Partners in Crime
“Over 65 cute boys hanging in and out of their underwear all night!” the invitation read. And towards the bottom: “Donations will be given to local not-for-profit educational theatre.” I always did like a little philanthropy with my debauchery.
A few of the guys I know here in New York had heard about the same Park Slope sex party, but had thumbed their noses at it. I guess they thought it was trashy or something. Or maybe they were scared. Or maybe it just isn’t their thing. Any or all of those were good reasons not to go. But I wanted to see it. I’d never been to a sex party before. There were a couple of instances of impromptu group sex at parties in Greensboro, but nothing so planned out as this. And never for charity.
The invitation said things kicked off at 11, but between wanting to get there fashionably late and waiting for the subway it was 12:45 before I actually arrived. The place was already packed. It was by no means the lush penthouse/harem fantasy it should have been, but then it never is. No pool littered with floating blossoms. No rooms filled with cushions and flowing curtains. It was just an apartment on the first floor of a brownstone. Wood floor, kitchenette, and a clothes-check that involved shoving my $300 coat into a Hefty trash bag. The place smelled of skin and lube.
A few guys had stripped down to their birthday suits, but most were wandering around in boxer briefs and socks. Somewhere out there is a writer for some glossy men’s or women’s magazine who has managed to convince my generation that boxer briefs are a sexy alternative to tightie whities. It’s a lie. Boxer briefs are no different from regular briefs; on some men they look hot, but more often they really do look just as bad as $3 Fruit of the Looms. If you can’t pull off sexy bikini briefs, boxers are the way to go. Unfortunately, few of the guys at the party seemed to grasp this concept, and the socks only added to the weird sad old man look they were working.
I ditched my clothes, down to my baby blue cherry patterned boxers, and made a b-line for the beer boy. I wasn’t planning on getting drunk - one wants one’s wits about one in such situations - but, Yeing Ling in hand, I felt about 10% less naked.
I stood in the doorway of a room that looked like it might have been the host’s living room in a past life. There were no lights on and it was almost unmanageably dark. All I could see were dim silhouettes. I guess it was smart not to light candles, but the “all cats look the same in the dark” lighting was turning me off. I sipped my beer and wondered why they hadn’t at least bothered to string up some Christmas lights. They’d give off the same soft glow as candles without the risk of spilled wax or combustion.
And then someone was touching me. I looked to my right and there was a slight Asian guy, shyly running his hand over my shoulder to the small of my back. It made my skin crawl, but there’s really no polite way to tell someone at a sex party to back off. For Christ’s sake I was already almost naked. He’d have known I was lying if I said I was only there for the beer. I tried to shift away from him, stiffening, gently shrugging his hand off, but he touched my face and said, “I like you’re hair.” I was bristling. And I really wanted to smash my beer bottle against his jaw.
Instead, I drained my beer and made my way back to the kitchenette for another. When I came back the living room had emptied a little. Asian Guy was gone so I headed for the couch. As I sat down I felt a little squeeze on my ass and my fight-or-flight senses went crazy.
“Oops!” said the guy next to me, laughing. Not a bitchy or lecherous laugh, but a self depreciating, fun loving chuckle. For some reason it calmed me. There was a window behind the couch and in the blue glow of the street lights seeping through the curtains I could tell this guy was kinda cute.
“Sorry,” he said, “I do that sometimes. It’s a great way to meet people.”
“What, like, on the subway?” I asked
We laughed and sparred back and forth like that for a while. He didn’t creep me out like almost everyone else at the party. He was loud, funny, unafraid. He was a movie geek and kept quoting Office Space, which reminded me a lot of my friend Gretchen, the way she and I interact. He didn’t lurk in the shadows, he made his presence known and didn’t care what anyone thought.
After a while people started filtering back into the living room, getting naked. We sipped our beers and watched people fool around in front of us completely unselfconsciously, cracking jokes that no one else seemed to pay attention to.
“Wow,” he said. “I’m getting horny again.”
I pounced on him, carefully taking his beer from his hand and setting it on the windowsill. His skin pressed against mine, slightly cold at first, like the sheets when you first get into bed, then sending pulses of heat through my whole body. He told me my mouth tasted sweet, like lemon drops and beer. He kissed me harder and it was like we were trying to swallow each others’ tongues, savoring those thick, hot, wet things.
I kissed his neck and nibbled his earlobes, sliding my hand down his camouflage boxers to find a thatch of soft, unkempt pubic hair. He had the most perfect nipples I have ever felt in my life. I bit them, gently, and then harder, and he moaned. He asked me to lick his armpits and I did. The thick hair smelled sweet, a subtle mix of deodorant and sweat. He bucked under me, heaving and sighing, “Haaaah, uhhhhh!”
I didn’t leave his side all night. People thought we came to the party together.
“Are ya’ll two boyfriends?”
“We’re partners in crime,” I said.
A few of the guys I know here in New York had heard about the same Park Slope sex party, but had thumbed their noses at it. I guess they thought it was trashy or something. Or maybe they were scared. Or maybe it just isn’t their thing. Any or all of those were good reasons not to go. But I wanted to see it. I’d never been to a sex party before. There were a couple of instances of impromptu group sex at parties in Greensboro, but nothing so planned out as this. And never for charity.
The invitation said things kicked off at 11, but between wanting to get there fashionably late and waiting for the subway it was 12:45 before I actually arrived. The place was already packed. It was by no means the lush penthouse/harem fantasy it should have been, but then it never is. No pool littered with floating blossoms. No rooms filled with cushions and flowing curtains. It was just an apartment on the first floor of a brownstone. Wood floor, kitchenette, and a clothes-check that involved shoving my $300 coat into a Hefty trash bag. The place smelled of skin and lube.
A few guys had stripped down to their birthday suits, but most were wandering around in boxer briefs and socks. Somewhere out there is a writer for some glossy men’s or women’s magazine who has managed to convince my generation that boxer briefs are a sexy alternative to tightie whities. It’s a lie. Boxer briefs are no different from regular briefs; on some men they look hot, but more often they really do look just as bad as $3 Fruit of the Looms. If you can’t pull off sexy bikini briefs, boxers are the way to go. Unfortunately, few of the guys at the party seemed to grasp this concept, and the socks only added to the weird sad old man look they were working.
I ditched my clothes, down to my baby blue cherry patterned boxers, and made a b-line for the beer boy. I wasn’t planning on getting drunk - one wants one’s wits about one in such situations - but, Yeing Ling in hand, I felt about 10% less naked.
I stood in the doorway of a room that looked like it might have been the host’s living room in a past life. There were no lights on and it was almost unmanageably dark. All I could see were dim silhouettes. I guess it was smart not to light candles, but the “all cats look the same in the dark” lighting was turning me off. I sipped my beer and wondered why they hadn’t at least bothered to string up some Christmas lights. They’d give off the same soft glow as candles without the risk of spilled wax or combustion.
And then someone was touching me. I looked to my right and there was a slight Asian guy, shyly running his hand over my shoulder to the small of my back. It made my skin crawl, but there’s really no polite way to tell someone at a sex party to back off. For Christ’s sake I was already almost naked. He’d have known I was lying if I said I was only there for the beer. I tried to shift away from him, stiffening, gently shrugging his hand off, but he touched my face and said, “I like you’re hair.” I was bristling. And I really wanted to smash my beer bottle against his jaw.
Instead, I drained my beer and made my way back to the kitchenette for another. When I came back the living room had emptied a little. Asian Guy was gone so I headed for the couch. As I sat down I felt a little squeeze on my ass and my fight-or-flight senses went crazy.
“Oops!” said the guy next to me, laughing. Not a bitchy or lecherous laugh, but a self depreciating, fun loving chuckle. For some reason it calmed me. There was a window behind the couch and in the blue glow of the street lights seeping through the curtains I could tell this guy was kinda cute.
“Sorry,” he said, “I do that sometimes. It’s a great way to meet people.”
“What, like, on the subway?” I asked
We laughed and sparred back and forth like that for a while. He didn’t creep me out like almost everyone else at the party. He was loud, funny, unafraid. He was a movie geek and kept quoting Office Space, which reminded me a lot of my friend Gretchen, the way she and I interact. He didn’t lurk in the shadows, he made his presence known and didn’t care what anyone thought.
After a while people started filtering back into the living room, getting naked. We sipped our beers and watched people fool around in front of us completely unselfconsciously, cracking jokes that no one else seemed to pay attention to.
“Wow,” he said. “I’m getting horny again.”
I pounced on him, carefully taking his beer from his hand and setting it on the windowsill. His skin pressed against mine, slightly cold at first, like the sheets when you first get into bed, then sending pulses of heat through my whole body. He told me my mouth tasted sweet, like lemon drops and beer. He kissed me harder and it was like we were trying to swallow each others’ tongues, savoring those thick, hot, wet things.
I kissed his neck and nibbled his earlobes, sliding my hand down his camouflage boxers to find a thatch of soft, unkempt pubic hair. He had the most perfect nipples I have ever felt in my life. I bit them, gently, and then harder, and he moaned. He asked me to lick his armpits and I did. The thick hair smelled sweet, a subtle mix of deodorant and sweat. He bucked under me, heaving and sighing, “Haaaah, uhhhhh!”
I didn’t leave his side all night. People thought we came to the party together.
“Are ya’ll two boyfriends?”
“We’re partners in crime,” I said.