When I’m asked if I’d like to go to an extreme fetish night, I feel something akin to horror.

I’m not really the sort of person who’d spend their Saturday nights in a latex dress, feeling unrepressed and free while people whip each other with wild abandon. In fact it’s literally never occurred to me to go to one, and none of my friends have ever suggested it. We’re infinitely more likely to be drinking Prosecco and dancing to Destiny’s Child at 3am rather than having a PVC-related orgy.

So when a friend urges me to go to one with her, her boyfriend and his friends, I think of about 19 possible excuses before finally admitting that I have no good reason not to go. As a young, newly single person I’m meant to try new things, aren’t I? Even if those new things terrify me.

I don’t feel much better when I’m sent the details for Torture Garden, the world’s largest fetish event that we’re going to in South London. The night started in 1990 and is held monthly in different venues around the world.

“Torture Garden is an extreme fetish event with an extreme dress code which is not optional, if your outfit isn’t full (head to toe) fetish/fantasy attire, you will be turned away…if you can wear your outfit to another event without getting stared at, it isn’t extreme enough for TG! The dress code rules are exactly the same for men and women.”

Clearly a little black dress isn’t going to cut it. My friend tells me the best website to get an outfit for the occasion (no, I don’t Google this at work) and after trawling through pages of fetish contraptions and bits of clothing I don’t understand, I order a black cat suit in two sizes, just in case one is so tight I can’t breathe.

I’ve been told that latex is tricky – think Ross’s leather trousers in Friends – so I go for PVC. Surely I’ll need the loo at some point?

This is what happens when a feminist spends the night in a hardcore fetish club