You lucky things: the divine Sofia Miles shares an account of a night at a Manhattan sex party, originally published on ChitChat&Death with us here, accompanied with a hypnotic visual delight. Thank us later.

 

Beep beep, message from R: “Babe, should we go? Blow off some steam?!” devil emoji, devil emoji, devil emoji, followed by a link. I click on the link. It opens to the website of a global adult party brand I have been seeing around. They are holding their next event in New York. Of course I want to go! I will never say no to adventure.

A few days later my friend Eugene calls and tells me about the same event. He has never been to a sex party before, he says, it is something he wants to experience. Eugene is one of my few hetero male friends who doesn’t only know about my work and gets it, but who is also supportive without being sleazy about it.

We were walking down Avenue A in the East Village when I first told him about being a sex worker, how happy it made me, how I was actually successful. He stopped, yelled “Fuck Yeah! YES!!!” and gave me an enormous hug, the kind where you are lifted off the ground and spun around a bit, like in the movies. There was no judgment, no shift to sexual in our dynamic, just heartfelt celebratory joy for my success.

That’s the kind of guy he is. The type who shines so brightly and loves so fiercely everyone he touches is lifted up, sometimes literally.

So that’s Eugene and he wants to experience a sex party and thought I might be the right friend to go on that adventure with. My friends often seek me out as their partner in “crime”. I am the go-to guy for desires others might judge. For holding their hand as they explore new paths. I am grateful for that trust and like to think that being open and shame-free about my work, and sexuality in general, has something to do with it. Maybe it inspires others to be open-minded too, less judgmental, of their own sexuality and that of others. I like this thought and it powers me through all the stigma that comes with being a whore.

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I like to pretend I am a highly evolved fluid being that doesn’t exist in boxes but the truth is I rely heavily on my internal box system. It requires stamina to be a sex worker while being tons of other things too. Separating the worlds I exist in and that exist in me gives me a breather. Only very select people get to meet all of my Me’s. Those who do are usually people who contain multitudes themselves and who have gained my trust by boldly expressing them all. Like Eugene.

He picks me up and we are headed to The Mark to meet R and her partner for pre play-party drinks. I am nervous. R who is my friend but also a fellow heaux, her partner, who once was a client, Eugene, who is Eugene and me, who is many. But everyone clicks quickly and so I relax and a few drinks and a short Uber ride later we are standing in the hallway of an Upper Eastside townhouse, chatting away and sipping on bubbly.

A portable boombox with shitty sound plays a generic electronic playlist. Muzak for Millennials. Two couples are shuffling and arranging around a sofa. The women seem uncomfortable in their tight bandage dresses and go from giggling to solemn silence within moments, adjusting their outfits and their hair and their blasé expression. Their partners are leaning casually against the couch and make a lot of effort to appear effortless, their big boy paws clenched tightly around tiny champagne flutes. 

“Want to go take off our dresses?” R asks. “I have this thing where I like to be the first one naked, wanna play first one naked with me?!” 

And so we disappear to reappear naked and next thing I know I am surrounded by strangers on a bed full of bodies.

How did I get here? 

Did I walk back into the room and straight to the bed? 

Where is R and where did all these people come from? 

When did they all get naked and who dimmed the lights?

Sometimes I wonder if my brain edits memories for a perfect storyline. Just cuts out the boring stuff, the basic stuff, the stuff that’s irrelevant to the plot. Or stuff that changes the plot from its intended direction and turns a rom-com into a drama. 

I look up and see a man walking closer. Attractive, big, tall. He is wearing a smoking, one of the good guys who actually adhered to the dress code, except he is no longer wearing the pants and the shirt is unbuttoned too, and the bow tie has become undone and is merely dangling around his neck. He is stroking his cock as he walks closer, looking into my eyes, as I look into his, watching him watching me.

I open my legs for him, open them wide.

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I love people fucking right next to me and I love fucking right next to people. Their lust washing over me like heavy ocean waves. And sharing mine just because! Abundance, excess, multiplication of joy! I am a giver and I love to be generous: laughs, love, life, sex! But I am also a taker. I make sure I receive in abundance too.

I like to feel connected, spiritually, emotionally, sexually, and maybe that is what orgies mean to me: different qualities of simultaneous connection.

I am not into physical excess though. I like to be touched, but not by too many people at the same time. Too many bodies touching mine is overwhelming and distracting. It puts me off my melody. Sex is all about the melody.

I prefer to be touched by few but surrounded by many. Stimulation by proxy. 

He moves in and out of me. First slow, then harder, deeper. His cock fills me and it feels good to be filled. I let my head fall back and to the side, as his pressed dress shirt rubs against me in ever-faster thrusts. I love this sensation of rough fabric against my skin. I open my eyes and look straight into Eugene’s. Was he right here beside me all along? There is a woman on top of him whose face I can’t make out or maybe I don’t care. I look into Eugene’s eyes. Is he happy? Is he experiencing what he had hoped for? I reach for his hand, squeeze it, then let my eyes fall shut again without letting go of his hand, keep holding it while we are both getting fucked by people we don’t know and probably never will. Hand in hand we let ourselves fall deeper into the abyss. Calm loving connectedness within this mayhem of orgasmic greed.