Thot Journal: Queer people have sex. These are their ruminations.
On Friday night before New Year’s Eve, nestled away at a private club in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, four guys fucked in a daisy chain. The first, a shorter, slightly scruffy figure braced himself on a stool in front of the bar, while a guy in a leather harness was positioned behind him. A third guy in a jockstrap was the next in line and the last was tall, muscular, and fully nude finishing off the chain. A group had begun to form, watching them.
“That does not look like any fun,” the bartender said, speaking to no one in particular. “That doesn’t look like any fun at all.” Still, we watched.
The club* was hosting one of the first in a series of sex parties surrounding New Year’s weekend. This occasion, in particular, boasted well over 250 attendees of a variety of types: men of all ethnicities, a few guys in harnesses, one gentleman in a chastity cage, as well as a smattering of sizes. And it was one of at least nine parties in New York City alone, all aimed at sending off 2018 with a literal bang.
“Whenever New York City is the focus of people coming here and they aren’t like off in Fire Island or something, then there’s going to be a lot more sex parties,” Chris Hawke, the owner of GBU, which organizes collegiate-themed parties in Manhattan and Brooklyn, tells OUT. GBU organized two parties over the weekend making them one of a handful of party-planners in New York alone, not to mention the countless others happening around the globe.
“One of the main reasons we do this event at this time is a mix of opportunity and scheduling of other fetish events in London,” Sandy Pianiam, the brand director of Recon, a social network for queer men into kink and fetish says. He helped to plan and host a party in London over the weekend. “People tend to spend Christmas with family and New Year’s Eve with friends. So by the time the festive season is up and you’re tired of your family, you’re sort of aching for something to do.” To capitalize on all that idle time, the app provided a multi-story space on Saturday replete with themed play rooms, all loosely designed for guests to do “something.”
First up on New York’s menu was the aforementioned party on Friday, itself a local iteration of a sex party that happens monthly in at least 40 different cities internationally. The men there coagulated, pooling around sites of interest — public displays of oral sex, the man in his chastity cage alternating between moaning and whimpering as he was penetrated. Sometimes the guys clotted, blocking the flow of the space. On occasion this left open pockets of the two-floor venue empty, simply because everyone was standing, rubbernecking directly in the only path to fill it up.
This voyeuristic behavior is to be expected at most busy sex parties. Sometimes it’s fine: An occasional guy might run his hand over your torso as he watches, another may tweak your nipple. They did all of this to me at different points on Friday, whispering encouraging words. Most were respectful, only hoping to coax me on as they touched themselves. But every once a while, they would interfere.
At one point I fought my way through a clot, and found an otter on the other side in a pocket of space. I brushed my fingers on his chest, he brushed his on mine, a silent invitation and an acceptance in turn before we set to the task at hand.
The majority of those who began to form our orbit simply watched. A few caressed. Two got into a bit of fun themselves while watching. But one got on a table next to us and laid on his back, pulling his knees to his chest. It took a few seconds but then, seemingly unprovoked, he began moaning, convulsing. His feet started to kick into me. Once. Twice. Three —
“Hey I’m right here,” I said. The kicking stopped and I regained my focus. No more than five minutes later, he was back at it. Once. Twice — I grabbed his foot. “I’m standing right here.” An apology did come, but I was mostly annoyed and decided to take a lap, slowly weaving my way through the crowd, away from the otter.
Along the way, I met a sir and a boy. The short, brawny sir was turning over his equally buff boy to whomever was interested. He offered him to me for a bit before I moved on. I ran into a bespeckled gentleman with an all-white beard, naked as the day he was born that reminded me of one of my recent exes. I told him as much while fellating him. He chuckled.
“I’m sorry babe, give me a second, we’re really busy tonight,” the bartender says when I asked for water during a short break. “We’ve run out of supplies and I don’t remember the last time that happened. I’ll have to make a run to the store.” Elsewhere in the city, another party with a “selective door” policy accepting only fit or slim men of color — either fully nude or with waist towels — was also raging on.
On Saturday, organizers from that latter party joined up with Hawke for “Swirl,” another celebration at a loft in Manhattan. That event boasted a pitch black back room with backless sofas, as well as another space featuring mood lighting and a sling. A small bar as well as a table of snacks (bite-sized candies one might expect in a Halloween bin, as well as bananas) rounded out the offerings. There, crowds formed in bursts during the eight-hour event, the largest crowd at around 2:30 AM.
I can’t describe to you who I met there; I couldn’t see most of them. There was one, guy, slim and angular from the night before. Otherwise there were just bodies: tall, short, firm, supple. In the darkness I found myself, bumping into men — sometimes even furniture until I had mentally placed where it all was. Hands would brush against my body, then grope me on contact before we coupled, then uncoupled, faceless figures.
Like literally every other place in life, sex parties sometimes have assholes. This night's version came in the form of a short, buff guy who wouldn’t take a repeated no (a physical no twice and verbally once) for an answer. Annoyed, I hopped on the train for Brooklyn, where yet another party was already in full swing.
In a mostly quiet neighborhood there lies a subterranean “lair” that plays host to multiple parties over the span of a given month — sometimes a given week. It boasts within it a dance floor, a maze filled with stalls, gloryholes and slings, a handful of beds, and even a tub; it is essentially a space fitted out for whatever your sexual proclivities may be.
Saturday’s festivities there felt part-mixer, part-sex party. Around 3:30 AM, coat-check had already counted 125 guests including women, men, and nonbinary folks. In the back “dungeon” area, I passed a woman spanking a hooded figure as they held onto suspended chains. In another area someone sat, fully dressed, chatting casually with friends. By the well-lit tub, which is typically used for those into water sports, a group of femme-identified individuals in various states of dress chatted. The space had more decoration than usual, as the organizer is also a visual artist, hanging fabric and adorning walls to give the venue more ambiance.
At one point, after wandering through the maze, and finding one of the sectioned-off areas, wrapped in some sort of material that made it easy for voyeurs to indulge themselves, I found myself on a bed entangled with a scruffy guy, when someone else came in.
The guy who joined us was completely nude, older and watched for a few minutes before I moved myself and Scruffy into a position more amenable to a spit roast. After a few minutes of that, I moved away from my position at the back wordlessly and let the new guy replace me. Instead of leaving I stayed, there in the small room we had taken over, my fingers playing lightly across the back of Scruffy’s head and neck as he cradled my thigh, resting there. When the new guy was done, he smiled, gave me a nod and a pat on the shoulder and walked away. Scruffy changed positions, offering himself again to me as if some sort of choreographed dance. Teamwork.
By Sunday, while I was running a little low on energy, I wasn’t depleted. A nap put all cylinders back on go and I returned to the same Brooklyn venue for what would be my last party of the weekend.
“I’ve always hated New Year’s Eve,” the organizer told me, naked except for his boots, on the dance floor. “It always reminded me of these cis-hetero norms and having to find someone to kiss; no one ever wanted to kiss me. So I started doing this New Year’s Eve-eve party. I’ve already gotten kissed twice tonight.” Needless to say, the other participants — and even that organizer at some points — were doing much more than kissing.
At one point during the evening, an older tall figure was on his back, legs splayed over one of the plastic covered beds, getting fisted from one end while someone else sat on his face. Kisses indeed.
Sunday’s party was part-dance party, part-sex party. In place of the chatters, guys sat in the tub being occasionally showered in urine. Others lined the walls along the fireplace, drinking from clear cups as a trans man and trans woman fucked one another. After two days of sex, I found myself oddly pickier, making out with a bear here, playing with a younger twink there. At around 2:30 AM, I decided to call it an early night.
While getting dressed, a short, muscled, bald guy I had met earlier came up to me.
“You didn’t ask for my number,” he says.
“I didn’t have my phone,” I respond, handing it over now that I’d retrieved it from coat check. He put in his number, his name, and the name of the party for my reference.
“Text me,” he says, giving me a last, long kiss.
Happy New Year to you too.
*Names of venues and some parties have been omitted throughout this piece to respect the discretion most queer sex parties operate under