‘Would you care to join me and my husband? ‘Husband’ is the first shock, and the accent is the second—I thought she might be Russian or Brazilian, but she sounds more Cockney than Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. (Mind you, I sound more Cockney than that.) This is very much in the spirit of the event—and I guess there is a first time for everything. I’m attracted to women, but I mostly date men—and I’ve never been with a couple before.

Honestly? I don’t know. On any normal night, no, not really. But this isn’t a normal night and this isn’t exactly something I’m doing for fun. It’s an experiment. I’m Louis Theroux. And that kiss might have meant less than nothing to Carlotta, but it’s stirred something up for me. I’m feeling louche, wild, daring.

‘I’m Michelle,’ says the goddess, ‘Are you having a good night? I don’t think we’ve seen you here before, have we?’ My hand slots very neatly into hers—she feels firm but soft, and warm. Honestly, this is worth the price of admission—a good hand hold is better than a weighted blanket. Still, I notice her taupe acrylic nails with alarm. I do not want to end the evening in A&E, improvising a story about an awkward fall in a salon while a sceptical nurse goes in with a torch and a pair of tweezers.

I follow Michelle out onto a landing, up a set of stairs and into a room that could be described as an ante-chamber, if you were feeling generous, and a large cupboard if you were being realistic. Vizzini follows close behind, presumably panting. The room looks as though it has been papered with the wrapping from fancy Easter eggs. The walls are foiled in dark bronze, and the only furniture I can see is a black leather couch, something between a sofa and a day bed. I’m relieved to see a large glass jar filled with condoms. It looks like it came from an old-fashioned sweet shop.

What do I do with myself? Gingerly, I sit on the edge of the couch, hoping Michelle will give me some instructions. Ideally, she’ll whip a tiny projector out of her thong, and give a PowerPoint presentation. ‘Your first orgy. Dos and don’ts.’ Instead, in one impressive movement—like a magician with a tablecloth—she lifts my dress off, over my head, and throws it into a corner before straddling me. She presses her lips against mine, and it doesn’t feel as good as it did with Carlotta. They are a little rubbery, reptilian, slick with gloss.

‘You’re such a good kisser,’ I lie.