Sex Party

I am not a sex party kind of person.

The idea of being in a room full of naked dudes porking each other kind of makes me anxious. (Sure, maybe I’ve masturbated to orgy porn before, but that’s as far as I go.)

So how did I end up at a sex party? Well, if you can’t get yourself to go to a sex party, bring the sex party to you.

My last roommate was a sexually liberated person. I found it endearing really: He knew what he liked, and he wasn’t ashamed. He also bought all of the toilet paper. So when he told me he was throwing a sex party, I couldn’t complain.

“It’s not a sex party; it’s just a nudity gathering,” he explained. “I told you in advance in case you wanted to stay somewhere else for the night,” which I found pretty considerate.

But I was curious. No, I wasn’t going to strip down and join the orgy. Besides, my roommate said it wasn’t a sex party. Maybe it would truly be a bunch of naked dudes mingling in my apartment. I can handle that.

I shut myself in my room when the first person arrived and turned on a movie. I couldn’t be the first one to arrive; I’m always late to things at other places, so why should this be any different?

When my movie finished, I decided to take a shower as a way of peeking into my roommate’s room. Sure enough, as I passed, I just saw 10-15 boys, completely naked, watching “American Horror Story.”

After showering, I wrapped a towel around my waist and tried to go back to my room, when someone stopped me. “Aren’t you cute?” said a tall blond boy, leaning against the hallway wall. He looked tipsy.

“Yes,” I smiled. “Yes, I am.”

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, and before I knew it he was leading me into the kitchen in just my towel.

Someone was leaned against the stove, another guy on his knees blowing him. “Careful not to turn on the burner,” I said.

A porn star, one of my roommate’s friends I’d met once or twice, came up to me, drunkenly hugging me. I held on to my towel for dear life. “I know you want me,” he slurred into my ear, grabbing my ass.

“Maybe if you weren’t messy,” I said, stepping back. He looked at me like I called him a faggot or something equally offensive.

“Whatever!” he yelled, though no one was looking. “I’m going to The Cock, where real men are!”

Blond boy gave me a drink, but I took it to my room, satisfied with my experience and ready to go to bed. And now, I can kind of say that I kind of went to a kind of sex party.

Aren’t I scandalous.


Ian-Michael Bergeron

Iowa-born writer Ian-Michael Bergeron has written his weekly column in Get Out! Magazine since 2015, as well as editorials and interviews. He lives in New York City in a one-bedroom with two cats, Alexander and Thomas, and spends most of his income on shoes.

Related post