Note: This post is being put behind a paywall. It’s about a sex party. It’s also long and meandering. Regular programming will resume next week.
There was a St. Andrew’s Cross at the sex party. I didn’t know what it was called until Max told me later. I described it as “a contraption, about 7 feet high, onto which a woman was strapped, standing, her legs and arms spread apart, as if she was a cheerleader mid-jump.”
I didn’t actually put it that way. I said something more like, “It looked like a big wooden ‘X’ and there was a woman buckled up against it.”
But Max knew exactly what I was talking about.
The sex party took place almost two weeks ago. I didn’t write about it in my last newsletter because I wanted to take in the experience, to process what I’d seen, and, eventually, what I’d done. Though the sex party wasn’t called a sex party, that’s exactly what it was. People were invited, then people arrived — some in very risqué outfits — then people talked, then people had sex.
I mean, not everyone had sex. Some people just watched other people have sex. It also depends on your definition of “sex.” Is “sex” being flogged on your bare ass by your boyfriend in front of a circle of bystanders? Is it giving a man a blow job in a back bedroom? Or does “sex” mean penetrative acts only? I guess it doesn’t matter, because all of these things, and more, were on view at the sex party, at which I arrived and from which I left alone.