I Went to a Fetish Party and Left Feeling Just a Bit Sad

Throughout my teenage years, I’d always heard whispers of the existence of sex parties. They had a distinct allure; erotic and exclusive, available only to those who know where to look. 

I imagined them being like the scandalous underground clubs of Berlin: a dark room of unfriendly hotties in smudged eyeliner, thigh-high boots and leatherwear, pounding each other in dirty stairwells or casually jerking it as they sat at the bar. Or there’s the image of the wealthy and elite gathering in some regency-era ballroom, wearing chic masks and veils and sipping on champagne, the most dashing attendees whispering in the ears of their future conquests and whisking them away to have the kind of spine rupturing sex that would make Megan Fox and Machine Gun Kelly clutch their rosary beads. 

The closer I got to legal adulthood it felt like this whole leather and spike-studded world was on the horizon, soon to be mine. Unfortunately, as the reality of being in my 20s in Aotearoa set in, it became clear that events like these weren’t happening in high numbers, if at all. 

But, a few years ago, I discovered the New Zealand Fetish Ball –  an event held annually by Capital Fetish Events. Their not-so-lively Facebook page promotes the occasional anal play workshop, or home-hosted group sex event, but the Fetish Ball is Capital’s big blowout. As a paid event, at a whopping $65pp, it didn’t quite have the underground appeal, but I thought, fuck it, this could be the night I’d always dreamed of. 

And boy was I wrong. 

The ball being held at Eva Pub (FKA Eva Beva) might’ve been a giveaway that this wasn’t a high-class event. It’s the kind of pizza and nachos gastro-bar where you drink $5 apple sours and listen to a Maroon Five cover band made up of men named Jeff. 

Painfully, the entry process meant that we had to wait in line on the street for all of Pigeon Park to observe. I felt exposed, even in my fairly decent little black dress. I can’t imagine it was that fun for the anonymous friend I had dragged there in a collar and leash, either. While the outside line seemed like a clerical error, in the end, it didn’t make much of a difference given that Eva Pub’s external walls are made of completely see-through wire mesh. The opportunity to discreetly slip-away into a mysterious location was out of the question. Instead, any wandering group of 15-year-old boys, or families leaving a wholesome dinner, were treated to the debauchery of the Fetish Ball. 

But the reality of a formally organised New Zealand sex party was far from the Berlin dream. All the sexy 20-somethings that dress like Lestat in Queen of The Damned had apparently decided to skip this one, and instead, the crowd was mostly made up of boomers in their normal clothes with the addition of a Spotlight feather mask or sequin top hat. There was some pleather, some chains, a few tacky sex shop costumes in the mix, but overall the vibe was jelly and ice cream: like a kid’s inappropriately-Cabaret-themed birthday party. I lost count of the amount of $2 shop boas and silly miniature hats I saw.

Most of the attendees were in their 40s to 60s and I have to give it to them, they know how to have fun. It was quite lovely to see the middle-aged crowd unabashedly enjoying themselves and their sexual perversions. 

There was a community of fellows who’d clearly met over decades of New Zealand sex parties and they were more than excited to be introduced to some new meat. We were approached with countless business cards and swinging offers – so I suppose that’s a win? But I wasn’t that keen on going to Gerald and Stacy’s to throw my keys in a bowl and then find out that I went to university with their kid. 

The event boasted performances, including a woman threading needles through her skin, but they bizarrely took place on a floor-level stage which meant no one could see the one thing that seemed to justify paying to be there. There were no complimentary drinks (or food!) so the party took a long while to pick up and it didn’t seem like anyone was even bothering with sneaky lines in the bathroom. 

It all just felt a bit sad. Not in the sense that it was depressing or upsetting, just that it lacked any fantasy, danger or eroticism.

I’ve tried to battle what was almost certainly a healthy dose of ageism that contributed to my less-than-positive reading of the room – but being conscious of that didn’t make the ball any sexier. 

The highlight of the night was, without question, the sex room. I’m sure it had a cooler, more elusive name, but that’s really the best way to sum it up. A room in the nightclub had been cordoned off for boundless naughtiness – and people were taking advantage of it. Anyone was welcome to enter the room, either as a voyeur or to consensually join in the fun. I took a seat next to a feather-masked man who was rubbing one out and watched a naked guy get pegged by a woman fully dressed in a leather catsuit. Next to them, three people rolled around in a constant exchange of hands, mouths and genitals. While there was never a huge amount of sex-havers taking the floor, the room filled up with other punters who were peacefully watching.

Even in the throes of it, I couldn’t help escape the feeling that this was the kind of thing you could see in any fetish club backroom in New York or London. 

For all the build-up to baby’s-first-sex-party, my little kinkster heart was left unsatisfied. 

Later, I chatted with experienced kink enjoyers who gave me insight into the NZ scene. I watched my friend get tied to a cross and spanked by a man dressed like an MTV magician. I drank, danced and sang along to retro hits in a room of masked strangers. But at $65 for a one-night only event, it didn’t have anything to offer that isn’t accessible in a bigger city for free. 

Rachel Barker is a writer / producer at VICE NZ in Aotearoa. You can find her @rachellydiab on IG and Letterboxd and see her film criticism on YouTube.