A Review: Accidentally Attending an Orgy
An already strange night took an unexpected turn.
You know how sometimes you aspire to something but it’s a real Bucket List Outlier — an activity or achievement you semi-joke about wanting to do, but don’t believe you’ll ever find yourself in a position to actually experience it?
That’s how I am — or was — when it comes to attending an orgy. Wth participation implied, as I figured if I was ever gonna be there I may as well really get my money’s worth (metaphorically speaking, I wasn’t about to go to one where palms already slick with lube were further greased). I’d say orgies aren’t really spectator sports, but popular porn search algorithms would quickly combat that statement. To me, though, it felt like actually being present for one and playing the role of voyeur would be at least vaguely creepy.
It seemed like a cool way to spend a night, in theory, albeit almost definitely sensorially overwhelming, and I always just assumed it would remain in the realm of the purely theoretical. I was not one to actively pursue a vigorous bout of group sex, potentially with strangers, and would not have known how to do so if I genuinely wanted to. I could figure out how to arrange an expedition where I would have the opportunity to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, but the logistics behind locating and then garnering an invite to an orgy seemed, for some reason, insurmountable.
But life has its funny little ways of surprising you. Especially if you have some sort of defect (or superpower, depending on how you look at it) where strange and unexpected things seem to happen to you no matter where you go or what you do. I don’t know what it is about me or my lot in life, but the surprises have been pretty constant. This can be exhausting, but also extremely rewarding. it also means you generally have some decent stories to tell at parties. If you make the bold decision to go to a party. Which I rarely do these days. Making it even more unbelievable that I unwittingly found myself at an orgy.
And yet, somehow, I did.
This was tangentially set in motion by a series of weird things that had happened to me. When I had just moved to New York City, my older brother was about to get married. This meant after unpacking my sparse belongings I got to turn around and travel to Pittsburgh for his bachelor party. A friend of mine saw a social media post about said party. (Probably the one where my fellow best man and me were holding my brother up like we were emulating the Weekend at Bernie’s poster to try and get him into a strip club, which somehow miraculously worked, and once we were inside the establishment the entire group proceeded to flip out because a high school ex-girlfriend of mine was performing.)
Her editor friend at Cosmopolitan was looking for a guy to write about the bachelor party experience and she’d floated my name. They published my story.
This and other writing I was throwing out there on the internet led to my writing for Women’s Health about this one time I got an unexpected and surprising hand job at a massage parlor in Chinatown, which spurred a lot of angry emails from “reputable” masseuses, but also a regular gig writing about all kinds of things sex, dating and relationship for that and other publications.
I was writing about experiences that befell me as 20-something soft boy living in Brooklyn (like going through an entire date with an egregious rip in the crotch of my pants with a woman who had traveled from DC to meet me in person after many months corresponding over email), even participating in experiments my editors would concoct where I would intentionally engage in something strange and then write about it. (I went on a blind date one time and the woman who agreed to go on that journey with me is now one of my best friends in the entire world.)
I tested out products, too, including a brand of condoms that would send you a bunch in a bespoke size based on measurements of your penis. (I ended up hooking up with the PR representative of said condom brand several times. Again, not something I think happens to that many people. It’s definitely on my short list for porn premises I may one day write that are loosely based upon my own sexually inept dalliances. I think the fact I have a short list is also indicative that interesting things have occurred in my life. I am truly blessed.)
I became good friends with my editors, who would counsel me toward a better and more healthy dating life:
“Don’t be so needy. You’ve got to wait a little while before you respond to messages. And be concise when you do. Don’t even try to tell us you’ve mastered brevity. You’ve never written us an email that was less than three David Foster Wallace paragraphs long, including ones where all you have to do is confirm that you received payment for your latest invoice.”
“Don’t pay for drinks and then immediately ask her if she wants to go out again sometime. That’s not fair to her. She’ll feel rude if you’ve just shouted a few rounds and she rejects you on the spot. Give it a little bit, because otherwise you’re going to get a text later saying how she really feels anyway. Or she’ll still feel guilty, go out with you again and you’ll end up married or worse.”
“Absolutely do not prepare a Keynote slide presentation that you send to women to attempt to prove you’re a worthy suitor. We’re not mad, just disappointed, that you even had to ask us if that was a good idea at all.”
But they were also experts at coming up with ideas that would send many women swiftly in the opposite direction of me if they were to match my byline with the person with whom they were about to go on a Bumble date. Some found my poor person’s straight male Carrie Bradshaw impression intriguing, but it wasn’t for everyone. Which I get. Skepticism is more than warranted when you Google a person and one of the top results is about how they “accidentally got a hand job.” For a long time, the algorithm populated that above the advertising portfolio I use to get actual salaried jobs. I’m both proud and ashamed of this.
They knew I would say no to nothing and write in a blatantly honest, vulnerable and revealing way about pretty much anything they threw my way. That I’d do it with joy and relentless dedication, too. I was just happy to be there, writing for publications with a vast readership. Even if what I was writing about wasn’t what I had set out to write about in the first place. To me, everything was copy, and I would do anything for a story that I hoped would produce some laughs, for better or worse.
This dynamic was counterintuitive, but we had a lot of fun.
They really started to get creative with it when I started to write collaborative stories with Dana, a friend of mine who could write circles around me and was also down to clown on pretty much anything and everything. She and I had initially met when she sent me a cold email about something I’d written and we decided to meet up. We kissed. I blew it. We rekindled. Kissed again. She called it off. Time passed. We salvaged a friendship. Sexual tension lingered. Which probably added some spice to our collaborations.
And so it came to be that on a Friday morning I woke to an email from my editors asking Dana and I if we were free that weekend, and if so, would we be willing to attend a Japanese rope bondage tutorial at a brownstone in Brooklyn hosted by an organization that hosts such things? That started at 10 p.m. on Saturday night?
I’d let someone tie me up, no problem, but starting at 10 on a Saturday? That was a tall order, as at the time I was living a life heavily influenced by depression, anxiety, general aging and slightly waning horniness (due to the medications taken to theoretically combat the first two things on this list), where I would just go to work and then stay home all the time. It was kinda dark, but was also some pretty solid training for the pandemic times to come.
But if you can try something new and get paid for it in Brooklyn after dark on a weekend and it’s not illegal, you may as well. I was still in a tax bracket where I couldn’t help but eye up furniture I saw discarded on the street. One time, a roommate and I had tried to pick up a couch we thought had been discarded and were almost attacked by a group of guys who actually just had it out there so they could sit on it and drink 40s.
Dana and I texted on the side and agreed to do it for the proposed rate, even though we probably could have shaken them down for a few more shekels. Haggling about what it’s truly worth to consent to getting hog-tied if it’s not really your kink would’ve been well within our rights, now that I think about it.
“Well, it kinda is one of my kinks,” Dana said.
“Rate’s fine with me,” I said.
I made some dumb joke in the email thread about how I didn’t know how I was going to take notes for the story if I was tied up and then got in touch with the PR rep in charge of organizing the whole hog-tie hang. She told us to come around 10 for some snacks and drinks, that people would trickle in and the class would start at around 11.
Dana and I showed up at 10:30, knowing class wouldn’t begin until at least 11:30, because when someone says “around” next to a specific time for something taking place in Brooklyn it means next to nothing. When I’d found the actual thing we had to cover wouldn’t start until sometime around midnight, I wondered if I should bring smelling salts with me to the event just to try and stay awake and on an even keel. (Smelling salts have their merit, no lie. I use them on overnight. shoots all the time. People will look at you like you’re a maniac, but the results are inarguable and before long they’ll be asking you to try a huff or two. The reactions are priceless.)
When we showed up, Melissa, the PR Maven — she legitimately called herself that and her business cards had it embossed on them — sure was happy to see us. I think mostly because there wasn’t a lot of press in attendance, and also she was completely stoned out of her gourd.
Dana and I would soon be as well, as we were handed a huge joint each and a cocktail that tasted like Jungle Juice would if college kids had the funds for fresh-squeezed juices and premium liquors. At the time, I wasn’t one to make a habit of getting high in public, as I was self-conscious about how I might behave. But I wasn’t gonna be a square about it. I could take a toke about town here and there. It’d be fine.
We wandered about and took in the scene, which was eclectic. The home’s living room was decorated for the evening with gym mats, so I figured that was where class would be held. I pondered where one gets those in bulk for decidedly non-gymnastic purposes. Who was in charge of sanitizing them before delivery? Who took care of said sanitation after use? I was on a word count, though, so didn’t think too much information about that content would make the article’s cut.
Through the living room was a kitchen that opened into a spacious backyard area where there was a bounce house (hipsters and their irony, man), a bar and a buffet. The latter spoke to me given that the munchies are more than a mild symptom I’ve been unable to get past in all my years enjoying the reefer from time to time, but I didn’t go too hard. Didn’t know if the same rule as swimming after eating applied to sexual knot tying and didn’t want to cramp up out there.
There was also a basement where a dude had a massage table set up and was giving out free examinations. He was into Reiki or some shit. I don’t honestly recall the specifics, which makes it worrisome that I permitted him to examine my spine. But I will always remember that I lied facedown on his table and with one deft hand movement I felt a crack and then release that made its way down my entire spine. It was awesome. Transcendent, even. Haven’t been able to replicate it since, and not for lack of trying, as I have the spine of an 80-year-old who worked the mines his entire life. Afterward I was hit with a brief moment of guilt that I’d cheated on my regular chiropractor, but I guess that made sense, as this man whose name I do not recall had warned me that I might feel acute emotions in the moments following my adjustment. You know, exactly the kind of thing you want to hear when you’ve already taken a couple rips of a jaybird and are in a foreign environment with unfamiliar people.
Just before class began, Melissa wrangled Dana and I, said we just absolutely had to meet Damian, the head of this organization she was reppin’. She introduced us to a towering and muscrular yet kind and very inviting man, probably a really gentle kisser, who explained to us the philosophy around the whole righteous racket he was running.
Essentially, it was a sex-positive club with an exclusive membership criteria that had events of this ilk all the time. I’m paraphrasing, but the goal was essentially to encourage people to let their freak flags fly. Sometimes they’d open gatherings up to people who aspired to membership, and tonight was one of those nights. He said Dana and I were now honorary members for life, which seemed pretty rad. I mean, I knew it was because they hoped we’d write about them more than once. But I also knew I wasn’t likely to otherwise qualify for membership to such an establishment.
I never thought I’d say this, but I can see how people get cajoled into joining cults.
I figured since we were here to practice some newfangled version of the art of Gonzo journalism where it meets shameless click-baiting, I should ask some probing questions. Mostly in hopes the answers would extinguish the budding idea in my high-as-a-kite mind that we might be at a vampire party.
“What kind of other events do you host?”
“Next week, we’re doing our first Mindful Masturbation Workshop, which I think would be perfect for you.”
“Your what now?”
“Many people grow up hiding masturbation,” Damian said. Looking at me pointedly. “They do it in quick spurts, forgive me, I had to, when they have the opportunity, and often they must be completely quiet while doing so.”
He had a point. I sure wasn’t doing it in public. And I’d grown up in a household of six where we were in constant combat for the computer, so it took a lot of strategic timing and use of Limewire if you wanted to get your rocks off with the aid of anything aside from your own budding imagination. Which was, in turn, fueled by the porn I consumed at way too young an age.
“Go on,” Dana said.
“Because of this, they form a habit that makes its way into adulthood, and they never get to fully explore themselves, which is what leads to maximum solo pleasure, should you need to resort to it.”
I most often needed to resort to it.
“I do it in the tub, sometimes,” I said. “And I really take my time with it. I make up stories, scenarios, and kind of role-play through them. A one-man show type of thing.”
Dana immediately began cracking up. At me. Not with me.
“I light candles, too.” I added.
“Do you allow yourself to emote physically?” Damian asked.
“Meaning?”
“Do you make primal noises? Allow yourself to fully lose control?”
“I still have a roommate so only if he’s over at his girlfriend’s place. But I even have a hard time with that now because they came home once and I didn’t know it and they heard my guttural moans echoing from the bathroom so, well, yeah, haven’t really lived that down and don’t want it to happen again.”
“You must come to our workshop.”
“I’ll see if I can make it. But is it, like, masturbating around a bunch of dudes? Because I’ve already done that, it’s a whole weird story from childhood. Wasn’t my idea and I wasn’t an eager participant — it was this whole weird thing one dude dreamt up, a competition to see who could get off quickest. Seems counterintuitive if you think about it. Which I have. A lot. Anyway, I don’t really feel a need to revisit that kind of experience.”
“I think the class is about to start!” said Melissa. I was rather impressed with myself. From the conversations she and I’d had to that point, I hadn’t taken her as someone who was quickly (or often) made uncomfortable by off-the-wall small talk, even the type regarding childhood masturbatory misadventures. (Which i could have gone on about all day. One time I actually broke a toilet because I got too vigorous with my vinegar strokes. I know I’m beating a dead horse here, but weird things.)
We joined the rest of the group, who were assembling in the living room, couples staking their claim to various mats. Our evening’s instructor milled about, introducing herself and plying people with the rope they would need to learn her moves.
To be honest, due to the Devil’s Lettuce, I don’t recall all that much about the class itself, except that it was simultaneously an extreme turn-on and a source of frustration, due to my woeful ineptitude. (A motif easily applied to much of my life, actually.) The instructor seemed surprised at how poorly I was picking up what she was throwing down. This was understandable, as you might reason that people who came to this rather advanced workshop would have at least dabbled in some sort of bondage before. And I had. I’m no prude. But we’re talking tying to bedposts and that sort of thing. Very rudimentary fare. What we were getting up to seemed more difficult than lasso’ing a full-grown bull. Especially for someone who still ties their shoes using the “Bunny Ear Method.”
Dana was decent with the rope, though, so she carried us. Before long I completely gave up and let her have her way with me.
“Bind me up, Scully,” I said, partially as a play on her name and partially because I may or may not have fantasized about Gillian Anderson tying me up and treating me like a bad boy once or twice.
At some point during the proceedings, Dana and I gave into the horniness of the whole thing and began making out. I hadn’t assumed the night would go this way but hey, buy the ticket, take the ride. We’d had several conversations about how we were better off friends and should remain that way, and I had no illusion that this would be the night that completely shifted that into something lastingly romantic — that we’d one day have offspring and sheepishly tell our kids the story about how we finally fully acted on the sexual tension between us and embarked on a life of lasting love together, all thanks to a Shibari tutorial session.
Other people were getting a little hot and heavy too, but nobody seemed to pay it any mind.
Once class wrapped up, it was probably around 1 a.m. Or, in my world, way past time to retreat to all of our respective domiciles to live out the rest of the night however we so chose. My choice would be jotting down some notes from what I had just experienced while they were fresh in my head, followed by a few episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond, which I was rewatching for some reason. Maybe some street meat and then a good morning’s sleep.
But the party was to continue, according to Melissa, who addressed the motley crew as people got untied and returned their rope to a large bag the instructor had passed around. I was half-expecting people in HazMat suits to barge in and start spraying down the mats, but would soon find that if that was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be until they’d been properly soiled, likely in myriad interesting ways that hadn’t even occurred to me.
“There will be drinks and food and drugs, all thanks to our sponsors,” she said. “So please, stay as long as you like, enjoy yourself, and if you haven’t been to an event before, we will now have a brief introductory session to cover our organization’s rules of consent.”
“Who sponsors drugs at an event like this?” I whispered to Dana.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
To their credit, this session was very clear about what consent meant, how to seek it and how to properly and politely respond in the event of either an invitation to participate, or some iteration of a “That’s gonna be a ‘no’ from me, dawg.” It wasn’t anything revolutionary or unexpected, like, there wasn’t a secret language or code you had to learn, but it was rather difficult to concentrate because it had fully dawned on me that the epilogue to the bondage class was going to be a sex party. With some swinging, some swapping, some teaming up, probably some other cool stuff that was extremely intriguing to me but way out of my wheelhouse to an intimidating degree.
It had already begun in earnest around me. The more experienced of the crew had already been through the consent primer and they apparently weren’t there to fuck spiders. They were there to fuck one another.
It was, I suppose, a reasonable transition from Shibari to full-on sex, maybe with one to several strangers. But yet, it had not been at all what I expected to happen. Maybe I’m naive and have been working for all the wrong publications, but I feel like it’s not all that often that mainstream press gets invited to a sex party. We were writing for Women’s Health, not Hustler.
Dana and I went outside for some air, where we grabbed some drinks and retreated to a corner adjacent to the bounce house to discuss our next move. We kept deviating into make-out sessions, though, and just kind of laughing at the spectacle of it all and how strange our lives were that they had brought us to this moment.
“This is not at all how I thought tonight was gonna go,” I said when we took a second to catch our breath.
“That makes two of us. I can’t wait to hear what they think when we file our articles.”
“What do we do? Do we stick around? Or do you want to, like, go get pizza?” (I thought too of proposing going to one of our apartment’s and ripping each other’s clothes off in private, but still wasn’t sure that was where we both wanted to take things, and was mostly positive that we shouldn’t. I didn’t want something to ruin the friendship and while my dick was really upset with my mind that was impressively still firing on some reserve cylinder, I kept reminding myself that one night of sex could potentially find a way to dismantle something that could last a lifetime. Sure, we were making out like one of us had just returned from war, but we’d done that before, so it was old hat and didn’t feel like taking things too far. I don’t know. My logic is more than occasionally flawed.)
“Well, the drinks are free, and there is a literal bowl of joints over there at the bar, so we may as well get a few more in. We’ve come this far and should at least see how crazy this all gets. It’ll be interesting to be wallflowers, I guess.”
“Pretty sure Nora Ephron cornered the market on that premise decades ago, but yeah, let’s stay.”
We walked around for a while like we were potential home-buyers at an open house, going from room to room where several full-blown orgies had broken out.
And yes, it was a bona fide selection of orgies. (A cacophony?) I counted the participants to be sure. According to Google, the rule by consensus was generally “four or more,” and that tally had been achieved in three separate rooms. I won’t lie, I did this with a boner tucked into the waistband of my jeans the entire time because Dana and I couldn’t seem to stop making out, and watching a bunch of people in various stages on the route to achieving sexual bliss does a thing to a dude, antidepressants or not. Counting sure didn’t help. It’s kind of the opposite of thinking about baseball or trying to do long division in an effort to prevent premature ejaculation or pitching a tent in a public place. (If you do know of a way to successfully stave off shooting one off way too early in the proceedings, feel free to share your secrets with me via email.)
What impressed or surprised me the most was how kind and respectful it all seemed to be. You don’t get a lot of that when your entire understanding of group sex is taken from hardcore porn films. People were losing themselves to the throes of lust, for sure, but there was a lot of discourse on what was and was not okay, who was comfortable with other people watching and who was not. You knew because everyone would legitimately ask if it was okay to watch.
We were three for three on rooms walked into and then out of with me saying, “Yep, that’s an orgy,” because I love mansplaining shit, when we re-entered the basement where I had had my back so innocently cracked a couple hours or so ago.
The massage table was still in use, but I was worried about its sturdiness, as a woman was being spit-roasted on it. Eiffel-towered. Taking part in a Devil’s Threesome. Whatever you want to call it.
Dana and I stood in awe, having never witnessed this combination in our respective lives. Not in real life, anyway.
Then a dude came wandering in and asked if it was okay if he watched. I looked at Dana, wondering if we had committed some kind of infraction by strolling in and gaping without asking for consent to do so.
The woman on the massage table registered the request and, taking the cock out of her mouth, said, “Come on in, the pussy’s warm.”
He took that invite seriously and was not merely watching for much longer.
If you’re keeping track at home, that made it four, and so we were witness to yet another annexed orgy.
The woman’s impeccable line and flawless delivery was quite simply too much for Dana and me, who fell into complete hysterics.
I was worried we’d be scorned for throwing off the vibe but the woman, dick securely back in mouth at this point, winked in our general direction.
While we were glad we hadn’t harshed the mellow of that well-in-progress operation, it was also an indication that we were not in the correct mindset to take in too much more group sex in a mature way, and it was time to make our egress.
In most cases I would have Irish Goodbye’d it with a quickness, vanishing like a thief into the night with several of the up-for-grabs joints in tow, but cooler heads prevailed. Melissa, Damian and their crew had been more than gracious inviting us and hosting us and while I knew this was mostly if not all in hopes we’d write glowingly about bondage and maybe even the ensuing extracurriculars, I still wanted to bid them a good night. I know PR people well enough to know we’d have gotten a panicked email worried about what we were planning on producing if we just up and left, and instilling that worry in them wouldn’t be necessary, as I’d had a blast and was coming away with a story I would tell for years to come.
Damian was, um, occupied with some other guests, but Melissa hugged both of us good night and gave us each one more joint for the road, not knowing I already had three tucked away in my front pocket, fighting for room next to my groin, where my dick was still tucked securely up into the waist of my Old Navys.
“I saw you kids out there,” she said. “Go and explore yourselves, and have an excellent night!”
One would think there wouldn’t be an awkward moment on par with seeing a woman break mid-fellatio to say, “Come on in, the pussy’s warm,” but it was that kinda night.
When Dana and I walked out the front of the brownstone, I did not know what would happen. It could’ve gone a few different ways. But neither of us shot a real shot and just continued to kiss while she waited for her Uber. In hindsight, I’m thankful for this. It was going on three in the morning and I was severely intoxicated, so my performance would have been subpar when the bar wasn’t even set that high to begin with. We were also both far from home and sometimes the buzz can die when you’re en route to another person’s place.
As I walked to the G Train to take me across the borough, my phone buzzed.
“Do you wish we would have done it?”
“Went to get pizza? Probably. But I’ll get some on the way home I guess.”
“No. You know.”
“I do.”
“It’s going to happen eventually, isn’t it, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
I almost re-routed to Astoria in that instant but I did not. Further conversations were to be had, and they would occur in due time. What would come of them was something I never thought possible: A successful and, for a time, sustained, Sex Friendship. Things hadn’t changed in that we knew we weren’t necessarily right for each other, and that if we pursued a serious relationship it was likely to end in shambles while also impeding us from finding someone who might actually be the for us, or something vaguely similar.
We actually pulled it off and had a great time. Wrote about a lot of different things because we gathered stories to tell. Reached a level of intimacy and trust in one another that is hard to find no matter the nature of the relationship. Stopped when I started seriously seeing someone, and shortly thereafter she met the man she is still with. We remain friends to this day.
And no matter what, we’ll always have the orgy.
Maybe one day I’ll go to another one and actually participate by doing more than just smooching with one individual.
Stranger things have happened to me.
Accidentally attending an orgy: 4 STARS