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4 Hilarious Things I Learned About Orgies (By Going to One)

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You and I need to enter into an agreement before you read further. This is an agreement of trust and understanding. I want you to have a good time, and you, in turn, probably want to have a good time. You came here to laugh and maybe learn something. I want to impart knowledge and laughter. Maybe a few titters. Because of this, I need you to trust me. Naysayers will no doubt ruffle their dick feathers and insist that my motives in this article were impure, and to that I say tits. Tits and butts and penetration and grunting.

I went to an orgy for the purposes of writing a comedy article.

I include this disclaimer at the beginning here because the moment I hatched this scheme, the very first person I told (my writing muse Xenia, who works in the office with me and is in her late 20s, is divorced, has a teardrop tattooed on her face that she refuses to talk about, and is as sexually frustrated a person as I have ever met) called me a bullshit liar and said that, if I do go to an orgy, it'll be because I want to go to an orgy, and if I write an article afterward, so be it. Is she right? No. Maybe. Yes? The human subconscious is a sticky wicket at the best of times, so when it's subjected to sticky things, whether wicket or otherwise, all bets are off. But my intent was to write an article. Because when would I ever get the chance to do this again? As it turns out, I could get the chance once every month. But never mind that. Onward!

Pre-Game Show

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Sometime in June, I had a raucously hilarious idea for an article that involved responding to Craigslist "Missed Connections" ads in a way that would revolutionize comedy and maybe force a money tree to grow in my yard. As I set about researching this terribly brilliant and unique idea, I noticed the same ad twice, once on Craigslist and once on another classified site -- it was an ad for a local party held on the first Saturday of every month. Everyone was welcome, it assured me. Singles, couples, straight, bi, or Nancy Grace. It was a melting pot of humptolerance. It was like the Starship Enterprise with all phasers set to pork.

I continued with my Missed Connections until it became clear that every hilarious missed connection ad you have ever read about was probably fake and planted by the person who brought it to your attention and, by and large, missed connections ads are a terrible oubliette of despair and shame that should never be spied by the eyes of the righteous and sober. But that hump ad still had my attention.

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"That's a good hump ad!"

I made a fake email account, because I was already mired in abashment and self-disgust at doing such a thing. I have secretly always hoped orgies were organic events, like you have a bunch of sexy friends over, most of the women elected to wear lingerie, and, wouldn't you know it, I'm so irresistible that we absolutely must have sex on the fruit tray I put out. Nice. But I guess that's nothing but a beautiful dream, and the depressing reality is that modern orgies are just strangers who clicked over from Missed Connections and thought, "I could do some hole," then sent an email.

I sent an email and was somewhat creepily surprised to get a reply within five minutes. The Orgy Lord must have notifications on his phone or something. Anyway, his name was Paul and he had been holding these parties every weekend for almost 10 years. Anywhere from 40 to 60 people attend, there was a charge of $25 at the door to cover expenses (I later found out expenses are condoms, lube, and porno), it's cool to just be a wallflower, no one ever "has" to do anything, and you should bring your own drinks. Also, you will be naked. Like as soon as you show up, you have to be naked.

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"Sword fight! Look, Earl's got a softie sword!"

You see in movies quite a bit where protagonists have an actual moment in which they need to take stock of life and make some kind of choice, a decision that will irrevocably alter their path, their very destiny. You may think this is a bit of melodrama, a whisper of Hollywood ephemery that means nothing and is not real. To that I say: Are you willing to get naked for comedy?

I spent an entire month and then some debating this very question, as one orgy of strangers passed and a second approached. Could I get naked for comedy? What if some dude grabbed my ding dong? What if the light coating of fuzz on my ass is not actually normal and I am ostracized? What if every lady in the place looks like Bea Arthur? What if I'm hideous to them or, somehow worse, what if I'm the most attractive person there? That wouldn't be good for any of us.

Basically my choice came down to this -- get naked and maybe write an article, stay clothed and write a sequel to a farticle I had previously written. I drank three homemade margaritas and dropped my pants (symbolically, mind you, as I was home alone), and I said fuck it. I would do it.

I emailed Paul and said I would like to attend. His reply took about three minutes. His address and a request for wine instead of beer, if I wouldn't mind. I did. But I never said so. I just put my pants back on and shook in my seat for a while.

The Preparations

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I had just under a week until game time, and that made it all the worse, as I don't do well with anticipation, or whatever that feeling is that is like anticipation but less positive. Dread? I don't do well with dread. I could back out, but how would that be funny? On the other hand, what if some dude grabbed my ding dong? That question plagued me nonstop. And here's the thing -- it's not due to homophobia, it's entirely due to grossophobia. What if it's a dude with a big, cruddy beard and unclean fingernails? His massive, callused hands yellowed from smoking, his eyes rheumy and spiderwebbed with tiny, red veins as he ogles my supple young body. He moves toward me, ample hips swaying like a slow motion Santa Claus caught mid-Macarena, as his flaccid member sways about like a golf ball in a nylon stocking pinned to a fence post in the breeze. Oh, for fuck's sake.

I drank a lot that week, I'm going to be honest. It's when I wrote that horror mashup article, could you tell? Lots of drinking.

The day came and I found myself feeling gripped by terrorhea, those shits you get in moments of panic. I took some Immodium and two showers and washed my already clean clothes before heading out to get wine. I drove to Paul's house and sat in my car across the street for 15 solid minutes, listening to the greatest hits of today, yesterday, and whenever on the radio, before deciding to man up and do this shit. The man who answered the door was wearing a brown bathrobe and had a ponytail and glasses so thick, you could use them to see through time. But of course.

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The Game Is On

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Paul invited me in and took the wine and my $25. He then directed me to a place where I could put my clothes. I suddenly became paranoid about my phone. What if totally naked people stole it and got it sloppy? I mentioned as much to Paul, not the sloppy part, but my fear for the safety of my valuables, and he assured me things would be fine.

My eyes could resist no longer and I scanned the room. Two naked men sat on a sofa facing the door, both drinking cans of Coors Light. Across from them was a lady who looked like the kind of lady you see wearing clothes all the time. All the time she wears clothes, even to the shower. Like a supermarket cashier, or a waitress at a diner where they serve meatloaf as a special. The men looked like guys at bus stops or, in this case, guys who sit naked on sofas and drink Coors. One of the fellows had nipples like desiccated dates, all twisty weird and brown. I was at once fascinated and horrified.

Years of only seeing naked people in movies, mostly porn, and five people in my actual room, had warped my sense of what nudity looks like. These were just regular people who were here, now, to have sex in a large group. And I was one of them.

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Imagine this guy, everywhere you turn.

Paul then had the unmitigated gall to ask me this one-word question -- "Nervous?" He followed this up by taking off his robe and standing there, close enough to hug me, bare-ass naked.

I stood there for a moment, took a calming breath, and looked Paul right in the dick. Yep. That was a dick. Plus, Paul was a fan of the natural look. No manscaping for him, that was full-on sagebrush choking the life out of his little friend. I took off my shoes. Paul clapped me on the shoulder and said he'd see me around, that drinks were in the next room and I could sit here and chat with the others or go investigate the rest of the house at my leisure.

This is the point at which I got naked and dutifully folded my clothes for about 10 minutes, neatly putting them on a shelf of a curious orgy cubby that he had in a cloakroom where everyone else had stashed their belongings.

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"I'm not hiding in here, I'm just shut your mouth."

I returned to the living room and decided a drink was in order, because if you have a drink you can look busy. One of the men on the sofa said hello, and for whatever reason I waved back, because I guess I'm an infant. I blazed to the kitchen and was met with a crowd of about 10 others, milling about in the nude. The largest man in the room, a small giant of about 6 feet 3 inches and around 300 pounds, was leaning against the fridge, and I was stricken with the sudden fear that he may leave a mark on the white door. Did people leave marks here? What was protecting the sofa? Surely it would be a miasma of snail trails by night's end.

The big fellow introduced himself as Dave and shook my hand. He didn't have a beard and his hands weren't stained by tobacco. I still felt strange holding hands with a man while we were both naked in a total stranger's kitchen. I introduced myself to everyone in the room, including a lady of about 50 who let me know she has a Maine coon cat named Felix at home. Never have I wanted to know that less.


"Felix, you magnificent pussy."

I was beginning to lose any idea of what I wanted out of nudity at this point. What are boobs supposed to look like? Pears? Flapjacks in a stiff breeze? And why was I comparing my penis to other penises? Is this how the devil befouls the souls of the innocent? With so many dicks and boobs? I needed that beer.

A lady named Ruth fetched me a beer. Ruth? They declared a moratorium on that name in 1971. I was being judgmental, but I had no choice, I was panicking inside. I had literally never been this scared in my life, and I was mugged once. Why was this so intimidating? I've been naked before. I've been naked with another person before. I've showered at the Y before, and that's just full of old men. But this was the first time I'd been naked in a house full of naked men and women who had all gathered to rub crotches against one another. I felt like Martin Lawrence in King Arthur's court.

I sipped my beer frightfully slow and tried to look interested in a cookbook on a shelf as I listened in on a conversation about a planned trip to Brazil and another about the movie The Conjuring. Without thinking, I tossed out that I had seen the movie and really liked it, and just like that I was discussing film with two naked couples.

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Imagine the exact opposite of this.

This turned out to be a pivotal point of the evening, because I was victimized by wordplay about 15 minutes into what was becoming a relaxing, normal discussion for me. I was explaining what I liked about the movie and addressed how I enjoyed that The Conjuring didn't rely too heavily on cheap scares; it's not about things popping out at you. It was at this exact moment that Teresa, who was in the conversation with her husband, James, grabbed my penis and said, "I kind of like things that pop out at me."

I froze in abject terror and stupidity. This will sound terribly stupid, but I really just planned to be here and write about it. I knew it would be weird and awkward for me -- that's where comedy comes from, that was my whole game plan. I had no desire to actually try to do anyone. I had no plan for how to deal with a stranger holding my ding dong. You have until the end of this sentence to guess how I reacted.

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"He did what?!?"

"I have to go to the bathroom." That's what I said to a woman who was yanking my penis. She smiled and let go and I turned around and walked out of the kitchen with my beer. Not knowing where the bathroom was, I just turned left and walked down a hall. The first room I passed had a sofa against a wall, and the floor was home to about seven bodies I could identify, all with their mouths latched onto other bodies. It sounded like a room full of cattle eating Big League Chew. I watched for about 10 minutes until I realized how creepy I must have been to all of them. Oh God. I was the creepy guy at an orgy. Fuckin' fuck. I left my beer on a bookshelf and headed back to the living room. It was time to puss out.

I can't explain why I waved at that guy in the living room again when I went past, but I did. Then I raided the orgy cubby and got my shit and got dressed. This time I simply opted to nod at that guy and his nipple buddy and then I left. I ran like a bitch down the front walk to my car and hopped in.


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So, I attended an orgy, sort of. I was there for about 20 minutes, had half a beer, and had a stranger yank (playfully?) on my ding dong, as I feared someone would. Everyone there was so frightfully normal. I think I panicked. It was like being at the grocery store, only with oral sex.

In my car, I listened to some AC/DC, because that seemed like a good thing to do, then I grabbed some tacos from a nearby burrito place run by a delightful old couple from Juarez who never come to work without clothes on and I went home and watched Step Brothers. The scene in which Will Ferrell puts his balls on the drum set didn't make me uncomfortable at all.

Will I go to an orgy again? Probably not, unless I have some assurances Scarlett Johansson is there and is attending only because she heard I would be there. The atmosphere is not for me. The idea of sex all akimbo seems delightful, but the reality is far too pedestrian and lumpy. I want my orgies beautiful and pristine, like a Faberge egg with a sweet pair of boobs, not like a hardboiled egg with boobs that have a curiously crusty residue around the areolas.

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Searched the word "residue" and found this. Seems grosser now.

I wondered if everyone felt that way the first time and then decided to shrug and just go with what was available -- regular folks having regular humps. I'll never see those people again to ask, but that's OK. I attended an orgy for comedy and ended up being the creepiest person there. That's not bad at all.

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