Killing Kittens Sex Parties Hit Manchester

IT'S PERHAPS apt, for a city thats name derives from the Roman word for 'breast', that Manchester should play host to a party where there's so many on show.

On the nearby sofa a man in a sharp black skinny suit remains fully clothed but unzipped, his partner, skirt hitched, sits astride purring. They drink from the bottle... the scene is utterly Caligulan.

I’ve dabbled in a fair few clubs in my time. The Beano Club, Air Cadets, a Ski Club, we even had a cheese and wine club at University for a while. I know I know, I want to slap myself. But I‘ve never been involved in any club that involves eight couples going hell for leather on one double bed while others stand around watching, chatting and seeing off more champagne than a hen-do in Reims.

But then, when the club is billed as an ‘exclusive orgy for the world’s sexual elite’, what do you expect? It’s fairly Ronseal.

Launched in London in 2005, Killing Kittens (KK) – so named because every time you masturbate, God kills a cute little kitty (good I’m allergic) – is a series of raunchy elite sex parties created by Emma Sayle, a former schoolmate and rowing chum of Kate Middleton. Yeah, the Princess.

The parties have soared. The club now boasts more than 40,000 members in the UK and doesn’t show any sign of slowing. From London up to Manchester and over to Los Angeles with plans for parties in cities as far-flung as Melbourne. The Kittens are spreading... and fast.

Back in January, Confidential interviewed the KK MCR organiser, alias KK Jordie, following the first Manchester bash, "Since then my phone and email have not stopped. You should come along and see for yourself," she whispered with a wink.

So I did.

I’d like to say I went purely for professional reasons, but we all know that is utter bollocks (saw a fair few of them too). I went to drink and see naked girls. In which case, it went beautifully.

It’s a strictly suit or cocktail dress with mask affair. No mask. No entry. Simple as that. You can unmask as you see fit.

Those that attend this city centre penthouse have already been vetted. You don’t have to be Adriana Lima or David Gandy to attend, neither do you need to be wadded, but all party-goers have been approved via an online application (photo included) and ages rarely exceed 45.

The face and the waist needs to fit. Needless to say, if you look like Steptoe with an arse like Nora Batty, then you’re outgang.

So what are the rules? Well, this is a party by the girls for the girls. Kittens on kittens. Single girls can come, but no singles guys (for obvious reasons, it’d be rife). Men are only permitted as part of a couple, you don’t have to be in an actual couple, male and female friends are allowed.

Still, we men are mere instruments invited along for the ride because our genitalia comes in handy. It goes like this:

1. No mask. No entry.
2. Men must not approach women.
3. Men must wait to be invited.
4. Men must not look like they’re flying solo.
5. No means no.
6. Only the kittens (women) can break the rules.
7. No phones.
8. Anything goes.

I end up escorting three single female friends, all 25 and under, all in black, all legs, all curious and all on the bubbles. Lethal. As we queue for the lift in the lobby three kids and their father join us. Silence. Shifty looks. Giggles. They wait for the next lift.

Outside the penthouse stands a sharp-suited lone security guard (in case anyone has a few too many shandies) and the hostess, KK Jordie, checking names off the list. She greets us with open arms.

"There’s a lounge with a bar through there, another larger lounge with balcony and sofas through there, three ‘play’ rooms over there and another two ‘play’ rooms through here. About eight beds in total, and of course, condoms everywhere." Safety is a large part of the Kitten’s modus operandi.

We arrive an hour after the ‘fizz reception’. The fizz has been quaffed, but more bottles stream from behind the bar at £35 a pop. Etiquette suggests champagne, wine or G&T. Nobody would dare ask for an ale, you may as well order a Bovril and sit in the corner reading the Racing Post.

There’s around fifty people split between the rooms, "Nearly double the last party," says Jordie, "The word must be out". All are immaculate. Business types, club promoters, solicitors, designers, nurses, beauty therapists, teachers and even a plumber. Well, what would a shag party be without a plumber.

Most are late 20s to late 30s. There’s the odd older chap, mid-40s, each accompanied by a much younger, more brazen and terribly buxom female. Wedding rings are off. The men are in tow.

For the first part couples remain loosely together, whispering in each others ears and sizing up other couples. Nobody has dived in yet. But there’s a palpable sense of anticipation.

Sure enough, next time we head to the bar there’s a flash of flesh in the corner. Shoulders have been destrapped and boobs are out. More boobs come out. Nobody flinches, it’s to be expected. The room begins to jiggle. Eyes dart. It’s feeding time.

Jordie enters the lounge, "It’s going off earlier than I thought, there’s already some girl on girl through there." It’s 10.30pm and the penthouse turns from tepid to torrid.

People begin to file through, stopping momentarily in the doorway to see two women, utterly starkers, writhing around on the bed. One of the boyfriend watches on from a darkened corner of the room. He looks ready to combust, "The bottom one is mine," he beams, "Not sure who the the other one is, but I don’t care." He tries to cut in, the girls aren’t having it, not even his girlfriend. They’re much too busy with each other.

Throughout the course of the evening we witness at least ten couples having sex, maybe more, sometimes with each other, sometimes they swap, there’s no real way of knowing who came with who. People roam the corridors, popping in for a few minutes to watch, then sloping out.

Early in the night, two couples chat next to us on the sofa. When I come back from the bar they’re gone. Minutes later we wander into a room and there they are, locked into each others' partners. Another pair are stood on the balcony outside smoking, they peer in through the blinds. Their hands down below, lost from sight.

Doors to all the ‘play’ rooms are left ajar, there’s a 'no lock' policy here, just in case.

At one point we find eight people on one bed, some are laid flat, some bent over, some stood in the flicker of the candlelight. The men are fixed and hard at work while the girls tinker with each other throughout.

"There’s no pressure to get involved," Jordie tells us. "I see a lot of new faces here, some people just come to drink, chat and watch for the first party or two, until they’re comfortable. Some just like to stand around in underwear and watch others. Some like to be watched. It’s up to the individual."

In the larger living room a group stands around the breakfast bar sharing a bottle of champagne in only underwear, the ladies are topless and still heeled, the two men only in boxer shorts. They chat away unphased as though stood around a watercooler, while directly behind them a naked woman is strewn across the glass-top dining table, a man knelt between her legs.

On the nearby sofa a man in a sharp black skinny suit remains fully clothed but unzipped, his partner, skirt hitched, sits astride purring. They drink from the bottle.

The scene is utterly Caligulan.

So how do we shape up as a city? "I've been to plenty of swingers parties," says one of the older chaps, "but none where the guests are as as good-looking as here."

Jordie has been going to KK London parties for years, "In terms of size we’re playing catch up, some London parties have 250 guests. But in terms of action we’re certainly giving the southerners a run for their money.

"This party has set the bar high," she continues. "The people have been beautiful. And the Manchester parties are only going to get bigger, better and hotter."

Late in the evening I get chatting with a Primary School teacher, she’s attended a number of Killing Kittens events. "Everyone is here for the same thing," she explains, "they’re good-looking and sexually adventurous. It’s not seedy, it’s all very safe.

"People might think as a couple you’re weird or perhaps bored of one another. That’s just not the case. It makes you stronger. Why would your partner go out and cheat when we can both come to something like this and sleep with other people together." She has a valid point.

“Look, we’re all human," says another. "Of course we find other people attractive, of course we see other people we want to play with, so why not do it together?”

Why not indeed. We humans are not naturally monogamous creatures. In fact, only 3% of mammal species are monogamous (according to someone, somewhere)... and that's probably because they're too lazy. In purely Darwinian terms we're all designed to bonk as many people as possible to shore up the gene pool.

The more you think about it, the more the Killing Kittens set seem less randy little buggers and more progressive, even visionaries. If we've been designed to put it about, let's at least do it together. And with a big fucking bouncer in case things go tits up.

Follow @David8Blake on twitter.