The Dossier: Les Chandelles, Paris
https://www.leschandelles.com/
The Parisian Allure & the Seeds of Libertinage
There’s a certain electricity to Paris that we’ve always found intoxicating. It’s a city we’ve lived in, a city we thought we knew. But beneath the romantic veneer of the Eiffel Tower and the artistic grandeur of the Louvre lies another, more primal Paris. It’s a city with a long, storied history of pleasure-seeking, a place where the pursuit of desire has been elevated to an art form. This is the Paris that truly fascinates us, the one that whispers of hidden alcoves and secret rendezvous.
Our journey into ethical non-monogamy has been about peeling back layers, not just of our own relationship, but of the world around us. And in Paris, the layers are deep. To understand a place like Les Chandelles, arguably the world's most famous libertine club, you can't just show up at the door. You have to understand the soil in which it grew.
This isn't a recent phenomenon, a product of the internet age. The French relationship with sex and fidelity has always been... different. More nuanced. Go back to the 18th century, and you'll find the libertines, aristocrats and philosophers who championed a philosophy of sensual pleasure and a rejection of rigid moral constraints. Their salons were not just for intellectual debate; they were crucibles of social and sexual experimentation. This was not about sordidness, but about a philosophical embrace of freedom.
Even Napoleon, a man known for his rigid legal codes, had a surprisingly modern take on sexuality. The Napoleonic Code of 1804 decriminalized homosexuality. While he was building an empire, he wasn't interested in policing the bedrooms of his citizens. His focus was on public order, not private morality. This created an atmosphere of tolerance, a sense that what happens between consenting adults is their own affair.
This long-standing cultural thread—a blend of intellectual curiosity, a respect for privacy, and a certain laissez-faire attitude towards desire—is the bedrock of Parisian sexual culture. It’s the quiet understanding behind the famous cinq à sept (5 to 7 PM), the socially accepted window for a tryst. It’s not necessarily about deceit, as it might be viewed in other cultures.
The affair is a private matter, a way to find satisfaction while keeping the core relationship intact. It's a different way of looking at commitment, one that prioritizes the longevity of the partnership over strict sexual exclusivity.
This is the Paris you need to understand before you can even begin to comprehend a place like Les Chandelles. It’s a city that has been cultivating the art of the clandestine and the celebration of the sensual for centuries. It’s not a trend; it’s an inheritance. And it’s this inheritance we wanted to explore firsthand.
The Rise of Modern Hedonism & the Birth of Les Chandelles
The philosophical seeds of the 18th century and the legal tolerance of the 19th exploded into full bloom in the 20th. The sexual revolution of the 1960s, which was a global phenomenon, had a particularly French flavour. In May 1968, the streets of Paris were filled with students and workers demanding not just political change, but social and personal liberation. The old, rigid structures of society were being torn down, and in their place came a new emphasis on individual freedom and the pursuit of pleasure.
This was the fertile ground from which the modern libertine scene emerged. It was no longer just for the aristocracy or the bohemian fringe. The idea of exploring one's sexuality became more mainstream, and with it came the need for dedicated spaces.
Enter Les Chandelles ("The Candlesticks"). Founded in the early 1990s by Valérie Hervo, this isn't just any club. From its inception, it was designed to be a cut above. Located in a discreet corner of the 1st arrondissement, a stone's throw from the Louvre and Place Vendôme, its location alone speaks to its ambition. This is not a seedy, back-alley establishment. It is an institution of Parisian nightlife, albeit a very particular one.
In her memoir, Hervo details her vision: to create a place that was elegant, safe, and welcoming, particularly for couples new to the lifestyle. This is a key distinction. Les Chandelles has built its reputation on being couple-centric. While single men are admitted (at a significantly higher price and under strict scrutiny), the entire ecosystem of the club is designed to make couples feel like the guests of honour.
The club's ethos is a direct reflection of the French cultural attitudes we explored. There's an unwritten code of conduct that is all about respect, discretion, and seduction. This isn't a place for crude advances or aggressive behaviour. It's a place of subtle signals, of lingering eye contact, of a shared smile across the dance floor. It's a game of seduction, played by consenting adults who understand the rules.
Politicians, movie stars, and international business figures have reportedly walked its halls. This isn't just rumour-mongering; it's an indication of the club's place in the Parisian social fabric. It's a place where the elite can shed their public personas and indulge their private desires, confident in the discretion that the club enforces.
The dress code is strict: elegant, sensual and daring (no sneakers). This isn't just about aesthetics; it's about setting a standard. It signals that you are entering a different world, one where effort is required and appreciated. It filters out the casual tourists and ensures that everyone present is invested in the experience.
Les Chandelles is more than a swingers' club. It is the modern incarnation of the Parisian salon, a place where the pursuit of pleasure is both a social activity and a personal journey. It’s a living, breathing testament to the city’s unique and enduring relationship with sex.
The venue
So, what is it actually like to step inside? This is the part of our field report where we give you the actionable intelligence, the "debrief" based on our own experience and extensive research from those who have walked the halls before us.
The Arrival: You arrive at a discreet doorway. There's no flashy sign. You press a buzzer, and a voice asks if you have a reservation (highly recommended, especially on weekends). Once inside, you're greeted by a host or hostess who will explain the rules and take your payment. The atmosphere is immediately welcoming, designed to put you at ease.
The Layout: The club is spread over multiple levels.
The Ground Floor: This is the social hub. It feels like a chic cocktail lounge or nightclub. There's a large bar, a dance floor, and plenty of seating areas where you can have a drink, chat, and observe. A lavish buffet is often included in the entry fee. This is where the night begins. You watch, you talk, you flirt (or don't). The key is eye contact. A sustained gaze is an invitation. Averted eyes are a polite "no, thank you."
The Play Areas: Venture beyond the main bar, and you'll find the "caves" or play areas. These are a labyrinth of rooms and alcoves, each with a different vibe. You'll find large, open rooms with multiple beds where groups can form, as well as smaller, more intimate spaces for couples who want some privacy. The lighting is low, the music is sensual, and the atmosphere is charged with possibility. There is also the famous "dark room," a space for completely anonymous encounters.
Rules and “Good Citizen” Code
"No" is a complete sentence. Consent is paramount. If someone is not interested, you move on immediately. There is zero tolerance for pushy or aggressive behaviour.
The Dress Code is Law. They are not kidding about the dress code. It is mandatory and ruthlessly enforced to maintain the fantasy. We learned this the hard way when, despite being long-term visitors, my wife was first denied entry on our second visit. The hostess was polite but firm. We had to go back to our Airbnb so she could make some adjustments. This meant changing into a skirt to offer an uninterrupted look at the beauty of her long legs, and replacing her stylish flats with a pair of commanding high heels. Only then were we welcomed inside. Take this rule seriously: elegant, sensual and daring. It's the price of admission to the fantasy.
Embrace the Group Dynamic. Les Chandelles is a very different beast from other clubs. It is not just about couples swapping. It is very common, especially after 1 AM in the cave area, for large group scenes to organically form, sometimes with 15-20 people in the same room. Being a 'good citizen' here means letting yourself go and participating in the ambient sensuality. This means being open to being touched, kissed, and watched by others. Of course, hard sex like penetration or oral sex always requires explicit, verbal consent. But the soft touches, the shared kisses, the collective energy... that is part of the implicit magic that creates the special atmosphere at Chandelles.
Stay Present and Sober. This is not a place to get wasted. You will not see anyone stumbling around drunk or visibly high. The entire experience is about heightened senses and being present in the moment. If your plan is to drink heavily, this is not the venue for you, and you would most likely be shown the door very quickly. A glass of champagne to set the mood is fine, but moderation is key to respecting the atmosphere and the other guests.
Voyeurism is part of the experience. It is perfectly acceptable to watch, and to be watched. For many, this is as much a part of the thrill as participating.
Our most recent night at the club
The day had been a perfect Parisian cliché. We’d lost ourselves in the labyrinthine streets around the Louvre, the scent of crêpes and old stone filling the air. We drank coffee at a sidewalk café, watching the world go by, the city’s effortless chic a constant, intoxicating hum.
After a long week of work, this was our decompression, our foreplay. Our Airbnb, a small, perfect apartment, was just a street away from Les Chandelles, a proximity that felt like a delicious secret, a promise humming beneath the surface of the day. As evening fell, we indulged in another Parisian ritual: a simple dinner of crusty baguette, sharp cheese, and a bottle of deep red wine, the flavours sharp and alive on our tongues.
Back in the apartment, we showered, the steam and the scent of soap a cleansing ritual before the night’s true ceremony. The excitement was a tangible thing, a thrumming in my veins, a counterpoint to the pleasant exhaustion of the week. It was Friday, a night that often draws the most attractive, vibrant crowd to the club, and the anticipation was electric.
We descended the stairs into the candlelit world of Les Chandelles, surrendering our phones at the reception, a symbolic severing from the outside world. We found a small table and ordered a bottle of crisp French white wine, its chill, a perfect contrast to the heat building inside me. The first two hours in the club are a unique form of erotic theatre.
The room was filled with beautiful people dressed as if for a wedding or a gala—elegant suits, stunning dresses, the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation. But beneath this veneer of high-end civility lay a shared, unspoken truth: in a matter of hours, all this finery would be gone, and we would be a tangle of shameless, naked bodies. The tension this creates is almost unbearable, a delicious, slow-burning fuse.
My wife was a vision. Her dress clung to her curves, a whisper of fabric over the promise of her skin. The way the candlelight caught the line of her throat, the curve of her hip… my mind was consumed with a single, primal thought: to take her, right there, in front of everyone.
As we sipped our wine, my gaze drifted across the room and locked with another’s. She was blonde, perhaps twenty-seven, with eyes that held a universe of secrets. She was with a man who looked to be in his forties, his hand resting on her arm. But her eyes were on me. It was an instantaneous, silent communication. A spark of pure, unadulterated lust. We both knew, in that moment, that we wanted to devour each other before the night was over, a desire made all the more potent by the silent, watchful presence of her companion.
The wine gave way to tequila shots, and the music pulled us to the dance floor. We moved together, our bodies a language of their own, the day’s fatigue burned away by adrenaline and desire. After a while, we drifted away from the dance floor and into the deeper, darker heart of the club: the caves.
There, amidst the plush, round beds and the glint of BDSM hardware, we stumbled into another couple. The woman was Colombian, with a fire in her eyes that matched my wife’s. The connection between them was immediate, a magnetic pull.
After a brief, whispered exchange with her husband, she turned to my wife and they fell into a kiss, deep and hungry. I watched, mesmerized, as my wife’s hands explored the woman’s body, her fingers tracing patterns on her skin, her mouth finding the woman’s nipples. The Colombian woman gasped, her body arching, and came with a shuddering cry from just that touch. It was a brief, explosive encounter, and then they were gone, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
My wife and I found a space on one of the large, circular beds, a landscape of writhing bodies. And there she was. The blonde. She was lying next to where we settled, having just finished with her companion. He gently pushed her onto her back, her head now just inches from my wife’s. As I entered my wife, the blonde’s eyes found mine again. We were locked in a silent, four-way ballet. My body was with my wife’s, but my gaze was hers. I watched her watch me, a feedback loop of pure exhibitionism.
We couldn't resist. My hand found her skin, tracing the line of her hip. Our bodies shifted, a subtle adjustment that brought us closer. I leaned over, my lips finding the peak of her breast, tasting her skin as her companion began to move inside her. She moaned, a soft, breathy sound, her eyes never leaving mine.
My wife’s hand was in my hair, her own pleasure heightened by the sight, a thrill she has always adored. I could feel the tension building, a crescendo of shared desire. My mouth moved towards the blonde's, our lips parting, the promise of a deep, all-consuming kiss hanging in the air. But just as we were about to connect, a gesture from her companion—a slight shake of the head, a tightening of his grip—broke the spell. The boundary was set. The kiss was forbidden.
The denial only intensified the moment. A few thrusts later, I came deep inside my wife, my release triggered by the sight of her own ecstatic climax, her body shaking with the pleasure of our shared transgression.
We had been lost in that world for nearly two hours. We made our way back to the main room, stopping at the bar for handfuls of gummy bears and pieces of fresh sushi—a surreal, perfect detail. We danced a little more, our bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction, before finally retrieving our belongings and stepping back out into the cool Paris night.
We fell into bed at our Airbnb, utterly spent, the echoes of the night’s pleasures lulling us into a deep, dreamless sleep.