Two years ago while recovering from the demise of a fifteen-year marriage, I responded to an invitation to join a sex party. Knowing I was newly single and in no rush to get involved in another romantic relationship a woman I worked with unexpectedly told me about her unusual hobby and urged me to attend an event.

My marriage failed because of a million complex issues, one of which was my ex-husband's reaction to the changes in my body after I delivered our first child. After weaning my daughter so that I could go back to work, my breasts lost tone and sagged and my abdomen muscles were loose and flabby. At a time when I was most psychologically vulnerable, my post-baby body became a source of teasing and hilarity to my husband. I withdrew from him sexually and avoided physical contact, essentially living a sexless life from the age of thirty on.

I was intrigued by my colleague's invitation but my crushed self-esteem held me back; I waited six months to ask her questions. I discovered that women typically direct modern sex parties and rules regarding expected behavior are strictly enforced. All touching has to be consensual by everyone involved. All party guests must have regular screening for sexually transmitted diseases and give their results the party director. Condom use is mandatory, even when the sexual encounter is between already sexually intimate partners. While mostly couples attend these parties, single women are also welcome. After being assured of anonymity and rigorous sexual health protection I decided to ignore my nervousness and attend the next party.

The venue was a pleasant but ordinary suburban house. An attractive woman dressed in a corset with a sheer long lacy skirt rewarded my knock and quickly located my name on her list. Dimmed lighting, sheer, romantic curtains and candlelight made the setting the unmistakably erotic. A young couple was in the throws of semi-exhibitionist sex in an area separated from the main room only by translucent curtains. Suddenly self-conscious, I decided to leave. As I turned to go a man a few years older than I stepped in front of me and asked if he could place my jacket in the cloakroom. Too embarrassed to admit that I was leaving, I smiled and thanked him. "Follow me. I'll show you where it is," he said. We fell into an easy conversation and I decided to stay.

My new friend handed me a glass of wine and we walked together to the lounge area. Our conversation was light and pleasant and his eyes were kind and reassuring. We sat close together on a corner sofa and I glanced around the room to see other couples or groups of people in various stages of intimacy. In the sexually charged atmosphere my thoughts turned to desire laced with a heavy dose of sexual insecurity. In preparation for this encounter I had indulged in a Brazilian bikini wax and my hair-free pubic skin left me no doubt about my state of excitement which was fast leading to soaked panties. But would a man be interested in this nearly 40-year-old with saggy boobs and a jelly belly?