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This diary is written by Andrew Kahn, a writer in New York. It frankly describes a sex party.
About 15 minutes into my first sex party on Zoom, the dicks came out of the pants. There were more than a dozen of them. Once in a while, someone would offer a compliment, whimper, or flick open a bottle of lube, prompting Zoom to showcase them as the featured speaker. By the half-hour mark, all conversation had ceased, save frequent requests from the host to “please mute” when there was disruptive background noise. Some things don’t change.
To back up slightly: When I got an email on Saturday from a queer New York City sex party, I almost didn’t open it. The weekend before, as New Yorkers were beginning to self-isolate en masse, some sex party organizers had minimized the crisis. But this party in particular—and there are several such groups in the city, meeting monthly or more in semi-secret “dungeons”—has always been my favorite.
The host, whom I’ll call Peter, has a genius for prosocial hedonism. His parties are inclusive and consent-minded (and very fun), and he had proactively, eloquently cancelled this month’s installment. In its place, he wrote on Saturday, we could join him for an hour on Zoom. The first gathering took place that night, and another was announced for Sunday.