I remember the exact moment I realized it was time to leave the sex party and go home. It was in the morning, and I was standing in front of a bunch of cots filled with piles of naked men. A man dressed in a leather jacket emblazoned with the words "human urinal" was next to me, a funnel strapped to his face. And as I stood there contemplating the circumstances that had led me to this place, a man wearing nothing but a harness and underwear staggered down the hallway and accidentally pressed up against me. I had spent the last six hours at the Black Party, a giant gay event that takes place every year at Roseland Ballroom in Manhattan. Every March, thousands of shirtless men cram into the large concert venue in midtown to dance to world-famous house DJs, do lots of drugs and, once 3 a.
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So for that, I am thankful. I was 21 and vaguely dating a year-old guy I had met through friends. We hooked up for the first time at a huge house party I had that was filled with other early- to mids people. I lived in a cement basement that, for some reason, I had painted yellow. It truly was a bad-looking room, but we were both drunk, and I was too confident to know how insecure I was. So I was really charming that night. He was into it.
In the beginning, we found thirds. My boyfriend and I hit the bars seeking guys we both thought were cute. After we separated, I became the third guy and played with couples across the country. When jealousy flared up, I bowed out.
Hot, feminine women in four-inch heels with artfully mussed hair strut like models, dance alone in feather boas and masks, gyrate desirously and mount each other for suspenseful kisses. Glitter-rimmed mouths oh soundlessly, long legs circled with garter belts stretch into the frame, taut bellies emerge from black panties and breasts are suspended in BDSM-reminiscent bras. In the background, behind a table with a bottle of champagne, the curtains are conspicuously drawn.