Who are my fellow orgy-goers? Every single one of the women looks like they work in PR. Yet more black dresses, a ratio of three parts satin to two parts lace. In the near-dark, I can’t quite work out who looks genuinely scared, and who is trying to look bored. There’s the odd very young, very tall outlier. It’s possible that they are models, but I suppose they might be here with someone who has hired them for the occasion. Laughing in the middle of the room is one truly stunning woman, in nothing but a white lace thong that glows in the dark. Objectively beautiful, but really too perfect to be my type. Any lust I feel is overpowered by another sin, envy for her flawless, butterscotch body. Her hair glows even more fiercely than her knickers, not blonde but yellow gold, glossy badonkadonk curls undulating in waves that hit her shoulders and break across her back. I tug at my frizz despondently. An hour with a BaByliss Big Hair and nothing to show for it but an aching right elbow. Who is she laughing with? Well, I hate to be heightist but it’s a man who is not only half her size but reminds me of Vizzini in The Princess Bride. There is a lesson here.

I knock back my horrible peach drink and grab another while the sulky barman is looking at his phone. For a second, I worry about the tastes I haven’t detected, and whether I’m going to wake up naked and tied up in a skip in ten hours. Then I realise that if the organisers wanted to drug us all, they would make more effort to a) serve the drinks and b) make them taste good.

Forcing my face into a looming, unsexy smile, I look around and make eye contact with another girl. ‘Hello, I’m Imogen,’ I announce, and she looks startled, as well she might. I sound as though I’m about to try to sell tickets for the Church Heating Fund tombola. ‘How are you doing? I’ve never been to one of these before, how does it work?’