It is a barren, unremarkable drab little room except of course for the three distinct pockets of sex activity that have formed. At this point, the only thing to do is at least check out the basement. He decides to leave, and I should have as well but, damn it, I paid the $10 cover less than an hour ago. He’s not really here for the sex room either, a relief, but we might be the only two. I figure maybe I’m a little early (it’s 1 a.m.), but as I wait the club doesn’t really get more packed. Yeah, well, turns out, basically, at least on this cold night, it is just a sex party. The friend who is into this sort of thing is out of town at least, so I won’t run into him. I don’t love going out alone, but Miami has left me with a nightclub habit that my still fledgling social circle here can’t quite support. If I don’t like it, at least there’s other bars near by. It’s been billed as having enough other things going on where I can just pretend that’s not happening. I see a party called “Harder,” which has been described as a party that just happens to feature a sex room. So last night, upon the realization that it was scheduled to snow all today (it did) and the surprise that my roommate had two friends staying with him, I realized I needed to get out of the house while I could. I don’t hate it enough to totally avoid the space completely, especially if it isn’t the main event. A few stops by the Eagle where someone is usually fondling someone else on the pool table. There was the time a friend took me to The Cock in the first week (I hated it). No one goes to a sex party to take someone home, you know? That’s the opposite of the point.Īnyway, I’ve wound up at a few of these parties and places where this was going on in back rooms before. I like sex without strings. I like spontaneity …but then again is having sex at a party specifically featuring the prospect of sex really spontaneous? Its decidedly not the kind of sex I’d prefer to have, and it sort of lessens the chance of the sex I’d prefer to have to occur. I like a little bit of exhibitionism sometimes (though I’m sure the fact I don’t love my body at the moment is playing a part here). I’ve had adjacent fantasies (like, you know, a pool party fuckfest, which, in my mind, is somehow distinct). I’ve been to bath houses, not a lot, but I’ve been. I’m not sure if I totally understand my aversion to these parties. Then again, so does reliance on public transit. Romanticize if you must, but lets not disregard the ways that capitalism literally fucks with our sex lives. So, if anything, these sex parties and tendency towards public sex are just efficient. The actual “gayborhoods” are too expensive for most. Or someone lives near by, but their roommate is home and they have thin walls. You meet someone in Manhattan, turns out he lives in Harlem. I get the history of gay liberation angle here, but to me it seems like there’s two factors at play here: 1) Truvada (for obvious reasons) 2) real estate. My move to New York has coincided with the resurgence of gay sex parties and the like as a norm in nightlife.