We were relatively early. There
were only about fifteen people dancing in the middle of the
room, all of them in various states of undress. A gangly
dude in a jockstrap and a blue mullet wig was rubbing up
against a slight young Asian girl in a corporate-looking
blouse and A-line skirt who was swaying arrhythmically to
the house beats. She wasn't in white, and I couldn't help thinking
that perhaps she had accidentally stumbled into the wrong
party. A good number
of affluent-looking older men, tanned and freshly manicured,
were reclining on the alabaster upholstery, arms wrapped around
their younger spouses and girlfriends, eyes furtively
scanning the room. Many of the gents could have made fortunes as celebrity impersonators.
During the night I saw a Barry Bostwick, a Tim Robbins, two
Art Garfunkels and even a Jackie Mason — all accompanied
by much younger women.
As the night wore on, more and more
garments were discarded. The cute Asian girl was now on the
dancefloor in a cluster of grinding bodies. She was wearing nothing
but heels and the slightest of G-strings, her cupcake breasts
being lapped at by a cavalcade of libidinous male and female
thirtysomethings. A handful of lap dancers were giving out
pasties for the ladies and encouraging them to take off their
shirts. With Claire feeling slightly coy — or so
I thought — I put on the pasties just for laughs. Far from casting
her eyes to the floor, my date began coaxing a
leggy lap dancer in a Renaissance-era wig — and precious little
else — to dance for us. (Or, more specifically, on us
as we made out like crazy.) After the dance, a topless woman
in a miniskirt pointed at Claire and ran over to us. She grabbed Claire and the two of
them totally got down. Honestly, I could take or leave girls
making out, but the interloper's tan, young boyfriend was
clearly enjoying the show, taking up a position near us and
frantically rubbing his cock. After ten minutes of some heavy
girl-girl action — with me feeling about as useful as
an ashtray on a motorcycle — the girls unclenched, and the
stranger and her voyeuristic companion rushed off to find
fresh girl prey. Claire and I left the club and jumped in
a cab. "Well, what do you think?" I asked. "I really enjoyed
it!" gushed Claire, confirming my suspicion. "I can't wait
to go to the real party!" Wicked.
 Part II: The Orgy
A little more than a week later,
the day of the "on-premises party" arrived. Having learned
from my previous mistake, Claire and I changed at
her apartment and took a cab to the famous hotel where the
party was being held. Palagia certainly knows how to create
suspense and intrigue: she disclosed passwords, locations,
times and recorded messages one at a time, right up until the party started. On her outgoing answering-machine message, she took special care to reiterate
the suite number, as there were "two or three other sexy parties"
taking place on the same floor of that one particular hotel
alone.
Looking like a couple of giant snowflakes,
Claire and I pranced through the hotel's (thankfully empty) lobby and
into the elevator, more than a little nervous.
We knocked on the door of Suite 603,
and after being asked for our password, the door was opened
— by Blondie guitarist Chris Stein! Well, it wasn't actually
him, but it may well have been his buff, tan doppelganger
who works the door at orgies. After I gave him the password, he invited us in, and we walked
down a long corridor. We were greeted once again by Palagia,
who took me by the hand and led me into the living room. We
had tried to arrive fashionably late, totally unaware that a power
outage had brought all the subway lines on the West Side to
a halt. We were the second couple there. The suite contained
a couple of beds, a few sofas, several chaise longues,
corners stuffed with pillows, an ornate Persian rug and a
cornucopia of finger food worthy of any Bar Mitzvah. The only
indications of the shenanigans to come were the bowls of condoms
and individual packets of lube dotted around the place. After
grazing the buffet for a while, Claire and I headed for the
sofa, which had the best view of the couples sheepishly walking
into the party. After about forty-five minutes, the suite
was full to bursting: thirty couples were shooting shit-eating
grins at everybody else. I recognized only a few of the faces
from the first party; this bunch was noticeably younger
and more attractive. At about a quarter after midnight, there
was what I could only describe as a kerfuffle in the bedroom.
One by one, all of the couples made their way in
and stood there, agog at the scene taking place on the king-size.
Two men and two women, perhaps on a directive from Palagia, were setting about getting the party started right
and quickly.
It's when a woman is being gone down
on by another chick while clutching a penis in each hand that
a party (pronounced "par-tee") becomes a PAR-TAY! It was at
this point that all hell — and several sets of assorted
genitalia — totally broke loose. As was specified in
our host's party itinerary, at 12:30 everyone had to strip
to their underwear.
Quantify the effects of the experiment.
There are strict ground rules for an on-premises party. Here they
are, exactly as they were emailed to me:
- Absolutely No Drug Use Allowed.
- All MALES must be escorted by a FEMALE.
- "NO" means "NO"!
- Arrive TOGETHER, indulge TOGETHER and EXIT the premises TOGETHER
and NOT alone.
- Treat each guest with RESPECT, ASK both parties before indulging.
Remember: SOME members are EXPLORING certain areas for the FIRST
TIME and are at a VOYEURISTIC stage.
- ONLY INDULGE in areas that you BOTH feel completely COMFORTABLE.
- NO RECORDING DEVICES ALLOWED:
-cameras
-video cameras
-microphones
-journalists
- PROSTITUTION of any kind is absolutely PROHIBITED.
- MINORS under the age of 21 are NOT allowed to attend.
- NO excess ALCOHOL consumption is allowed.
- Absolutely NO DRUG use/abuse is allowed.
- NO ILL treatment of FEMALES is allowed.
- Everyone must be safe. We are not responsible for any accidents
that may occur at a OneLegUpNYC event.
Claire and I slunk back into the living room, stripped to our
skivvies, and fell into a pile of silky cushions. At this point, everyone
was still with the person they came with. I've never really
enjoyed committing gross acts of PDA, but in keeping with the spirit
of the event, Claire and I got to some serious necking, each of us
with an eye on the rest of the revelers. Noticing that my shorts were
tenting, Claire suddenly decided to up the ante. She leaned over and introducing my joystick to the party. After
five minutes of mouth-to-south resuscitation, Claire, who had
taken to the whole sex-in-public thing like a fish to water, led me by the wang to the bedroom, where a couple were getting busy on one side of the bed. Jumping on the bed beside
them, I lay on my back. My elbow landed in something wet. Claire
clambered on top in a formation that the Germans might call a neunundsechzig.
Another fifteen people or so reclined about the room, staring at what was happening
on the bed. At the moment of no return, I looked
through the gap between our two bodies and saw the face of somebody
I knew just feet away from Claire's head. A journalist! Someone who had appeared on Nerve before, no less! I later found out that she had a love in the mid-west and was just there as an observer. After ten minutes of me not realizing that she was "observing" me from just three feet away, I hastily got up, put the boys back in the barracks and scurried
away to the buffet table.
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