What to Wear to a Summer Sex Party: Reprise

I am here to report back from the land of the summer sex party. It was not what I expected, in many ways. I will speak only in general terms to protect the anonymity of those attending, but I can still reveal the following:

  • I was distinctly overdressed. Nudity (or nudity plus towel) were the most common outfits, followed closely by t-shirt and shorts. Mostly people were positive about my tiger bodysuit, but I did get a few snide comments about my enormous hat.

  • This event was enormous—the most people I have ever seen deliberately gathered to celebrate sex, unless you count a Mitski concert. I think I had been expecting a more intimate gathering with an opportunity to chat with a handful of new people; what I got was something a little more akin to waiting in line at an amusement park. When I throw parties of my own I like to set up a quiet room, where people can retreat if the party becomes a bit much. The hosts had tried their best, but I found no quiet room here; there was no place from which my companions and I couldn’t hear yelping. If you are thinking of attending a sex party, and are put off by this description: don’t be. Most that I have attended are not this large or this loud.

  • The party was also a who’s who of people I knew around the time I stopped going to sex parties in 2014, which makes sense; communities like these are notoriously small. It was mostly really pleasant to catch up, but I did re-meet one unsavory character who knows my mother through other arenas, and mentioned her to me several times. The first time felt awkward and later attempts sounded increasingly blackmail-y, but luckily, my parents can no longer be surprised by anything I do.

  • Not only did I not have sex, but I didn’t especially feel like I was missing out by not having sex. Maybe because of aforementioned queueing feeling and the presence of the Unsavory Character, but also because I didn’t feel like I was going to miss out if I didn’t seize the moment this night. Previously at events I often felt a desire to stick myself right in the middle of the action, and I was content here to mostly observe and chat. I still love attention, mind you; I’m just not a slave to it the way I used to be.

  • The organization of this event was impeccable. There were rules and directions sent out beforehand, announcements at the beginning about specific dos and don’ts (such as no glass on the patio), a table with safe sex materials and breath mints, and designated party supervisors, which was good, because:

  • As we were getting ready to bail early due to being overstimulated as hell, the Beloved and I were standing next to one another, and I was holding, for reasons that seemed good at the time, a glass dish full of pimento cheese.

  • The Beloved, gesturing expansively as she is wont to do, brought her hand down on the glass dish, karate chopping it from my hand and sending it shattering onto the concrete patio on which we stood, where shards of glass pierced the foot of a very handsome man to whom we were bidding good night.

  • For a long moment, we stared at one another, both intensely aware that we had fucked up.

  • At that point, the host and a squad of party supervisors arrived, reiterated the No Glass rule of which we were now in severe violation, told us that it was okay and that Accidents Happen, moved us out of the glass incrementally and swept it up so quickly that within two minutes we were back on schedule to leave.

  • Unsavory Character tried to apprehend us at the exit and invite us once more to linger, but no force in the world would keep me at this event more than a second longer now that I had achieved Total Pimento Humiliation, so I grabbed the Beloved’s hand and we booked it into the dark.

In conclusion: I highly recommend this experience, if it is ever offered to you. It is, if nothing else, a fascinating varsity-level socializing opportunity, as you learn how to have an earnest conversation with a fully nude person; a chance to see and hear things outside of your own repertoire; and of course, something to blog about, should the desire strike you.

P.S. to the young man I stabbed with my glass bowl: It was so nice to meet you, I’m very sorry, and I hope that in the weeks to come, you remember my tiger bodysuit more than my pimento cheese.