The bottoms looked like they could melt into each other. They were facing each other and sighing, hands clasped for support as they each got nailed from behind. I’d been watching one who I guessed was in his late 20s rotate through the following pattern for about a half hour: He danced for two minutes or so, sucked dick for two minutes, got fucked for two minutes, then chatted for two minutes, over and over again. I didn’t see him come or put much effort into doing so; his jockstrap stayed intact and his hand didn’t so much as slip under it. I think I saw him get fucked at least ten times over the course of the night.
Directly behind me, on a leather (or maybe pleather) couch, two fortysomething guys in harnesses leisurely jerked each other off. On the dance floor, a couple of guys went from grinding their bodies into each other to making out to sucking each other off.
“I feel like I’m in a living room,” a friend whispered to me, as one of the 90 or so guys there with us left the back room with his dick pointed straight up at his nose. As he made his way from behind me toward the bathroom adjacent to a makeshift bar, another guy came toward him, also sporting an enthusiastic hard-on. I had a brief fantasy that they’d meet somewhere in the middle and touch cocks-a friendly gentlemen’s toast, a unicorn kiss-but, to my disappointment, they didn’t so much as acknowledge each other as they crossed paths.
A lot of guys milled around like half-asleep dogs who couldn’t resist sniffing around the buffet of scents on offer. Intermittently, two guys would start fucking (almost always standing, rarely to climax), which tended to draw a crowd of quiet spectators for its generally brief duration. And then the group would disperse, and all of a sudden another area would become a garden of pneumatic calves, as in-shape dudes kneeled all over the floor to give head to other in-shape dudes reclining on the couches.
I was at a gay sex party in what looked like a railroad apartment with high ceilings, in Midtown Manhattan
It was just another Friday night in gay New York City, where it’s a great time to be a slut.
The monthly party described above, which was called Harder at the time I went, was like many current New York sex-party offerings: It promised a semi-public space to men who want to indulge drinking, dancing, or fucking, but certainly the fucking
These days in the city, when the weekend rolls around, men who enjoy men have a variety of options: They can go out dancing, they can go out drinking, or they can go out fucking. The cover charge for this one was $30 at the door, which is around the median price of this type of party; they can get as expensive as $50+ or as cheap as $10. Sometimes included in the price-often referred to as a “suggested donation”-is the fee for a “clothing check.” There were bowls of condoms and lube placed politely throughout the Harder venue, and a snack table provided things to munch on besides penises, like fun-size candy bars.
As many of these parties are, the Harder party was billed by its host, Ricardo Tavares, a cute dude from Brazil in his early 40s with a twinkle in his eye and matter-of-fact horniness everywhere else company web site, not as a “sex party” but “a dance party with a naughty side.” However, when I asked Tavares over lunch late last year what percentage of the 125 to 200 guys Harder had been attracting each month end up having sex, he guessed that it was “90. [to] a hundred percent of the guys that go there, they at least get their dick sucked or something.” (While data on the frequency of any sort of underground, almost-anything-goes sex gatherings is scarce, each of the 10 people involved in facilitating these kind of social gatherings that I spoke to for this piece have anecdotally noticed a recent uptick.)