We're sitting outside on a coldish winter night, hugging our glasses of nasty white wine, wondering, not for the first time, what the hell we're doing here.
All around us, there's a wild party in progress, with girls in minute dresses, guys in stone washed jeans, the shouting and hollering of youth drowning out the slow fizzle of our evening in freefall.
We had escaped from the routine of our lives for one night, intent on moving away from the virtual hump of a webcam session to engaging in real live sex with a real live couple - or two.
We'd even bought new towels as instructed by the sex party hosts. Beautiful, teal coloured towels.
On the way to our hotel, L suggested we take a spin past the party venue.
Turning off the highway, we find ourselves in the kind of neighbourhood where bodies are buried under patios. The house itself is anonymous, the kind of home you'd expect to find an elderly couple eeking out their last days in. You'd guess at brown furniture and doilies inside, not the marble floors and understated luxury we'd been imagining for the past couple of days.
As we drive away, shivering slightly at the thought of the fate we could have endured, there's a disappointment for the party that now will never be, but still on optimism that, hey, we've got all night ahead of us. Who knows what might happen?
A text flashes up, as if by magic.
'Hey you guys are you free today lol?"
We'd been texting the couple we'd had our eye on via the site for a few weeks, and now it appeared that they, like us were kid-free, knicker-free, fancy free.
I text back saying we had been thinking of going to the party but thanks to the house looking like a mass murderer's lair, that was now a no go. Did they have any suggestions?
"Come along to the Moon and Piano, it's a meet and greet, and wear something sexy lol."
Trying to ignore the Tourettes serial lol-ling, we said that sounded good - we'd see them there after dinner.
We take time to get ready. L is in his new jeans and top, looking frankly hotter than I've ever seen him. I'm in a corset/lingerie thing with hot pink jeans. I'd sizzle if you touched me.
We catch the train into the city, walk around in a confused way thanks to L's GPS system having a laugh at our expense, before we find ourselves, staring with a growing sense of dread, at a monument to British bad taste masquerading as a pub.
The Moon and Piano is filling up quickly with the kind of people you would move away from in a train carriage. And here we are, right in the middle of them, wondering how our lives have reached this point. We're keeping an eye out for the couple, but so far nobody appears to fit the bill. We're also aware that somewhere in one of the pub's many rooms, people we've seen fondling themselves and spurting on screen are ordering spritzers and Coronas like normal people.
We've just spotted a card on the pub table which says, unhelpfully, that at 9pm, the furniture will be put away. It's 8.56pm.
Behind us, in one of the pub's cavernous rooms, currently showing a footy match on a floor to ceiling screen, there's a fat woman blowing up red balloons in the shape of hearts. Or it could be breasts. Hard to tell. We have a horrible feeling that she may be one of the members of our state's chapter of the site - one of the women we may have observed on webcam, from the chest up, head obscured.
"Surely she can't be," says L. "She looks like a dinner lady."
We're beginning to feel the slow lurch of horror that this evening's much anticipated foray into the world of swingdom may not be the glamorous, beautiful people populated experience we'd hoped for.
The braying behind us increases as various candidates for Oddball of the Year turn up, embracing the dinner lady and her helmet-haired mate, determinedly holding a bunch of red breast balloons.
"This is the kind of pub we emigrated away from," I hear myself saying.
It's a British-themed pub, complete with mock-Tudor fascia, Toby jugs and ugly Essex types propping up the bar.
"Maybe our couple will be OK," L says, his heart not really in it.
A text flashes up on my phone.
"Look out for the statuesque blonde and make a beeline for her lol."
We see a blonde all right but she's only statuesque in the sense that elephants are statuesque.
"Fuck me, her profile picture must have been taken a while ago," says L, taking a desperate swig of wine.
"What do we do," I whisper. "If she looks like that, God knows what he looks like."
We begin to feel the first dry claws of panic set in. We're sitting very close to the gathering hoards of the 'meet and greet' rejects - all increasingly raucous as they dry hump each others' oversized thighs and ample breasts There's a small man, barely able to sit on the bar stool who I think I recognise. If only the men were naked, I'd feel more confident of their identities.
"Hey guys where are you? Look for the red balloons lol."
We can see the red balloons, you fat fuck. And we're not going anywhere near them.
As we walk, then canter away from that pastiche of all that's wrong with England and swinging, we consider our options.
1. We have a hotel room for the night in a beautiful part of town.
2. We have money in our pocket.
3. We have an internet connection on our phones.
4. We have been contacted numerous times through the site by various rutting males (and a few hopeful couples), urging us to a. view their profile, b. call them up for a shag, c.enjoy a facial.
We regroup in a perfect little wine bar, free of breast-shaped balloons and, via the site, let the swinging world know we're on the prowl.
By now, thanks to a mood-dampening train journey to a different part of town, an impromptu serenade from a pissed bloke on that train, and a weird encounter with a crazy haired woman intent on discussing whether my jeans are jeggings or tights, it's 11pm.
The chances of us being snapped up by a wide-awake, willing, able and local Lothario or Lotharia are remote.
We realise this is not the night, despite our long range planning - booking the hotel, arranging for the kids to be looked after, the excited lingerie and clothes purchases, the intense shaving excercise, the fucking teal towels - for us to lose our Aussie swinging cherries.
Sexy Land is as far away as it ever was.