KEY POINTS:
Last week, I explained that I would go undercover and bring readers an essay on orgies and steamy, hot group sex - the world of the swinger.
I hadn't partaken in any real group sex since the mid-90s, and that was a drunken affair involving my electricity meter
reader and four members of the Cirque Du Soleil, two of whom were dwarfs.
It was a crazy night, made all the more hazy by the fact that I neglected to take my GP's advice and was drinking alcohol in conjunction with antibiotic medication for an ear infection. Suffice to say the ear infection continued for a number of weeks, and I may have even transmitted it to one or more people partaking in the orgy.
It was a crazy time, but as they say, "If you can remember the 90s, you weren't really there!"
Before I could embark on this assignment, I had to tell my wife that I would be attending a number of swingers' parties and writing them up as Word documents before spell-checking them and emailing them to my editor, via Outlook Express. I added the last few irrelevant details to keep the whole sordid thing sounding like a semi-professional work project.
Surprisingly, she didn't seem to mind and promised to leave the key out, so I wouldn't wake the baby on the way back in.
I knew that I wouldn't get into a swingers' party on my own, so then came the next big question. I took a deep breath and asked her if she would consider asking one of her friends from coffee group to attend the swingers' party with me.
She gave me a few numbers, and I was all set. James McOnie, who had researched this story last year, gave me an address in Epsom where a Thursday night "event" would be taking place.
Next, I would need to dress like a swinger. This was the hard part, because it would be far too easy to follow the stereotypical image of how a swinger might dress, and over-cooking it might mean I would be exposed.
I opted for a grey pair of slip-on shoes, a tight pair of slip-off jeans, a glossy black vinyl jacket, a gold chain and a Mark Sainsbury-style moustache, which was firmly attached with an adhesive called Araldite, which comes in two separate tubes.
I picked up my date about half an hour before the event.
When she answered the door, my first impressions were that she was like nothing I'd ever seen before, and that's probably the kind of direction Peter Jackson gives his team at Weta studios when he wants to create a grotesque creature that is lurking deep in the caverns of his vivid imagination.
She was about 17 stone in high heels, and on reflection, it becomes clear why my wife didn't mind giving me her number.
To be honest, initially I was a little disappointed to be showing up to a swingers' party with this date, but then it dawned on me that the whole point of the thing is that I don't have to have sex with her.
I was going to be the guy who shows up to a BBQ with a small vacuum-sealed packet of braising steak and then eats more than his share of eye fillet.
A brief stop at Starmart to pick up some batteries for our sex toys and my Dictaphone, and we were ready.
We arrived at the unassuming address and rang the bell nine times, as instructed. A well-dressed middle-aged lady answered the door and beckoned us in. She was attractive, with a sort of Michelle Boag look about her. I resigned myself to the fact that later in the evening, I would probably end up making love to her and would then play nude ping-pong with her husband.
We followed her into the lounge, where some sleazy music was playing, and an eclectic array of people was mingling. Most people were in suits or dinner dresses, and they were sipping champagne from slim glasses. Many of them were quite attractive, certainly more attractive than my coffee group date, and the man to woman ratio was about 50:50.
From what I could tell, there didn't seem to be any real format to the evening, just people standing around chatting and making small-talk.
I sent my date off to see if she could find some action in the kitchen, while I scoped out the lounge and the deck.
Hours passed, and still no obvious action was taking place, so as I was on a deadline, I resorted to desperate measures. I turned to the woman to my left and began pashing her - and then all hell broke loose!
The woman screamed, the lights went on, there was a hell of a kerfuffle, and a guy who looked like Don Brash asked me to leave.
It turns out it was Don Brash, and somehow I had inadvertently gate-crashed his official retirement bash. Apparently, the only reason I had been allowed in in the first place was because the Michelle Boag look-alike, who was in fact Michelle Boag, thought I was Mark Sainsbury.
As things became clear, I attempted to leave the function as graciously as possible, but my efforts were thwarted when an eight-inch vibrator fell out of my pocket and began buzzing around on the terracotta tiles.
My last memory is of Bill English and John Key, in blatant disregard of Sue Bradford's anti-smacking bill, giving me a couple of smacks around the ear, a few kidney punches and then tossing me through the hedge.
This wasn't the column the editor was after, but perhaps Matt McCarten will do a better job next week.
By the way, my date stayed at the party, and apparently she got lucky.