The house party

“So I hear you were at the orgy.”

Rumours spread faster than tourist dollars on this island. I give my best enigmatic smile and change the subject. Let the gossip-hungry drool over their own imaginations, I figure. The truth is, it was an amazing party; totally unexpected and more outrageous than anything I’ve enjoyed north of San Francisco.

Bob and John sold their very expensive house. These guys are a gorgeous and generous couple. Bob is a sexy Texas oilman and John has a guru-light glow about him. They wanted to throw a party to thank Salt Spring for their time on the island.

Let me depict a few visuals to show the lengths these guys went to say thank you. We arrive at nine. The valet tells us where to park before shuttling us up a very steep driveway in a Lexus SUV. We pass a life-sized, rideable electric camel (the theme was Arabian Nights) and enter the house with the million-dollar-plus view. A lot of the folks we know are farmers, bread makers, artists, healers and labourers; grateful to stake out simple lives in paradise. Many of us aren’t used to opulence, or expensive, intentional kitsch for that matter.

The house is packed. I’m glad no one told me it was a dress up party. Unlike several straight guys wearing dark sunglasses, I avoid having to tie a tea towel around my head in order to fit in. One of the cater-waiters offers us a guided tour. Downstairs, not one but two, massage therapists wait upon our physical pleasure. In the rooms opposite, a tarot reader and a tea leaf reader insure that our spiritual needs are met as well. Plastic palm trees wave in the breeze as we step out onto the lower deck and take in the real view.

To the left is a large bed, before us a large hot tub, and to the right one of several large chill spaces. Nestled against the wall is a small two-seater infrared sauna, which becomes significant later.

We head back upstairs where the DJ projects synchronized images against the walls. My favourite first thing to do in any new space is to check out the bathrooms; a leftover fetish from my days as a latrine queen. Entering into this particular throne room felt like coming home to the luxury I always believed I deserved; giant mirror, exquisite fixtures and a to-die-for bathtub filled with luscious red roses and floating candles with a view overlooking southern Vancouver Island. I wanted to jump in and be wrapped from behind in someone’s tough and tender arms. Instead, I take a leak and head back into the party.

The bartenders are gay, or at least one is. The other guy just wants to get into men’s pants during his off hours. I’m poured a triple Bloody Caesar and enter the crowd. I decide to enjoy myself. On the dance floor, my best friend’s mother has achieved official cougar status. Several guys of different persuasions are cruising her. She then lands on her ass and is twirled on the floor by some 23-year-old manic flirt. Aside from the initial embarrassment, she seems to be having a great time. The space clears and belly dancers enter. Our hips naturally begin to sway in time to the floor show. Later we’re herded outside to watch the silk aerial acrobats dance from trees over a blazing outdoor fire pit.

I gaze out over an amazing cross section of our rural demographic. From late teens up to their early 80s, everyone is watching everyone else wondering what’s about to happen next. Somehow the carnival-like atmosphere inspires most people to feel like they belong. I wait in line with my dentist for a psychic reading. I gyrate with the secretary from the school, I dip exotic fruits in the chocolate fondue fountain and hand-feed the plumber, wiping the dark syrup from the corner of his lips. Everyone gets to play the way they want. We’ve crossed community lines, stepping beyond the daily roles we play for each other. We’re melding into the arms of the erotic without expecting any outcome. Come Monday we know we’ll all have sheepish smiles on our faces.

The staff makes no less than four trips back to the liquor store. The sober people leave before midnight. The bi-curious bartender joins us in the hot tub and beneath the bubbles reaches for my thigh. Also finished for the night, naked, toned and beautiful, the hyper-adorable massage therapist saunters over our way. He’s just come out from the five-nozzle shower where he left behind a smiling new girlfriend. He climbs in beside my husband Mark who squirms with delight–its as if he’s awakened within his own wet dream. A woman I sort of work with crosses the tub, sits in my lap, throws her arms around my neck and nuzzles my cheek. More drinks are ordered and delivered.

Determined to further blur the sexual line between the men, I encourage them to get out of the hot tub and run upstairs and dance naked with me. Several do. The hosts love me for it. We run back downstairs, feeling all of 14 again. One at a time, we enter the sauna. Before we know it, five people are sitting on three laps, all discussing anal sex. The bi-guy to the left of me describes his first experience as a bottom, encouraging the flirting bartender to loosen up and try it. We all agree some of the secrets to pleasure are simply to relax and practice good hygiene.

Before kissing goodnight, we’re each given a potted tree, a California Redwood, to plant in memory of our night together.

So Salt Spring.