A Sex Worker Goes to a Sex Party.

Part 1: A Little Backstory....

It took me awhile to start this post, and a time to process my time at the party. There were many layers of experience, memory, a deep well of emotion from which to plumb my final thoughts and feelings on re-entering the world of sex parties as a grizzled old-timer who was both cynical about the scene and ‘over it,’ a veteran and professional in the worlds of sex and intimacy, and to be quite frank with you, someone who is just not interested in hobbling around a hotel in high heels anymore.

Sex parties are fun, if you want them to be. I’ve seen some that have had over 1,000 participants, with rooms dedicated to every kink and desire. I’ve been to some that topped out at ten shy people in a room watching TV, everyone too afraid to make the first move. They’re a way to share this incredibly fun and special act of sex, which can be as refined and full of emotional depth and meaning as you like, or as dumb and animalistic as it sometimes just is.

I started going to sex parties in college; first we had “Naked Parties,’ where the upperclassmen would invite us baby freshers to a cool party and at some point in the night they would all take off their clothes and continue playing beer pong butt ass naked. I remember being a shy little baby; insecure about my small boobs and smaller social stature and fresh out of the ranks of christian good-girlhood. Only a couple of years ago I wasn’t comfortable listening to anything on the radio except for the worship station, and here I was, expected to strip down and bare it all for strangers?

Even now I can look back and see how this could’ve been perceived as peer pressure, an unfair ambush against the unsuspecting younger folks who already felt out-of-place amongst the older students and who would do anything just to fit in, including taking off their bra. I could see it being upsetting, and ostracizing, and all of that stuff that we know today about how badly we handled ourselves back then. At the time though, It was empowering. It was liberating to take my clothes off and to see everyone else with their clothes off in a setting that wasn’t sexual in any way; in fact, they had a giant inflated penis that they would whack people with if they saw an inappropriate woody or overtly flirtatious touch. It was a way to force us to be more comfortable with our bodies and with the bodies of everyone around us. It forced us to see bodies of all shapes and sizes (albeit how normal could college-aged bodies at a prestigious and sport-heavy school be?) As beautiful. It forced us to be comfortable with ourselves and own it, even flaunt it.

I remember when I had been going out with my boyfriend for nearly four months and he put his hand on my knee for the first time. How titillating it felt but also how wrong. How uncomfortable I felt with that touch because it meant he had to touch my body, the very existence of which I felt ashamed of.

It felt liberating now to share myself and show myself; a body that was recently recovering from a gruesome career in running, with stretch marks all over from the summer I went from 5’7 to 5’10 in almost three months, a body that was recently recovering from a sports-induced eating disorder that saw fat in all the places I hated the most, while my breasts and ass remained stubbornly flat and boyish.

From then I was addicted to a rebellious exhibitionism and fascination with my body. For the first time I saw it as something I didn’t have to punish or put through grueling training, but something feminine and soft and sensual. I was learning to move into my body and love it, and I wanted to share that love. I went to sex parties and hosted them; playing with everyone and sometimes all at once. I craved being touched because I spent so much of my life up to that point feeling afraid of the sin and temptation of touch.

When your body takes the blame for the fall of man, it’s hard to see it as a lovable thing. And I was constantly surprised and delighted by those that were in awe of touching my body, and who in fact enjoyed it. Not only that, but they were people who wanted to make me feel good, and to convey in their touch an adoration and appreciation of my physical self. I felt drunk with the power of my body and wanted to share it with everyone.