A birthday party at a sex club? Sure. Why not?
The prelude to tonight’s event was an invitation from a therapist we’ll call Anne, who I met through a storyteller with whom I’ve done a couple of shows—a classic tale of boi meets girl through other girl and ends up at a sex club. Anne is a definitive extrovert, which is fortunate, as extroverts offer the perfect excuse to shut up and observe the antics of your species.
Upon my arrival, I attempted to pay the bouncer while proudly declaring my name. He chuckled, checked my ID, and granted me entrance into the first of many hallways. I paid a second set of bouncers, who requested my ID in order to verify I was on the digital guest list and not a list of registered pervs.
At a glance, I knew this was the real thing. It felt like a movie set—assuming the movie was about kinky, German vampires channeling Satan by means of intricate sex acts at a techno club. Directly across from the bar, a woman read a book inside a metal cage, while another had been suspended from the ceiling with rope as her male partner flogged her vulva with expert precision. Every wall was made of large screens projecting every varietal of porn, or windows peeking into “private” bedrooms.
There was an elaborate, all-you-can-eat buffet (free with the cost of admission) and no shortage of people sitting at nearby tables eating pizza, Pad Thai, pasta, and baked goods. It all looked delicious, but buffets would have to wait.
Our destination was an extra special corner reserved for groups and couples, and I must say, there comes a point when the sheer abundance of sex becomes little more than a backdrop, and the potential enjoyment of each shaft, vulva, buttock, anus, breast, and thigh becomes little more than a page out of Where’s Waldo?—except Waldo’s a dick.
