At the door, I’m handed a silver key on a black ribbon. All first timers are given one; it signifies our novice status. I tie it to the side of my leather waistcoat and step into the bar. It’s very, very dark. Black semi-circular sofas wrap intimately around tables. I take a seat and wait for my life to change.

I’m 36 and married to a man but I’m not straight. I’ve always known I like women – my earliest crushes were on girls as well as boys – but after a brief foray or two in my early twenties, I met a long-term male partner and shut my desire for women firmly away. This was how I lived for a long time, believing that if I was sleeping with a man, I was heterosexual. Then I learned about ‘comphet’.

In 1981, the poet and essayist Adrienne Rich published an article suggesting that women are prevented from recognising their same-sex attraction because of societal bias towards heterosexuality. She called this ‘compulsory heterosexuality’, often known as ‘comphet’ for short. I first saw the term on someone’s Instagram stories. I googled it and, as I read more, I began to question my identity. What about that first crush which was not on a boy, but a girl named Claire? What about the deep envy I’d felt towards the two girls at my school whom people whispered were ‘doing it’?

Discovering ‘comphet’ was a revelation. I realised I’d been understanding sexuality all wrong. Rather than being defined by our current partners, it’s like any taste; independent of events. If I like the colour green, I don’t dislike it because today I’m wearing blue. And if I like women, I don’t dislike them if I’m sleeping with men. Permission suddenly appeared in front of me. Except for one unignorable fact: I’m married.

Thank god for Skirt Club, a private members’ network for bisexual women who want a safe space to explore and, well, have sex with each other. It was founded in 2013 with only 20 women and now boasts 24,000 members in over 36 cities around the world. Like me, an estimated 70% of its members are in relationships with men and many are new to sleeping with women. This was a comfort – there’d be no need to explain that it couldn’t go further than a physical dalliance nor that I was a novice.

I raised it with my husband tentatively one evening, coming out to him in stuttering phrases. We’ve always agreed that if we want to be together for life, we must allow each other to change and grow. Even so, I was nervous about his reaction. He listened compassionately and, over the following months, we discussed it intermittently – what I wanted and why, how to devise boundaries that meant I could explore my sexuality while keeping our relationship safe. We decided that I’d pursue sexual interactions with women outside the city we live in and outside our friendship groups. While we don’t have children and don’t intend to, I don’t see the difference it would make – kids don’t know everything their parents do away from home. Ironically, being married to a man might be why I’ve finally been able to come out: I get to meet societal norms with him while exploring my queerness. It’s a privilege of being late blooming bisexual, though I regret the years and experiences lost to comphet too.

The Skirt Club event is held in a burlesque bar in London, hired out for the night. I feel horribly nervous for the first couple of hours and sit watching the skits with other women, none of us chatting much, perhaps wary of ‘friend zoning’ each other. When the show ends, we migrate to the dancefloor and mingle tipsily. The drinks flow and at last we’re drunk enough for the real fun to begin. Someone strips off. And then another person. And another. It’s joyful and weird and liberatory.

I remove my trousers and waistcoat and dance in nothing but heels and a transparent lacy teddy, joined by about fifty other women doing the same. I notice movement on the sofas that circle the dancefloor. Women are finally doing what they came here for. A blonde with her dress around her waist has her nipples kissed slowly by a curvaceous brunette. Feet stick out from beneath a table, a head moving rhythmically, and in the far corner, someone lies on her back while three others attend to her. I’m amazed by the debauchery and desperate to join in. At last, my eyes connect with another woman’s. She has the face of an actress but I can’t think who. We glide towards each other, dancing and smiling.

‘Perhaps we should get a sofa?’ she says. ‘That would be good,’ I reply, and I walk with her, feigning confidence. We kiss and it’s great. And then all the other things happen, and they’re good too. I’m amazed by her breasts, so warm and heavy and pliable. We continue onwards, time blurring as we discover and pleasure each other, the thrill at what’s happening careering through my mind. We know nothing about each other but our names. When the night ends, we swap social media handles and I jump in a cab. I text my husband: I’m safe, I tell him. It was fun. I realise I love him more than ever because he’s given me this moment. I sit back, watching the city pass, smiling at my new, definitely bisexual, self.