does taking my boyfriend to a sex party make me a bad girl?

villain, lover, no one's mother

I’ve always imagined myself in a relationship that allows for sexual exploration. I think that’s probably because all the years that I imagined myself in a romantic relationship I was in my early twenties, and I was exploring my sexuality.

Back then I created a character based on what I thought the world wanted me to be. One with sexual allure—tight black dresses that accentuated my European figure, eyes that knew how to reel in propositions, a language that centred around effortless flirtation. I made myself ripe for the male picking—just unavailable enough that I was always wanted.

But it was all because I wasn’t in love. Not with myself, nor anyone else. Going about the world as a woman without the “life partner” stamp of approval made me feel vulnerable. In its place, was the facade of an ‘empowered’ young woman who could acquire male validation whenever she wanted (and to be frank—needed) it.

Taking photos for the male gaze, 2019.

So you can understand that to imagine my life without that freedom felt terrifying. It had become my happy place, my respite for when things were going wrong. I’d put on red lipstick and drink a champagne at a bar full of men and I’d watch them drool. It made me feel better. A reminder of my power, least something that felt like I was in control.

I knew that being in a relationship would change things. That I’d most likely have to flirt in secret when I was feeling shit about myself on a night out. That if I wanted to kiss a girl, I’d need to hide it. Or do it with her for him. This has, unsurprisingly, been the response from my male exes. But now I’m in a relationship that’s different.

So different, that I felt comfortable inviting him to a sex party I’d been invited to for work. I’m a freelance sex writer and columnist, so it comes with the job. Literally.

I’d been wanting to write a sex party story for years. The classic ‘I Went To A Sex Party and (Insert Dramatic Event Here) Happened’ format had always called to me—but I’d never been to a sex party where anything dramatic had happened.

Until a few weeks ago, I’d been actively taking a break from the underground kink and sex world for a bit because honestly, I find a lot of it really tricky to navigate. Over the years I’ve been in all kinds of of kinky environments—a dominatrix’s sex dungeon, a clitoris convention, on a date with a porn star—but there’s always been a throughline of performativeness that has kept me at a distance.

I started writing about sex because I wanted to understand why it was at the centre of everything, yet something we have such little language for. Writing felt expansive. Like I could explore and ask questions and experience new things without needing to reach an end point. I assumed that the underground world of sex—the industry that commodifies it—would be the same. That many of the people who work in it would have those same questions and curiosities as me. But I was wrong.

I found myself at sex events feeling like no one was being honest. That everyone was somewhat disconnected from themselves and each other, engaging in intimacy in a highly fetishised way — and that they wanted me to get involved with them, or fuck off. It didn’t feel like a comfortable place to open up.

But that was a few years ago. Before I met my ex, before the pandemic, before I was sure that my gut instinct was onto something. I know better now. So when this invite hit my inbox, I felt ready to embark on another sexscapade — one where I was honest, vulnerable, and had my boyfriend by my side.

I was invigorated by the challenge. I’d never done anything like this with a partner before. I’d always leaned on my sexy party girl persona to psyche myself up for an environment like this, and she’s not as big a part of me anymore. I don’t want her to be. I like that I’ve grown closer to the younger version of me — that I’ve softened, opened up again.

I wasn’t sure how this version of me would survive at a sex party, but there was only one way to find out.

The party was Bond-themed, held at a location two hours away. We had the coordinates, but no address. This meant we had to leave mid-afternoon to arrive before sunset. It also meant we needed to drop off my partner’s daughter with his parents before her bedtime — which wasn’t ideal.

I didn’t think any of this through beforehand. I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me to plan a romantic day leading up to it, but I guess I thought it was a given. Instead, we left the house to a three-year-old crying after her dad.

It really got to me. I was flooded with guilt. I felt like I was an evil stepmother or something, convincing someone’s dad to come to a frivolous sex party with me, instead of looking after their daughter—a much more noble choice.

It hadn’t previously occurred to me that I felt this way about my role in his life. That I was this add-on girlfriend—almost a decade younger than him, a few years younger than his ex-wife. A young sex writer who doesn’t want kids of her own and would rather have a mimosa with breakfast than a coffee. Like, I’m fun... but I’m not as important, or big, or meaningful. I’m not the priority.

This is not a story anyone has told me. In fact, my boyfriend goes out of his way to tell me the opposite—that I am just as important, a major part of his life, of equal priority. But, as I found out on the day of the sex party, I don’t believe him.

Early on in our relationship, I gave him a threesome for his birthday. It had come up that he’d never had one, and I thought it’d be a fun gift-slash-activity. It ended up being one of the best threesomes I’d ever had—so I wrote about it.

A few days after the article went live, my boyfriend’s ex-wife called his mum. She said all the things you’d imagine: that it was inappropriate, indulgent, embarrassing. Mostly, her reasons were about their daughter. Forget that she’d once been a party girl with her own fair share of frivolity—it was wrong to talk about now, because there was a child involved.

I didn’t name him in the article. I didn’t even dish on any of the raunchy details. But still, I felt ashamed. I was worried his mum would judge me before meeting me. I felt shamed by his ex—for doing the thing I find the most meaningful: writing about sex, about humanity, about the things that make us who we are. It made me feel so small.

It was like she was talking down to me, through a third party.
“How pathetic,” I imagined her saying.
“We had a child. We got married. We made actual commitments. And all you can do is have a threesome and write about it? Have some self-respect.”

These weren’t her actual words, but her actions manifested that dialogue in my head.

So, on the day of the sex party, her words came flooding back. And they weren’t just her words — they were the ones we all know. The universal language we have around parenthood:
“You’ll understand when you’re a parent someday.”
“There’s no more important job than being a parent.”
“It’s the most selfless thing in the world.”

Especially for women, the patriarchal system continues to tell us that it’s our calling.

"The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,”
writes William Ross Wallace in his 1865 poem What Rules the World.

Judeo-Christian theology tells us:

“God made women to be mothers.”

1950s homemaker manuals chimed in too:

“A woman fulfils her purpose through motherhood.”

And in 2025, I still struggle to admit—especially to other women—that I’m choosing myself, my romantic love, and my creative pursuits over motherhood. It’s what feels right to me, personally. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the patriarchal pull — the one that tells me the role of mother is above my own.

Because the truth is, while I feel like I’ve done the work to sexually liberate myself — to be both a feminine woman and overtly sexual — my role in my boyfriend’s family dynamic (with his ex and his child) still feels undeniably small. And maybe even a little bit evil?

Like I represent frivolity and lust and shiny things. And that makes me less valuable.

Me, being ‘sexy and frivolous’

Somewhere in my body and mind, I believe that.
And it totally ruined our sex party day.

The “evil stepmother” is a well-known caricature—a woman who exists outside of motherhood altogether. In many classic stories, she enters the family not as a caregiver, but as a romantic replacement. A symbol of adult female desire rather than maternal virtue. Without children of her own to redeem her, she becomes suspect—a threat rather than a protector. Her presence alone is coded as selfish, vain, and intrusive, because in patriarchal narratives, a woman’s moral worth is often tethered to whether or not she reproduces. Without a biological claim to the children in her care, she isn’t seen as someone to love or trust—she’s seen as competition.

Lady Tremaine, the ‘evil stepmother’ from Cinderella.

This framing reinforces a deeply patriarchal message: that women who do not mother—who enter spaces through romance, autonomy, or ambition—are inherently less valuable, even dangerous. The stepmother becomes a vessel for society’s fear of the childless woman, the aging woman, the woman who loves a man but is not defined by caregiving. By casting her as “evil,” these stories preserve the sanctity of the nuclear family and punish any woman who dares to stand just outside it. She’s not the villain because she’s cruel—she’s the villain because she doesn’t conform.

“What is to become of us? How are we to feed our poor children, when we have no more than we can eat ourselves?”
asks the stepmother in Hansel and Gretel, convincing the father to abandon the kids. She’s motivated by scarcity, not malice — and her lack of biological tie gives her the moral permission, within the story, to sacrifice the children. The cruelty is functional, not emotional.

Her “evil” is a stand-in for detachment, not violence.
She’s hated because she doesn’t feel like a mother.
And therefore, she is the villain.

On the day of the sex party, I felt like a villain. I’d felt it before, in small moments — when my boyfriend started putting his daughter in her own bed so he could sleep next to me alone, when I’d be in the room with him, his daughter, and his ex, and felt like the add-on. The one with no real consequence. The “why is she here?” energy, palpable.

But those moments had always felt fleeting. Easier to overcome.
This? This moment felt like something I couldn’t move through.

Especially when the activity on the other side required me to be sexy.

We still went. I pushed through because I felt like my boyfriend wanted me to, and the feelings I was having were far too complex to unpack or explain in the car ride there. I barely understood them myself. All I knew was that I felt emotional. Sad, small, unsexy.

And now, weeks later, I’m glad we went.

Not because it was particularly wild or salacious, but because it cracked something open. It gave me a mirror. One that showed me just how deeply this dynamic affects me—not just logistically, but emotionally. I hadn’t realised how much shame I still carry about being a sexual woman in a relationship that includes a child, even though she isn’t mine. I didn’t know how much I still shrink myself to avoid being seen as frivolous. As less-than.

But I’ve been thinking about it since. Sitting with it. And it’s changed the way I move through this role—this relationship, this life. I feel more okay about taking up space. I’m not an add-on. I’m important to my partner. His relationship with me matters just as much as his relationship with his daughter—not in the same way, but in equal measure. And that makes me feel less ashamed, less like the villain.

Because sex and sexuality have value. That’s the whole point of my work. And it’s something I want all of us—women, mothers, lovers, partners, writers—to believe.

We’ll go back. To another party, another night, another version of ourselves. Because this was the first time a sex space felt like a mirror—not just a performance. It made me confront things I hadn’t yet named. It made my relationship stronger, not because it was easy, but because it made us more aware of each other. It didn’t free me from shame. It just showed me where it lived. It made me more vulnerable. More honest. More myself.

In the end, the most intimate thing we shared wasn’t our bodies. It was our truth.

Hey, quick side note. I’d love for you to follow me on Instagram. I share all of my other work on there, including my fortnightly sex column, where I first talked about my bush. Come and connect. My DMs are always open.