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.