coming off. It dawned on me, if I stayed put any longer, I might cross over from being polite to being creepy. Fortunately, a pert brunette in a pale-pink bustier and matching panties gave me cover.

“It’s my birthday,” she announced, looking straight at me.

I decided to make a joke of it. “Where I’m from, that’d get you a birthday spanking.”

“Oh, would you?” she replied.

I said yes, because I figured a spanking would keep me fully clothed, while still giving me something to do in the middle of an orgy. And besides, she was adorable. Her long lashes batted at me whenever she looked over her shoulder as I slowly administered the blows. Her bottom and thighs were soft and smooth to my hand -- an extraordinary tactile experience that reminded me of when I was her age, 27, and I’d had boyfriends rhapsodize about the softness of my skin. At the time, I didn’t understand their enthusiasm, but while the luscious brunette squirmed across my lap, I finally got what they’d been saying.

When I completed the 27 spanks (and one for good luck) I passed the birthday girl on to another woman who seemed eager to celebrate. It was my cue to head to the bar in the basement of the elegant Upper West Side townhouse, where the party was being held.

Skirt Club bills itself as a club for straight and bi-sexual woman who are intellectually and sexually curious, with regular events in major cities like New York, London, Sydney, Miami, Berlin and Los Angeles. But what Skirt Club actually offers is soirées and weekends for women only, where the ladies often wind up naked. I learned about the club from an article a girlfriend had written for The Hollywood Reporter. It sounded outrageous and unusual, or the perfect way to spend a Saturday evening in December, so I filled out an online application and paid $150 to attend.

As someone who’s a 0.5 on the Kinsey Scale (0 is exclusively straight, 6 is exclusively gay), I wondered if I’d feel out of place at an all-women’s sex party. I was also worried about what to wear, since I’d read it was very glamorous. Fortunately, there was an elaborate Pinterest board showing ideas that vibed with the evening’s “Snow Queen” theme. I’d seen photos, so I knew everyone would make an effort, so I did too. I donned a black lace bustier, black fishnet stockings, a very short black skirt, and a silver shrug, in a nod to snow.

When I got to the townhouse at 9:00 p.m., it was already overrun with gorgeous women. They were mostly Millennials, but there was a smattering of Gen-Xers like myself milling about. As a first-timer, I was given a key to wear as a signal to the Skirt Club veterans to be extra nice.

As an icebreaker early in the evening, Genevieve LeJeune, the fascinating-flirty-founder of Skirt Club, introduced Tina Horn, who gave us all a quick lesson in talking dirty. This got everyone giggling, and soon many of us were upstairs where things escalated quickly.

Once I’d left the birthday girl and found my way to the bar, I chatted with a charming blonde lawyer, an award-winning journalist with long, wavy hair, and a grad student at Columbia who stood there casually, topless, as I wondered if my breasts had ever been so gravity defying. I felt envy for the young women, who had come of age when sexual fluidity was common, and who all seemed to have stories of past girlfriends and boyfriends. My own reticence was unremarkable. There were others who kept their clothes on, and no one seemed to care either way. All the same, it was wonderful being in the presence of so much pleasure.

Once I’d left the birthday girl and found my way to the bar, I chatted with a charming blonde lawyer, an award-winning journalist with long, wavy hair, and a grad student at Columbia who stood there casually, topless, as I wondered if my breasts had ever been so gravity defying. I felt envy for the young women, who had come of age when sexual fluidity was common, and who all seemed to have stories of past girlfriends and boyfriends. My own reticence was unremarkable. There were others who kept their clothes on, and no one seemed to care either way. All the same, it was wonderful being in the presence of so much pleasure.

When I got home at 2:00 a.m. my husband was waiting for me. “How’d it go?” he asked.

I told him that at the end of the evening, a tall, lithe dancer had asked me where I was going, and when I said Tribeca, she said she was a neighbor. It turns out, she wasn’t. She was drunk and confused. All the same, with a different woman on a different day, she probably would have gotten a ride home, and perhaps, much more.

A large percentage of the Skirt Club members are married women, like me. I wondered if their husbands were amused or even aroused by their same-sex flirtations, and whether the men savored the small, but non-zero probability that their wives might bring another woman home. A few months later, when I announced I was attending another Skirt Club soirée, my husband was unsurprised and said he was eager for another full report.



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