The One with the Dentist and the "Sex Party"
Late summer 1995 and I am very loosely acquainted with a handful of pop stars through my friend Andrea. I am hardly at the summit of Britpop but I am arguably pottering about its foothills in a pair of comfortable shoes.
One Saturday evening, I find myself at the Camden home of Donna from Elastica, an abode conspicuously lacking in furniture but littered with overflowing ashtrays and bits of tin foil, doubtless for cooking small jacket potatoes.
Various members of Elastica and Menswe@r are there, "relaxing" until a decision is made to go to a party being hosted by a top fashion designer who lives in a four-storey townhouse in Pimlico. We jump in taxis.
On arrival, the party is in full swing but it rapidly becomes apparent that this isn't my sort of soirée. I ascend to the top floor in search of sanity but the party activities seem to get more extreme the higher I get. On the top floor there are scenes of such depravity that Caligula would be minded to reach for the parchment and pen a strongly-worded letter to the authorities. I decide to leave.
On my way downstairs, I see a familiar face coming in the other direction. He is wearing leather pants and a "vest" which consists of a few strands of rubber. It's my dentist. "Hello!", he says. "Hi!", I reply. And that's it. We go on our way: me towards the door; him towards the action.
Three weeks later and the dentist's latex-gloved fingers are exploring my mouth. It's my annual check-up. I'm in two-minds about whether to mention the party but decide, post-rinse, to tackle it head on. "Did you enjoy that party?", I ask. "Very much," he replies. It is never spoken of again.