The art of fitting out at a gay sex party – by CJ Hopkins
When I was invited to go to my first gay sex party in London, I knew it was not a good idea.
I get anxious at parties, and I get anxious during sex, so the combination of both was overwhelming to me. However, I am also a ‘fomosexual’; okay, I made that word up, but it basically means I fear missing out on having sex more than I enjoy having it. Anyone else out there?
I was 33 years old and my love life was not going well. My dating history echoed that of Henry VIII’s colourful love life; cheated on, cheated on, liar, cheated on, cheated on, drug addict. Okay, so no one got beheaded, but hopefully I’ve painted a brutal enough picture for you. So, what did I have to lose by going to a gay sex party?
Hopefully not my head.
I knew instantly I was not going to fit the second I arrived at this party. I’m not even being dramatic for the story value; my friends brought poppers and lube and I brought a quiche.
Top tip: when entering a sex party, do not shake the hand of the person at the door. In fact, don’t shake anything aside from the obvious. Ten seconds in, my hands were covered in lube and all I’d done is awkwardly greet someone. The only other time this would happen was when I thought I was using hand sanitizer. I wish that was a joke.
I went directly into the kitchen (to pre-heat the oven for the aforementioned quiche) and suddenly a naked man with a gurny jaw is drooling over me; he didn’t strike me as someone partial to Quiche Lorraine.
Before I could shut the oven door, he’d led me over to what I can only describe as a pit of flesh; bodies entwined and writhing in and out of each other like a group of pythons playing twister. I have a motto that I like to apply to sex: “to each your own, on how you bone”. As long as everything is consensual, do what makes you fucking happy. Literally.
I’m a little vanilla when it comes to acts of a sexual nature. My best friend once told me I was not sexual enough. I was inside of him at the time.
When you watch porn, everything is glamorised and the fantasy is ramped right up. In reality, for the most part, sex is not that sexy. I’ll elaborate; the smell of a group of men ramming one another into a sticky paste – men who haven’t showered in over 24 hours, I might add – is something that haunts all five of my senses. Also, the sound effects are more zombie apocalypse, then passionate erotic mating. Finally, aside from the physical interlocking, where were the connections? People were just climbing from one body to another and saying nothing. Where were the storylines? Who was the protagonist? Where was the salad? WAS MY QUICHE BURNING?
I had been there all of two minutes and I already felt a panic attack looming. All I had to do to fit in at this party was to have sex, but no, I brought the one thing the gays did not want and that was conversation. To be fair to them, I was the only chap who didn’t seem to have his mouth full at the time.
I decided I was too shy to be able to jigsaw my way into this particular gangbang. These were seasoned professionals who do this every weekend, and I was just a mere novice. So, I did what anyone would do at gay sex party where you know people are ‘high energy’ – I served refreshments. My creative space is my safe space in anxious times, so I raided the costume box in the corner of the bedroom to dress myself in a quick drag lewk that would make Ru proud (or at least laugh) and started serving glasses of water. My drag name, you ask? ‘Dee-Hydration’. Obviously.
After a couple of hours, I got bored of serving water, so I decided to turn things up a notch, and asked the guys if anyone wanted to play Uno. It was brutally declined. My head was on the chopping block now.
A few hours passed and as people began merging around me, I sat there thumbing through Michelle Obamas autobiography, Becoming Michelle Obama (good book). God knows why, but my anxiety propelled the words from the page, straight out of my mouth. I was reading Michelle Obama’s autobiography to a room full of people who couldn’t remember their own names, let alone this icon.
I say that; Michelle’s words did grab the attention of one incredibly handsome man, who came over to and told me to close my eyes. Me being a hopeless romantic, assumed he was going in for the kiss. I was excited. My palms were sweating, I felt warm, actually really warm, and wet…
Oh. My handsome prince had just given me my first golden shower. Delightful. He got some on the book, too. Sorry, Michelle. He looked at me waiting for me to acknowledge the act, searching my confused eyes for validation. I had no idea what to do, so I stood up, wiped myself off with a tissue, and proceeded to curtsy to the man.
I took my leave and tried to make my way to the bathroom but took a wrong turn and ended up in one of the bedrooms. As I entered, before me was an image that I will never forget. A single file of men, one behind the other, each pleasuring the man in front with the use of their hand. Imagine if the conga and the Human Centipede had some sort of homosexual love child.
I didn’t know how to react, then suddenly I uttered the words.
“What was the original joke as you must be the punchline”. They did not find this amusing. Nor did they chuckle when I played ‘Love Train’ on Spotify. All of my best efforts to fit in were going to waste.
I went back into the main room where most of the men were taking a short intermission from their performances. Suddenly, as I entered the room, everyone looked at me. I hadn’t changed my quick drag moment and I was covered in piss, remember?
I didn’t know what to say, so I did what any anxious gay would do in that situation: I started listing the potential STD’s that could be spread at this particular event and offered to take a list of everyone’s contact details, just in case.
It was at this point I was asked to leave the sex party and never return. I left feeling deflated. I had not fit in at all.
But, maybe I was not meant to fit in there. Just like a jigsaw piece you must find other pieces that fit with you and around you. As I walked away, I decided to hold my head high, with my dignity intact, quiche in hand, stinking of piss. Ready and open to meet other jigsaw pieces like myself.
The Art of Fitting Out by CJ Hopkins:
Friday 4th March, Doors 7pm Show 7.45pm. Tickets: £10.
Two Brewers, 114 Clapham High Street, London, SW4 7UJ – NO ID NO ENTRY
