I awoke, in faith, on New Year's Day like a pig in shit. But if I resembled anyone, surely it was the glorious debauch of Rubens' Bacchus, holding aloft his wine, rolling on his haunches, a half naked wench tending him, lovingly. So it was I ushered in the new year. And while knowing I was, indeed, waking up in the Chelsea basement of the mansion owned by my friend, Axel, even I was surprised to find myself stepping over so many breasts, not to say one engorged and, surely, deformed scrotum. Nevertheless, I entered the bathroom with no regrets. I inspected my teeth like a thief, then explored my body for any signs of debauch that I was, perhaps, suppressing but finding none, I blew a kiss to the Sodom at my feet, and departed. And so it was, of course, turning the corner onto Sloane Square tube that I stopped, clutched my knees, and heaved into memory the confession of Axel von Raffenstein, my friend, my host.

While seventy years old, he remains the delinquent son of some fabulous Austro-German industrialists and while undefeated, Axel fears that even his degeneracy has failed to dent his inheritance. And even his homosexuality failed to defend or distinquish him from the largesse of his family money. I will fuck myself to death, he said, twenty years ago. He had boys round the clock but even that didn't happen. Nevertheless, he maintains an exquisite collection of erotica and counts among his friends some of the most compromised people in the capital. And it was in view of the latter that I didn't think to question his invitation to a New Years Party. It was to be held on the third floor of the Barbican in London, currently host to an exhibition of erotic art from antiquity to the present. Yet someone did have the temerity to ask Axel how he had procured the space for his party. I was having an earnest conversation about house prices with a rather young blonde, but I did overhear Axel saying, 'My dear, these exhibits', extending his arms, 'half these exhibits are mine!' It was very likely his finest moment.

The party continued in Chelsea. Axel had themed each room into a particular fetish. Not knowing the rules, a man groped me in the hallway. To get my bearings, I took a brief tour and discovered a dutiful, almost donkey respect for the rules. There was an Anal Play room, a Nipple Clamp room, an Electric room and, in a wave of warmth for my old friend, I found the Kissing room. However, contrary to rumour, for peace and quiet I went to the Fisting room. I spent hours in most of these and certainly I'll write of what happened and, more importantly, what failed to happen. But in the early hours I found myself reclining with the young blonde. Perhaps in respect to our serious conversation at the Barbican about house prices we were unable to perform anything other than missionary position and it was then, or thereabouts, that I felt the cold hand up and down my back. I could hear the low drawl of Axel's voice but it took a long while to associate that with the hand on my back. Oh it was only a joke, for godsake man. Keep it up, that Secret Life thing. I was only playing, for godsake carry on! He said something about the party continuing at his residence in Athens. I smiled at the blonde and, trying to pretend Axel wasn't there, I maintained our embrace, all the while withdrawing slowly.