I Had My First Feminist Orgy on International Women’s Day

For most people, International Women's Day is an opportunity to bless Facebook with incessant photos of famous women alongside vague quotes about perseverance and persistence. Or for companies to co-opt the day's true meaning with whatever distorted idea of feminism they've schemed up. This year, I spent this year's International Women's Day the way Mother Teresa would have truly intended: an orgy with four men followed by an epic feminist awakening.

My singleness defined most of my adolescence and 20s. Like so many young women in college, my sex life existed as a strange duality of prudishness on one hand and not giving a fuck on the other. I was notorious amongst my friends for bringing men home at the end of the night and not having sex with them. It kind of became My Thing in the same way that quirky sneezes, losing your house keys, and filled-in eyebrows were other people's things.

One time, I brought home a TA and, to his dismay, tossed him my LSAT prep book. "Quiz me," I said. The look on his face told me he hoped this was some sort of naughty euphemism. It wasn't.

A few weeks later, though, I lost my virginity in a one-night stand and unabashedly asked him to use a vibrator. After that, I decided that my unapologetic attitude toward fucking was a good thing, and I've been super upfront with men ever since.

As I moved on and away from the tedious list of bros who had characterized most of my sex life, I watched my feminism radically evolve. I stopped the silent judgments that often came alongside the destructive envy of other women's sexual tales. I began to feel less weird about enjoying porn and I even developed a surprising proclivity for a bit of kink.

The weekend before The Big Event, I'd had weirdly intense sex with an old flame that left me feeling emotionally spent. I vowed that the next dick I encountered wouldn't be attached to any of the charming but exhaustingly complex string of guys from my recent past.

So, this past weekend, when I found myself at a recording studio in the heart of Montreal with four dudes I'd just met that evening, something in me clicked.

The five of us had been chatting all night and, although the vibe had been relatively platonic, I could sense an openness in the room. The sun was starting to rise when all of a sudden, I felt a little bold. Surprising even myself, I stood up in the middle of the room and suggested we take off our pants. The words were barely out of my mouth before all four men stripped totally naked in an excited flurry of clothes and limbs.

The four dudes—whom we'll call Sean, Adam, Michel, and Philippe—were all acquaintances between the ages of 28 and 45. Two of them were in a band. I didn't really care to inquire for more details. We put on some music and I grabbed a beer before heading into the centre of the room, still partially clothed.

"It's your turn, you know. We're all naked here and you're the only one with your underwear on," urged Sean. I made a mental note to be a little skeptical of Sean.

"Hey. This is her night, don't pressure her," instructed Michel, who himself had a daughter nearly my age.

I floated around the room dancing to the music and gauging the group's energy. I could feel the polite gaze of the men on my body, waiting to see what I would do next. Their expressions were curious but not frantic, full of half-smiles and shy, confirming glances. Being the centre of attention was freeing. I felt powerful and in charge. It was addictive.

I'd always been curious about having a threesome but was never really in any scenarios where I felt truly comfortable and in control. As the minutes progressed, it became obvious that this was the moment I had been waiting for. My skin began to tingle with the excitement of what was going to happen next and, slowly, I took off my underwear.

"This is your night," one of them reiterated to me. "It's all up to you now, you goddess." I giggled. Normally any man calling me a goddess would be too new-agey and irritating. But somehow, in the dim light of this apartment, it seemed appropriate. Maybe even seductive.

We stood in a circle and slowly began caressing one another's bodies. I asked if all the guys were straight. They said yes and it became increasingly obvious that this entire experience was basically The Me Show. Sean kneeled down in front of me as though he was about to go down on me.

"Hey dude," interjected Michel. "If you wanna do something to her, you've got to explicitly ask." I paused for a second and realized we'd already made a slight blunder. The number one rule of any feminist orgy should be to establish rules of consent. I looked at all the guys and told them to ask before touched me. They nodded along wisely.

I sat down on a piano bench and one of them, as per our new rules, asked to go down on me. Here we go. I said yes and he pushed open my legs. I paused. "I haven't showered today," I said, a little self-conscious. "Good," they all said. Oh my god.

The men took turns going down on me as I tried to give them all my due attention. It was quite a feat given the incredulous amount of penis hovering near and around my face.

We stood up and moved over to a blanket on the floor and assessed the situation. "How many condoms do we have?"

"Uhhhh, juste un," replied Philippe, a shy Quebecois dude. We pondered the dilemma for a moment before the men conferred and decided that if there was only one condom, it should go to Philippe because he had the biggest dick and I would probably enjoy fucking him the most. I agreed and found the strange democracy of this decision oddly inspiring. It went along with the obvious me-centred theme of this orgy. How doth a girl get so lucky?

The sex was exciting and tactile in a way I had never experienced. While Philippe took me from the back, I was kissing one of the other three who would float in and out of the scene. For four straight guys, they were surprisingly comfortable with one another's nakedness, although I noticed they expertly navigated around one another. It was an impressive feat given the tangled sea of limbs and blanket. At one point, I handed my phone over to Michel. "Photograph this," I bluntly instructed. I needed to remember that this had not been a weird lucid dream.

It ended when Philippe came all over my chest. Exhausted and laughing, we all lay there silently. In my final act of subversion, I dipped my fingers in the liquid now drying on my body and motioned for the other guys to come over. "Taste it," I said with a smirk. They all obliged and I gave myself a mental high-five.

We cleaned up and attempted to find our clothes while slowly, the reality of the night's events began to sink in. Sean somewhat awkwardly asked if I wanted to go for dinner sometime soon. I knew after that it was time to leave. I arrived home and fell into a broken sleep for a few hours before waking up and recounting the story to a friend.

I spent that Sunday quiet and contemplative. I started to feel slightly anxious as I replayed the parts of the night in my head that seemed the most daring and promiscuous. The experience felt slightly detached from me, as though I was watching an indie film where some manic pixie dream girl tumbles her way through sexual misadventure.

It's easy to be sex-positive when it's another woman's life. But if you really want to challenge your so-called progressive politics, wait to see how you treat yourself after an intense sexual experience.

I realized that my guilt stemmed from of all the internalized misogyny I never even realized I carried. The kind that allows men to write off orgies as youthful rites of passage while assuming the brokenness of any woman who might dare do the same thing. But I did not feel broken. And in that room surrounded by four men I barely knew, I tapped into a level of femininity unbeknownst to me.

I'm not sure that I'll have another sexual experience like this one. It was fun and hilarious and, most importantly, entirely on my own terms. But it was also highly circumstantial and took a great deal of energy to process. If you had told me two years ago that I would have instigated ménage à cinq with four men I barely knew on International Women's Day, I would have scoffed and told you "There's no fucking way. I'm just not that kind of girl."

Now I know there's simply no such thing.

Anonymous* is a writer and artist living in the Mile End of Montreal with her two dogs, her sense of adventure and no healthy concept of boundaries.