Queer sex party chronicles: hi, I’m new here

What would it be like, a party designed for the sole purpose of fucking?

Get ready to play spin the lube bottle.
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The party would change my life, but I didn’t know it yet.

I went to the wrong house at first. Google Maps failed me and I knocked on someone else’s door, dressed up and nervous, with a heavy bag of sex toys slung over my shoulder. When I peeked inside the front window, all I saw was an empty living room and a TV. No babes, no party.

Amping myself up to go to a play party had already been challenging. It wasn’t that I feared kissing strangers, or having sex or masturbating in front of people — I’d already done all that. But for some reason, the vibe of a party designed for the sole purpose of fucking felt more daunting.

Then I heard a polydactyl cat would be present at the residence. I imagined myself stealing away to stroke the cat, an introvert technique I employ often at gatherings. I decided to go.

“I’m here to offer a gentle and understanding fist,” Summer said as we went around the room introducing ourselves and voicing our desires for the evening. It was a small group, less than ten people, most of us acquainted. It was technically a queer fisting party, but that was loose. The night would be fluid, no pressure, the sex acts determined by us.

“I’m here to offer a gentle and understanding fist,” Summer said as we went around the room introducing ourselves and voicing our desires for the evening.

After petting the cat, socializing for a while, and gathering the courage, we began playing consent-based spin the bottle. Amory Jane placed a bottle of lube in the center of the room and explained the rules. Spin on someone, propose an interaction, then allow for a counter proposal. “Can I give you a smooch?” was a common request, but there were also donut feedings and massages.

It was a far cry from when I played spin the bottle in high school, with a Jones Soda bottle in a suburban basement. Back then, anything more than a peck was rare. I remember how dramatic the boys were with each other, waltzing across the room and sitting on each others’ laps before (very briefly) kissing. Although us girls relished the homoeroticism, the whole thing was more of a silly teenage exercise than anything substantial, or even sexual.

But I’m an adult now, and I can make my own homoeroticism.

When I grew tired of asking people if I could kiss them, I got slightly more creative: “can I kiss you… with boobs?” 

What I meant was “can we grope each other while we kiss?”, but in classic me fashion, I blurted out the first phrase that came to my mind instead. 

Everyone chuckled at my off-kilter wording, but the concept was welcomed resoundingly. Little did I know, in that moment I had pioneered a phrase that would be deployed over and over at future sex parties, somewhat jokingly yet entirely seriously, sometimes to the bewilderment of newer attendees — and always to my absolute delight.


All good orgies, I’ve now learned, have a point at which the circle dissolves and the hooking up begins. This time, the catalyst occurred when someone mentioned having never received a dildo blowjob before. We all gasped, scrambling to rectify the situation, and the sex took off from there.



As people started fooling around, I retrieved my Magic Wand Rechargeable from my bag and took a seat on the couch. “I’m just going to casually Hitachi over here,” I announced, using the phrase I invented during the #dildoholiday trip years ago while watching porn with friends. Look at me inventing orgy-specific catchphrases all over the place.

I watched the scene unfold, keeping the wand on low, allowing myself to indulge in the rush of voyeurism. I didn’t come, but I didn’t need to.

“I’m just going to casually Hitachi over here,” I announced.

A while later, Rosie, an experienced fistee, offered their vaginal services to the group. I must’ve been the first to volunteer, because I found myself warming them up with the iconic Pure Wand, rocking the dildo and pressing its weight upward. They’d never tried the toy before, and they were in heaven. I was also in heaven, in a different sort of way: I was about to fist someone for the first time.

Amory Jane and Summer spooned on the couch, gazing upon us with affection.

Eventually I switched to my hand, checking in about how many fingers, how far to go. I could feel Rosie opening up, accepting the increasing girth with remarkable ease. It felt almost too easy, like I hadn’t earned it yet. Three fingers, four fingers, a thumb…

My hand was swallowed, consumed, pulled into their vagina completely. I looked down in stunned disbelief; all I saw was my arm. I’d entered a previously unexplored realm of the vagina, a cavernous space unlike the tighter canal. As a sex educator — and as a human being — I was fascinated.

I felt their vaginal walls clench hard against my wrist, my mouth dropping open, awestruck. I’d always imagined the sensation of fisting to be concentrated in the fingers, but the way Rosie encircled my wrist with their muscles, then squeezed and held me there, was unexpected. And hot. 

“Oh my god, this is amazing!” I exclaimed. “Holy shit. Wow. You are a miracle!”

The others chuckled at my unrestrained display of excitement, but I knew no other way to be. It was a monumental experience, and I needed to vocalize it. “Piph’s commentary is everything,” Summer said.

The moment felt transcendental. Like we’d opened a portal to another plane of existence, a secret world that few would ever visit. My eyes full of stars, my hand deep and warm, my friends cheering along, I realized how much I needed this. This exploration. This queerness. This magic.

I knew there was no going back.