Love & Sex

I Did It For Science: The NSFW Christmas Party

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To attend a porn star’s Christmas party.


State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.

I’ve never gotten any action at a holiday party. That’s pretty pathetic, considering that I’ve attended the Nerve Christmas throw down for the last three years in a row. It’s probably because I didn’t drink the free booze fast enough and was prematurely sobered up by my co-workers’ lewd behavior. Now I’ve been invited to a porn star’s holiday bash, where getting some play should be a sure thing.

Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

Date (one, jetlagged, English)

In this portion of your report, you must describe, step-by-step, what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

There’s no social ritual more excruciatingly awful than a company holiday party: having to pretend to like the douche-bags in sales; being obligated to hang out with (read: quote Monty Python scripture with) the tech support crew, resplendent in their matching Santa hats and Babylon 5 T-shirts; drunkenly making a pass at the new intern within earshot of the office gossip. Before you know it, you’re vomiting well liquor to the beat of Wham!’s "Last Christmas" before being stuffed in a cab. Yet another reason to quit the nine-to-five grind and become a beekeeper.

When a friend of mine told me I should go to her friend’s work-related Christmas party last weekend, I told her I’d rather rub mustard in my eyes. Bah humbug, indeed. She then casually mentioned that the line of work was hardcore porn, one of the industry’s leading sirens would be the hostess and the party was intended to be a type of free-form bacchanal. She had my attention.

It makes no sense to me that porn stars would screw each other at their holiday party. They’ve been doing that all year. It must be kind of like turning up to your firm’s Christmas throw-down and doing a spot of filing, making some copies or giving a presentation. I’d imagine if I’d been shagging for six or seven hours a day for the past twelve months, I’d sooner celebrate the Yule season with a bridge night or a Jessica Tandy movie marathon. In any case, I said that I’d certainly be into checking it out.

The next day, I received an evite from the hosts. The party was being thrown by Siouxsie, a renowned, beautiful and award-winning adult star — whose work and likeness I happened to be far too familiar with — and her husband, Jack.

The invitation was particularly festive: full of Christmas imagery, the wording upbeat and cheerful. Neither of the hosts drink, the evite read, but guests were free to bring their own booze. Condoms and lube were to be supplied, but if attendees had a brand preference they were welcome to bring it along. In addition, guests who were still humping away come sunrise were invited to a post-fuckfest brunch at a "bizarre landmark Los Angeles diner" that is "always a surreal experience." That got me thinking: After an all- night porn star Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa shagathon, how bizarre does a greasy spoon have to be to qualify as a "surreal experience"?

As you may or may not recall, I’d been to an "orgy" before, although it wasn’t called that. The organizers of One Leg Up evenings go to great lengths to identify their events as upscale "sensual soirees." That’s all well and good, but I found Siouxsie and Jack’s invite to an all-out clusterfuck more appealing. I was also intrigued by an open invitation to shag someone that I had spent a nominal percentage of my life wanking over.

One logistical problem: the night of the party, I had to pick up a friend at LAX who was arriving from London. Not only would Charlotte be all kinds of jetlagged, I’d always thought of her as a bit of a prude. I called her and asked if attending a "risque Christmas party" would present a problem. She told me that she wouldn’t mind at all. Wicked!

I’d solved one problem (finding the mandatory female to turn up with) but seemed to have created quite another: I’d been mad crushing Charlotte since we were sixteen. Back then, she’d mistaken my marked unpopularity for some sort of deliberate individuality and became a charming, beautiful but resoundingly platonic friend. She’d flown 6,000 miles to hang out with me for a week and we were going to be going almost directly from the airport to a cock-and-vag buffet. I consoled myself by thinking that ten-plus years of come-ons had been far too subtle. Perhaps taking her to an orgy would highlight that my intentions were totally dishonorable. Perhaps tonight would be the night!

Thankfully, Charlotte seemed no worse for wear when I picked her up on an atypically cold and drizzly L.A. evening. In fact, she looked even better than ever. We caught up over dinner at a Caribbean restaurant — where I smirkingly ordered the jerk pork — and I showed her the Sunset Strip in all its glory before turning onto the 101.

Siouxsie and Jack, the party hosts, live downtown. Their particular neighborhood looked like downtown Beirut on bad day. As we drove deeper in, Charlotte started to look extremely worried, and I couldn’t blame her. We parked, and I let Tupac sing one more chorus of "California Love" (California knows how to party) before taking everything of value out of the car and double-checking every lock. Twice. Jack and Siouxsie’s building looked like the bombed-out shell of a movie theater surrounded by a fifteen-foot chain-link fence. Charlotte and I found each other’s hands and walked with trepidation to the entrance. Slightly in front of us strode an attractive, conservative couple in their early thirties, brandishing a pricy-looking bottle of red wine. In all the excitement of picking up Charlotte, I forgot to pick up a gift. My mum would kill me if she knew I turned up to a houseparty empty-handed. I was raised better than that.


Quantify the effects of the experiment.

Strings of festive lights adorned the entrance, and an enormous steel door sported a massive Christmas wreath that looked like a colorful nipple. Before we’d even crossed the threshold, we could see that strange things were afoot in the cavernous interior. As we drew closer, we could see that a woman was in a purpose-made cunnilingus throne with another woman face down in her personal business. Siouxsie, whom I recognized immediately, strode over to greet us, running her fingers through her candy-apple-red hair. She wore a long, burgundy velvet skirt, black leather boots, a shiny plastic corset that stopped just below her truly bodacious ta-tas, which were held captive in a tight, long-sleeved fishnet shirt. We made our introductions and Siouxsie smiled sweetly before hurrying off to greet other arriving guests.

Siouxsie and Jack have the most amazing living space I have ever seen; a raw, 12,000- square-foot warehouse space with cement floors and monstrously high ceilings. Along three sides of the perimeter of the space is a fifteen foot wide loft that accommodates a library, a living room, a king sized bed in an ornate steel frame and several other private rooms. In the massive space in the house’s center were several S&M contraptions. Contrary to my preconceived ideas about how a porn star’s house should look, the decor was impeccably tasteful. This was the house that come built.

Between twenty-five and thirty-five revelers were at the party by the time we walked in, but because of the room’s immense size, attendance looked fairly thin. People were huddled in small groups of three or four, some chatting, some eating. Charlotte headed immediately to the bathroom.

Charlotte. Not only was she the most beautiful girl in my childhood hometown, but she and I are one of the few kids who tried to make it out of there. I’m gratified that we have this in common. I’ve been a friend she’d talk to about whoever she happened to be dating, which is not really a role I feel comfortable in, especially as I’ve always kind of had a thing for her. But tonight that could all change.

I tried to look like I was putting something in the fridge and got us both some water. I noticed crudités on the kitchen island. I was actually feeling a little hungry, but the presentation of the cheese plate robbed me of my appetite. Gouda, gruyere, stilton, cheddar and Monterey jack were all arranged around a lifelike, rubber cock n’ balls. All of the food was XXX-themed, and it was a little much. Between a set of silicone ass cheeks rested a piece of celery that appeared to have seen better days. I couldn’t bring myself to try the eggnog.

Joining me over the buffet was not so much a transsexual, but a man with huge fake boobs who made no attempt to dress or act like a woman. He had nice tits, I’ll give him that. After he unsuccessfully looked for something to slice into an appetizing-looking Black Forest Gateaux, he said "Fuck it," scooped up a handful and started eating it, Henry VIII-style, pausing only to give me a knowing grin.

12.15 am
Charlotte emerged from the bathroom and observed the scene in the middle of the room. Her ethereal, Thandie Newton-like beauty made me feel less desperate and lecherous amidst all the goings-on. About ten feet in front of us, a blindfolded woman — naked save for a dog collar — was strung to a piece of scaffolding while a man with a braided ponytail and bowler hat methodically slapped her ass with his hand. He was putting a lot of thought into every slap, hopping around her body, turning his head this way and that, holding his chin thinking through his next move then giving a dramatic practice swing like a golf pro at the tee. The slapper would ruminate upon his girl’s reaction, then change tack or carry on accordingly. To their left, a young, beautiful Korean woman was being led around on a leash by her boyfriend, who was just as Korean but not nearly as young, beautiful or naked. In general, the female submissives were all very attractive. The male doms looked more like lion-tamers, knife throwers and card sharps. Strangely, there were no female doms leading men around by their balls.

12.48am
As with all Christmas parties, different elements seemed to cling together. The north side of the room was occupied by hitters, slappers, spankers and people being tied up and generally bothered. On the south side were those whose primary concern seemed to be how much of their limbs they could fit into another human being. Up on the mezzanine were couples making out, while the tent was rocking with a noisy threesome. There were only a small number of gawkers, about eight of us. "Shouldn’t we mingle?" asked Charlotte in her lace-tongued accent. "I suppose so," I said, looking around for an in.

It’s harder to mingle at an orgy than you might think. I should have brought mistletoe. Everyone seemed preoccupied. I decided to peruse the books in the library. There was an incredible amount of Tolkien and a lot of stuff about witchcraft. Shelves were peppered with soft glamour shots of Siouxsie. In the center of the room was a Sybian, a squat half-cylinder about the size of a Cairn terrier with a vibrating dildo attachment on top. It’s reputed to be the ultimate female sex aid. (At $1,500, it had better be.) I spoke to people at S&M camp about the Sybian. Many said that after using it a few times, a regular orgasm isn’t nearly as fun and warned others to stay away from it. Like an old-time crackhead telling young ‘uns to stay away from the rock.

1.21am
I notice a disappointing number of seasonal signifiers. I had expected a big Christmas tree decorated with condoms and crotchless panties, It’s a Wonderful Life playing on their forty-eight-inch flat screen. Or at least Bing and Bowie crooning "Little Drummer Boy" in the background. It would have been cute.

A few of the onlookers seemed intimately familiar, one woman so much so that I struck up a conversation. I asked whom she knew at the party. She said she was an old friend of Siouxsie’s. Then I asked what she thought of the place, etc. etc. What I really wanted to say was, "Weren’t you in the locker-room scene of Where the Girls Aren’t 17?".

1.52am
Nobody was under the influence of anything other than their insatiable sexual appetites. That set this soiree apart from any Christmas party I’ve seen — or indeed any party I’ve attended since I was fourteen. I tried to imagine an office holiday bash without booze to lubricate the forced situation. At typical office parties, people get smashed so they can possibly make out with a co-worker. Here, everybody was totally sober and fucking the daylights out of each other. A great model for the rest of us.

As I waited on the mezzanine, trying to discreetly smell Charlotte’s hair while she stroked an affectionate cat, I became aware of the music that was playing. Fucking Pearl Jam. The album Ten on a continuous loop. I thought the idea was to get people to fuck. The dreary nineties rock was working on the conservative-looking couple that walked in with us, though — they were fucking loudly on the bed beside us.


2.05am
I grabbed Charlotte by the hand, as I’ve done so many times in my daydreams, and walked down to where the action was. One of the fairground folk was getting a blowjob from a slave girl while a Bilbo Baggins type fingered her from behind. Next to them, three naked girls were writhing in a four-foot cubic cage suspended from the ceiling. In the middle of everything was an empty futon. Charlotte and I slumped onto it. I considered making a move. Suddenly, Charlotte’s eyes rolled back in her head, but not in the way I had planned. She had jet lag.

We were joined on the futon by a couple in their mid-twenties. The guy was in Santa boxers; the woman wore cat spectacles and a see-through tutu. In a matter of seconds, she was completely naked and her boyfriend was almost wrist-deep in her vag. Yes, real live fisting was going down two feet away. Then the unthinkable happened. The guy got stuck.

Charlotte bit her bottom lip, trying to stanch a fit of laughter. I was more concerned. Still wearing his girlfriend like an oversized mitten, the boyfriend asked Siouxsie for fisting tips. His girl stopped making a racket — either from pleasure or pain — and propped herself up to observe the tutelage. Within a minute, he was free. "Maybe someone with smaller hands should try," Siouxsie suggested. Immediately, two girls volunteered. When they were done, the whole group disappeared outside for a cigarette, naked save for their jackets.

2.17am
Charlotte hadn’t asked to be taken home, as I had feared, but she definitely wasn’t in the mood to frolic with a rotating cast of anonymous men and women either. She seemed intrigued but totally unfazed. Either she was exercising her London cool, or her reactions were deadened after thirty hours without sleep.

There was an attractive woman in a state of advanced undress over by a chest of metal drawers. I decided that with Charlotte slipping away into unconsciousness on the freshly soiled futon, I would go and mingle with her.

"Merry Christmas!" I said with a campy wink.

"Have you been a good boy or a bad boy?" she asked, looking over at Charlotte.

"Oh," I said, following her gaze. "Very good, I’m sorry to say. What’s in these drawers, eh?"

"Well, let’s see, shall we?" she said in a terrible mock British accent. Ten out of ten for effort though. She opened the first drawer, which contained nine or ten very realistic-looking dongs. The second contained sleek, S-shaped glass "insertables." The third were anal plugs, some with the circumference of the can of Pepsi my new friend held.

"Wowsers!" she cried and she picked up the biggest. The next drawer was a tangle of black rubber tubing. It looked like an attachment for a WWII-era gas mask. I put one of the tubes around my neck and made a sound like a neighing horse. She was laughing so hard I continued, even performing a little mock canter. She let me do that for about fifteen seconds in full view of the party before she told me they were for "enema play." I shuddered out of my mock harness and quietly returned it to the drawer.

2.28am
Fighting to keep her eyes open, Charlotte told me she was nauseous with fatigue. I advised her to pop outside for fresh air and promised we’d leave soon. If I did manage to get a bit part in this bizarre take on the nativity scene, I didn’t want her to see. This was my chance to get it on with Siouxsie and kill the ghosts of miserable Christmas parties past.

But the hostess was busy entertaining. In the center of the room, a crowd of people stood around Siouxsie, who was being coarsely shagged from behind by a female friend with a strap-on. Siouxsie’s partner waded into the throng and offered her his penis. Siouxsie’s muffled groans and Pearl Jam’s "Jeremy" were the only sounds to be heard.

I’d never actually seen a woman shagging another with a strap-on. I was fascinated by the way the shagger was moving — just like a man. It was a total head fuck. I went for a pee and came back to find Siouxsie in the cunnilingus chair. Her husband was doing the honors, stopping every few seconds to swap words with her. I imagined their conversation: "I think the canapes were a hit, don’t you?" "I don’t remember inviting the Schmidts," etc. The woman with the strap-on was now busy thrusting away at another woman. Another three or four were eagerly awaiting their turn. A crowd of twenty-five salivated.

I hovered near the action, half-hoping, half-dreading that someone would tag me in. I desperately tried to make eye contact with the people involved and even stood obnoxiously close to the line of women about to get rodgered.

"Hey," I said to the woman at the back of the line (who also happened to be the sluttiest looking).

"Hello," she said, her eyes glued to the woman banging away.

"Think I could get in on any of this?" I said.

She looked me up and down. "You want to get fucked by the nice lady?"

Dejected, I walked away with my tail between my legs and examined Siouxsie’s CD collection.

2.44
Just as I realized the situation was futile, I could see that Charlotte was being chatted up by a local hood who had been thrown some cash to watch the guests’ cars. She looked distraught. I went over to say goodbye to the hosts, but they were busy in the congress of the cow. By the time we pulled out of the parking lot, Charlotte was dead asleep. I had "Last Christmas" on my iPod, and I played it a few times on the way home.

Last Christmas I gave you my heart
But the very next day, you gave it away
This year, to save me from tears
I’ll give it to someone special . . .

Speaking broadly, office holiday parties — or any type of forced work gatherings — are hardly a guaranteed fun riot. But your absence will be duly noted if you opt to stay away. Until Valentine’s Day, you’ll hear stories about how Steve from accounting threw up in his shoe or how Kim and Sanjay disappeared into the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time. I suppose that that’s the best part about those kind of things: seeing what everyday co-workers are like outside of the office — and whether they’re going to hook up with one another.

I went to the porn-star Christmas bash thinking that amid all the sex, people might open up in other interesting ways. But I couldn’t get an "in" with anyone, let alone an in-and-out. That’s really my fault. Deep down, I’m still that eighth-grader, too shy to participate in anything without a deliberate invitation (or copious amounts of alcohol). I was much the same way when I first met Charlotte. She’d make friends with anyone, and I’m sure if she wasn’t drop-dead tired she would have struck up conversations with just about everyone at the party.

I left the party feeling profoundly sad. The night had all the ingredients for a good time — Christmas, high-school love, fisting, a large selection of cheeses — but I didn’t think about whether they’d work in combination. In retrospect, it was a terrible idea. Bringing your unrequited crush to a hardcore porn party? My New Year’s resolution: This year, I’m not bringing work home anymore.

© 2003 Grant Stoddard and Nerve.com, Inc.