The...sex party was this past weekend [in NYC], and it was billed as the poshest of the Very Posh Sex Parties, a veritable Queen’s English of orgies, one promising a rich banquet of nubile, swinging flesh for heterosexual (and female bicurious) delectation. A friend invited me to be the plus-one of the journalist from [redacted], who then declined to show. My friend brought her boyfriend. They are monogamous. I am single. None of us had sex.
The invite to the Very Posh Sex Party came with a schoolmarm’s list of do’s and don’ts, wills and won’ts. You must wear a mask. Anyone seen with an active phone will be forced to leave. Men must wait for women to ask them. No means no. Proper cocktail party attire must be observed, at least until it is shed.
The main room of the Very Posh Sex Party was black and bare except for a pool table, several large couches, and a few armchairs. At one end of the room were the bathrooms and a patio; at the other was the fuck room. Near the bar and the patio sat a big square foam-covered platform. When we arrived, a woman in a black leather bustier lounged as a man gave her strident cunnilingus. She stared at the ceiling, distracted. Later, a man with an ad executive’s short ponytail would, unbeknownst to him, sit in her wet spot.
The crowd was largely white. White men in boxy off-the-rack business casual suits squired white women in body-con dresses. The men were older than the women; the women were better looking than the men, and there were more of them. The men looked like customers at a strip club; the women looked like they’d once or twice done a pole class because it was naughty. Everyone seemed cut from the same bolt of corporate cloth. Were I pressed to guess, I’d say the men were all, to a one, straight; the women were largely “homo-spectacle,” what Portlandia calls women who “kiss other women to get attention.”
These were not my people. Actually, wait——there was one adorable couple, a young ponytailed girl in a Black Milk Lycra cartoon dress, white thigh-highs, and creepers who led her fey boyfriend about on a thin silver leash. I kind of love her a lot.
Look, I’ve nothing against sex parties, and I’m not opposed to having sex at a sex party. I’m fond of anonymous sex, public sex, and performative sex, so while I’ve never had sex at a sex party, I feel like I’d want to have sex at a sex party. I certainly cast no aspersions at people who regularly enjoy sex parties; far be it from me to judge others for their delights. But this was, as far as I can tell, a bad sex party——and by that I don’t mean a sex party that was bad. I mean a veritable celebration of bad sex.
As it turns out, bankers seem to grow a uniform sort of ass. It’s flat and white and faintly floury as naan bread. The asses pump, pump, pump, the rhythm of some anarchic drummer, and I have seen them pumping, and yet I live. I saw on Saturday night a man, flush with fresh concupiscence, stomp flat-footed across a room of strangers, jacket, shirt, and pants unbuttoned, his pelted chest thrust out like a silverback gorilla. I saw a room of naked women, expensive shoes in the air, being fucked by men who couldn’t bother to remove their sport coats.
That's about as depressing as it gets. And of course, given the date and the venue, it's clear that Summers' "Very Posh Sex Party" was the Killing Kittens NY party I'd written about. It does make me feel better about having no chance at all to get into the party. I'd have been one of the people Ms. Summers was mocking.
So, the Killing Kittens party really was as awful as I imagined. I have no idea what my friend in London Town would say about this, but it all sounds just too awful to be believed. Ms. Summers' description is exactly what I'd be afraid of. It sounds just too hideous--- exactly something that would be the object of derision and vaguely politicized snark. How could anyone actually attend (let alone perform at) something that would draw the sort of contempt found in Chelsea Summers' article? And you know what's worse? You know what I realised while reading this? As awful and pathetic as it all sounds, as open to humiliation and mockery as Ms. Summers' description makes it all sound...I still wouldn't have been allowed in. As awful and pathetic as it all sounds, I'm actually not regarded as good enough to be allowed in. Not only is this appalling gathering an utter travesty of the elegant, formalised, and coolly stylish party I might imagine, I'm not even good enough to get in--- even when compared to the awful men she describes.
And...yes. There is a snack bar. There had to be, didn't there? That's something I do need to tell my friend there in London Town. There's a snack bar (not even a real buffet) to make it all even more pathetic and sad:
There will be cheese cubes. There will also be a plate of desultory fruit, and another with careful loops of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. At the end of the night, as the columnist from [redacted] rides the young bro journalist from [redacted], her red g-string pulled to the side, her breasts plumped out of her corselet, mouth smeary-drunk with nuzzling and champagne, the cookies will be undisturbed.
But the cheese, orange as a kindergartner’s sun, gets eaten. I can think of few foods less conducive to sex than cheese cubes——chili, I suppose——yet there I am, at a sex party, and there are cheese cubes.
Not only would I never be allowed in, there'd be a sad and pathetic snack bar--- we're just hitting on all the things I've told both my friend in London Town and my friend Ms. Flox make the whole sex party scenario something truly depressing. Even if the hosts were bribed, coerced, or just inattentive enough to allow me inside, I'd be someone Chelsea G. Summers or some other columnist could mock and deride. (You'll notice that she does the blithely contemptuous thing of assuring her readers that she'd never mock the party-goers and their delights--- a statement that always drips with derision) And there'd be those awful cheese cubes, orange and mocking, symbols of bad sex and social pretentiousness. Why is it that I'm sure the cheese cubes would have bright plastic toothpicks in them?
And...yes. I'd stand inside, too humiliated to remove my sport coat, even if there was a coat check. (I must ask my London friend whether the older, distinguished, moneyed males she consorts with at LDN sex parties remove their coats) Remove nothing, unzip nothing, unbutton or unbuckle nothing. All those years of expensive education at least did that much for me: I'd know enough to expose no flesh, to abstain from anything that could be seen as comical and disgusting.
It doesn't ever get better, does it?
And now the NY Post tells us that the organizer behind Killing Kittens is a still-lovely (and 6-foot-tall) thirtysomething blonde Londoner named Emma Sayles...who's a friend of Kate Middleton. According to the 10 March 2015 NY Post--- As of Tuesday, Sayle says 60 people have signed up for the NYC event, including a group of British female bankers who work at UBS’s Midtown office and a bevy of models. Ah, marketing.
No, it never gets any better. I think we can take that as a given.
If you do ever hand me a cheese cube, I will do the Dr. Lecter Brain Fondue thing to you in response. Let's be clear on that. Even Ronald Firbank's eccentric Cardinal Pirelli would agree that Brain Fondue is the only proper fate for those who serve cheese cubes to the lonely and haplessly excluded out on the far side of the velvet ropes.