Despite this, Matt and Stuart seem able to carry on a conversation from which I am completely excluded; perhaps they can lip read. We hit the dance floor, and Stuart comes up behind me and lifts my shirt over my head. Matt is dancing in front of me, doing something complicated with his hips, his arms held out in front of him as if his shoulders are paralysed. He has a big, stocky, muscular body which I ought to find attractive, but there’s something about him I don’t like. Perhaps it’s the way he’s staring at me as if he’s watching a porn video. He comes closer and starts ‘bumping pussies’ as Jonathan used to call it. I’m unable to retreat because Stuart is grinding into me from the rear, and I realise I’m the filling in a ‘mandwich’. Stuart engineered a few threesomes when we were on holiday, and hasn’t stopped going on about it since, despite the fact that I’ve made it quite clear that I don’t like sharing, or being shared.

We dance for about half an hour, then sit it out for a while, and Matt passes round water. Normally I would only drink my own supply in a place like this, but Matt is a friend of Stuart’s, and Stuart’s drinking it and putting the bottle to my lips, so I guess it’s okay. I quickly realise that it isn’t, when the familiar rush of GHB kicks in and instead of going back to the dance floor, we’re piling into a cab that seems conveniently to have been waiting for us at the door.

The cab ride is actually the sexiest part of the evening. Matt and Stuart have got their shirts back on, but I seem still to be without mine, lying across their laps, with Matt paying a great deal of attention to my tits. He’s pinching them and squeezing them and sucking them, keeping up a stream of porn dialogue like ‘Yeah baby and ‘You like that, don’t you?’, which under normal circumstances would be a complete turn-off but, under the influence of G, it works. Stuart is grinning, his eyes hooded, and I’m abandoning myself to the situation. The driver doesn’t give us a second look.

I don’t know where we’re going until I recognise my own street. I assumed that we were going back to Matt’s, wherever that may be, but no, here we are in front of the old familiar block, climbing the stairs, slamming the doors, rolling around on the hall floor before crawling like a six-legged, three-backed beast into the living room.

Matt cannot take his hands and mouth off my tits, and keeps whipping out his mobile phone to take pictures of me, and what he’s doing to me, as if the memory is going to be more important to him than the actual experience. I’m still feeling super-horny, but I’m recovering because I’m beginning to think that Matt is ridiculous again, whereas twenty minutes ago in the back of the cab I thought (and kept telling him) that he was ‘fucking hot’.