“The bathroom? Oh, just down the corridor, next to the diffuser.” It was a perfectly civil interaction. Leaning on the faux-marble kitchen island of his penthouse, our illustrious host was holding court, pouring out a gin and tonic and offering guests his room as a makeshift coat check. If it hadn’t been for the Italian gentleman standing so closely behind him, you’d hardly have known he was ... multi-tasking.
“A chill out,” I thought to myself, sorry-excuse-me-ing my way around 30 or so islands of male bodies gyrating against Elephant’s Breath walls, “is an awfully casual euphemism for orgy.” I made it to the bathroom, shimmied off my jumper (university-branded, I hadn’t packed for the occasion when I left for a date 14 hours ago) and stripped down to my boxers (Topman, pink, XS, the elastic shot through).
