I’m writing this while sitting in a shady part of the Christopher Street pier. It’s such a privilege to be here, in Manhattan. There’s so much right outside one’s window – so much that it’s easy to get desensitized to it.
It gets me to thinking about sex parties (surprise, surprise) and the enormous privilege they are. It’s easy to forget, what with it all so readily available these days. They’ve actually gotten taken for granted.
These are orgies, folks! Orgies!
I went to my first party less than four years ago. I was 37, but I may as well have been 16, I was so utterly blown away by what was going on. I’d always (and I do mean always) wanted to be part of one. The idea of being in a room full of men, there at random, having sex with each other, was my fantasy.
Walking around my neighborhood, I constantly see men – just “every day Joes” – I picture in the act. Picture them naked. Of course, I can’t just go up to them and tell them to take their clothes off and start fucking, but I can give them a card for my parties (such a head rush to do that). So I can see them, after all.
The newness of orgies may be gone for me, but the awe I feel is like it’s the first time. I don’t want to get to the point where watching the Action happening just six inches from my face would be anything but awesome.
Six inches away from my face. Damn.
What a privilege.
Would you believe the restaurant reviews written by a critic who gets a cut of the profits of one of the restaurants he so glowingly reviews? Wouldn’t that fact invalidate everything that “critic” writes?
I suppose the most important question is would you still go to that restaurant?
Oh, but I’m just asking.