I Just Want My Sex Parties Back
But, oddly enough, it's not because I miss having sex.
I was a bit late to the game in figuring out just how serious this pandemic stuff was. The cancellation of SXSW and shuttering of college campuses should've tipped me off, but I wasn't phased. My final romp through civilization involved a road trip through west Texas, 4 shows in dirty bars, a BDSM photoshoot and, most gloriously, an orgy with my favorite play group.
Once a month, my group would meet for drinks at a posh hotel bar and mosey our way up to a corner suite for an indulgent night of wondrous group sex. Our last party was just a week before the shelter-in-place orders went into effect. The group host was finishing up his usual opening spiel, "so yeah, condoms are over there, water are bottles over there... Oh, and don't forget to wash your hands before you leave so that you don't get COVID." We all let out a flippant chortle which was, retrospectively, rich with dramatic irony.
When I discovered the news of shelter-in-place orders and shuttered businesses, my mind immediately flipped through all of the things I would indefinitely miss— namely, being a part of my yoga studio, playing shows with my band, and going to sex parties. The part I ended up missing the most about the parties was, oddly enough, not actually the sex. (I may live alone, but my pink vibrator from Amazon was the best damn $10 I ever spent.)
What I missed was getting to connect with people and be a part of something. Is lying limply and gasping for breath after experiencing four orgasms in a row an incredible experience? Absolutely. But the real beauty of a perfectly curated orgy is finding myself lost in the pure ecstatic bliss of uninhibited human connection.
When the wild flurry of hot group sex is over— when the last woman has let out her final gasp of orgasmic pleasure— there's a moment where we're all just lying around naked, casually swapping personal stories and hot-takes on pop-culture. It's entirely different from the tepid mingle-over-drinks style meetup I get at the beginning of the night. (It's not a closed group, so I invariably meet new people every time I go.)
Inside of everyone is a whole world just waiting to be exlpored, if only you learn to ask the right questions. Sometimes the maze of socially constructed walls that separate myself from the person in front of me feels impossible to navigate.
Nothing tears that barrier down faster than the exchange of pure pleasure and miscellaneous bolidy fluids. It's like, okay, you've seen the weird scars on my nipples from the botched piercing I had years ago. I already know your husband gives better head than anyone in this room. There's nothing to prove and nowhere to hide and no one to pretend to be. We're all just present with each other. And it's glorious— absolutely glorious.
I certainly get to feeling nostalgic about my pre-pandemic life, but as I scroll through my camera roll from that bygone era, I find myself comforted by the fact that I don't regret anything about the way I lived it. I don't wish I could go back and change anything or re-experience parts of it. There's nothing I wish I'd appreciated more or been more present for. I was always calmly gripped by the sobering reality of how precious and ephemeral each moment is— that my current life would someday be a distant memory— though I didn't realize how soon that moment would come. (I'm not sure whether to attribute that to my daily yoga practice or regular use of mushrooms... Eh, it's probably both.)
I may be missing out on my bohemian lifestyle, but at its heart this pandemic has me craving the same thing as everyone else— good 'ole fashioned human connection.