Sans pants in San Francisco

As the saying goes: “When in Rome…”

Well, it isn’t Rome, it’s San Francisco so I agree to go with my soon-to-be-ex partner to my first sex party.

We arrive and walk into a room full of people disrobing. We pay our $15 and get a paper bag with a number on it to put our clothes in. We are told that you don’t have to get naked but you can if you want.

As we’re considering the option, a balding bespectacled guy who I initially mistake for my dad’s accountant walks by wearing nothing but wrist restraints. We decide to keep our clothes on and put our coats and keys in our paper bags.

We head to a kitchen full of snacks and juices. Paper cups and Sharpie pens litter the counter along with a sign instructing everyone to write their name on their cup. I do so and place my cup down beside two others that read “Sir” and “Daddy’s Whore.”

As we head toward the upper level it smells like we’ve stepped into Jeff Spicoli’s van. At the top of the stairs, naked bodies sprawl in various positions and groupings around some kind of Ganga love room. Little bobbing mousehead dicks dive into shiny mouths of all varieties.

We tread gingerly towards the back of the room and I try to keep my centre of gravity so that I don’t topple over into a group of swingers. I envision myself lying, panic-stricken, on my corseted back like a turtle, unable to bend at the waist as lube-covered hands and skunky-tasting mouths converge on me. “No, no really, I just fell!” I’d protest. “I wasn’t diving in, I tripped on that guy’s leg!”

Behind this room is a giant, gym-like shower and I start having schoolgirl/lesbian PE teacher fantasies.

Despite the voice in my head saying, “You tried really hard in high jump today, Suzy, I’m proud of you. Why don’t you let me scrub your back. It’s okay, I’m a teacher…” all I can think of is that I would rather not have any of the Dark Crystal people walking in while the PE teacher is making sure I’m good and clean.

In the basement, mattresses full of naked people line the floor. Hard as I try not to, I can’t help but wonder where these mattresses came from. I’m the first to admit I’m a slob, but these just don’t look clean. Maybe in my early 20s, fucking would have been worth getting crabs over but in my 30s I begin to feel less drawn to sordidness and more drawn to Lysol products.

My partner grows frustrated with my princessy attitude. I try to loosen up. I remind myself that I’m in San Francisco, that I’m with the person I love, that–wait a minute, where are that man’s pants?!

Somehow a shirt and shoes seemed appropriate but pants didn’t? Who is this guy, Donald Duck? As he draws near a threesome-covered mattress, I understand; pants would impede access to his dink. And, apparently, what this fella prioritizes right now is a warm torso and a handy dink to pull on. I feel like I’m at a Trekkie convention gone horribly awry.

We hightail it into a semi-private room. “Just relax…” my partner says kneeling between my legs.

I’m really trying not to think about what might be living on this floor. I’m trying not to wonder how to kill whatever organism is now living on the knees of his black leather chaps. She does his best to distract me.

I do my best not to let him notice my eyes darting around the room for any sign of hobbits. I close my eyes and try to let go, feel her familiar fingers inside of me. I open my eyes, wanting to look into his while she fucks me. Instead I look into the eyes of two more T-shirt-clad men sitting on a bench across from us.

They appear to be doing some sort of elaborate handshake. My eyes follow their arms down and realize that it’s not each other’s hands they are shaking. I’m unsure as to whether they’re just enjoying each other’s company or watching us. I whisper frantically at my partner to stop.

“Pretend we’re just talking,” I hiss. “Yeah, I know your hand is inside my cunt, just act natural!”

Once again, we’re on the move. We both have to pee so we head for the stairs to find the loo.

There is a lineup of women at the bathroom when we get there. They introduce themselves to us like we’re the new kids who just transferred to this school. Their friendliness borders on desperation and I keep expecting one of them to say, “If you’re interested in working on the Students’ Council we meet at lunchtime on Wednesdays! I’m the Treasurer!”

Instead they tell us about other parties, other groups we can join if we’re interested. One woman tells us her e-mail address because it’s easy to remember: nakedgoddesswomanlover@yahoo.com. All right, that’s it. Get me my paper bag.

I guess I’m just not cut out to be a San Francisco sex radical.