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My friend Miranda has accompanied me men for moral support.

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We scale a no-frills metal staircase at the end of an alleyway behind the high street, where a weary blond woman is ruling a domain of coats, cash and lists. She has a defeated manner, like women only sober person at a party when everyone is drunk.

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I have no idea why I decided to make myself look so dowdy. Miranda is doing much better; she has obediently put on a basque, along with a skirt much shorter than mine, and boots that elongate her long legs.

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It was the easiest way of manipulating our actual names without revealing the fact that we are both black. His presence is comforting; he seems like an island of sanity in a sea of grotesque chaos. The first thing I see, once Eddie has led us past the black and the bar, is a shaven-headed black man on his knees on a large bed, with a white woman on all fours, doggy-style.

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He is wearing an unbuttoned shirt, and nothing else; she is xena warrior hot pussy a basque, suspenders and boots. Another white is kneeling next to him, waiting his turn. To the left, on the same sateen mattress, a woman is kneeling with her back to us, naked from the waist down.

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Sex man has his hand on her ample butt cheeks. Other men hover around the erotic, beers in hand, watching. In pride of place is a swing.