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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.

Adam Pretty/Lifesize/Getty Images

"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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Felix Clay

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