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Sex

​This Is What It Is Really Like to Attend an Orgy for Toronto’s ‘Sexual Elite’

The jump from kitchen party to threesomes can be jarring.

He kisses my neck while she takes off her skin-tight leather dress. She's over a decade older than me but doesn't look it—with a gamine face and tattoos that creep down her shoulders to her arms, she could probably make it as a Suicide Girl. I'm more indifferent to him—he's 30-plus years my senior and it shows—but after spending most of the night milling around making empty conversation, I'm ready to finally get some action.

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I take off my dress and heels before lying down on the bed. She gets on top of me and asks what I like.

"Are you a sub or dom?"

"Dom. Wait, no, sub," I murmur before she grabs my hair and pulls my head back.

But let's rewind.

Like a lot of women in their early 20s, I ain't a nun, but until recently, my sexual exploits only involved one person at a time. Porn and Hollywood led me to believe that sex parties are animalistic explosions of lust, pleasure, and various body fluids—basically, a good time—but I was never motivated enough to actually go seek one out. That's why, after sex-party organizer Killing Kittens (KK) tweeted at me about an upcoming Toronto event, I thought, fuck it dog, life's a risk, and asked to be put on the guest list.

KK, founded in London in 2005 by a schoolmate of Kate Middleton, has organized "exclusive parties for the beautiful, rich, and famous—the world's sexual elite—to explore their wildest sexual desires and innermost fantasies" in the US, UK, and Australia, according to its website. One becomes part of the "sexual elite" by taking out a membership—single women and couples only—which could cost you between nothing to $250 a month, depending on the tier you choose.

A few days before the party, KK's Canadian launch, I received an email outlining the rules: men couldn't approach women or linger alone (I really liked the women-in-charge idea); everyone was to be treated with respect; no phones or photos were allowed; and everyone had to show up with a mask. Women were to wear dresses or cute and sexy outfits; men, suits and condoms. Towels and showers would be provided. Adding to the mystery, the address would only be given out via text the day of.

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I was the second to arrive at a small townhouse in a swanky, condo-dominated part of the city, which was basically just a downstairs with a kitchenette and tiny living room, and two bedrooms upstairs designated as "playrooms." (I later found out it was supposed to be at a larger venue but the AirBnB renter googled the applicant's name, saw Killing Kittens, and pulled out. Pun not intended.) The host, who'd signed off her emails as the "Orgynizer," was wearing a see-through fishnet dress with a strappy ensemble underneath and cat ears, but no mask. She greeted me with a glass of champagne and introduced me to the other guest, a girl dressed in black thigh-high stockings and a short dress who told me she'd never been to a party like this but had been to other play events before. She was bouncing in her seat with excitement.

'Sexual elites' seem to party like the rest of us do.

I, on the other hand, felt a little out of place—a "what the fuck am I doing here?" knot started to form in the pit of my stomach as I watched the other attendees gradually trickle in. There were about 30 people total: maybe half-dozen male-female couples, and the rest, single women. Even under the masks, I could tell a few people were pushing the upper end of the party's age limit (55); I was easily among the youngest there.

Luckily for me, the host was great at breaking ice and most people seemed fairly approachable (guess you have to be if you're trying to get laid); it also helped that the host's partner, who has a daughter my age, seemed to have the sole responsibility of ensuring everyone's glasses were filled.

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The first couple I talked to was Suicide Girl and her partner. Other than learning they frequent a sex club, our conversation mainly revolved around what we did for a living, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing but a lot less raunchy than I thought conversations would go at a sex party. In fact, the more people I talked to, the more mundane the whole thing became—minus the occasional conversation about kinks or previous play (another couple told me they host a 400+ person swinger camping trip every summer), it felt closer to a low-key kitchen party than an orgy.

I guess the host sensed the subduedness of the crowd—maybe something to do with a lot of the single girls being first-timers to the scene?—and started going around telling people to take their clothes off. No one did.

The masks started coming off around 11PM and the sexual elite turned out to be a pretty average-looking bunch—no one was exactly hideous, but I didn't find anyone drop-down-fuck-me-right-now-gorgeous either. I also expected a little diversity, but of the roughly 30 people who showed up that night, I and possibly another girl were the only ones who weren't white. Suicide Girl reminded me of Asia Argento—who I'd had a massive crush on after watching xXx as a kid—which was the closest anyone got to being "famous."

A few people hit it off, went upstairs and didn't come back down for a while. Most continued to cluster around the kitchen, including me.

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The female half of the swinger camping couple pulled out her phone to show me pictures she posted on Facebook, giggling as she scrolled past photo after photo of various objects and penises inserted into vaginas. In any other social situation, I would've been weirded the fuck out, especially because she was old enough to be my mom, but somehow, it felt fairly normal in that moment. Her male counterpart, equally as old, propositioned a threesome. I declined; something about his face reminded me of Christopher Walken.

I wandered upstairs. One bedroom door was closed (a good sign, I guess), but the 10 or so fully clothed people in the hallway were just chatting and drinking. A man whose body is best described as resembling the Pillsbury Dough Boy told me my heels would look good on his shoulder; the group of women around him shrieked with laughter, then started comparing shoes. I decided that if I was going to fuck anyone that night, it wouldn't be him.

Back to the kitchen. One woman, who came with her husband, told me she wasn't attracted to women. Unfortunately for her, the couples-and-single-women-only rule meant the gender ratio was ridiculously skewed (couples also had to buy $300 tickets while single girls got in for free). She somewhat reluctantly suggested she'd be open to trying something new, but I only saw her rotate between standing next to a wall and sitting in a chair, keeping a heaalthy distance from everyone, before leaving a few hours later. I thought it was kind of sad—they probably could've spent the money on something she'd have actually enjoyed.

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The Christopher Walken couple suggested I spend the night at their condo. I giggled and said I was going for a smoke, hoping that was a polite enough decline.

A few girls were also puffing on cigarettes on the patio. One told me she'd done some coke before coming, then started playing with my hair before making an uninvited boob grab. I wasn't feeling it and went back inside.

There was an hour left before the party shut down and I was contemplating leaving early. It was fun meeting such outgoing, open people and hearing their stories about their various escapades, but I'd come looking for more than just talk; I was getting weary.

And then, a stroke of luck.

Suicide Girl came downstairs, her hair a mess, She made some small talk before asking if I'd like to come play.

Yes, yes I would. She took my hand and led me upstairs to one of the bedrooms where her partner was waiting. A small wave of nervousness flitted through me as she closed the door, but I shoved it aside and let them take the lead. By the time she started going down on me while he fucked her from behind, any apprehension had evaporated. Overall, it was pretty decent, but not without its weird moments: while we were busy, a girl nonchalantly came in to look for her phone. Later, the organizer wandered through and talked about how good the room smelled and how we should continue whatever we were doing before wandering out again. My partners didn't seem to mind, but as someone used to getting it on as quietly as possible to avoid alerting roommates or parents, I instinctively cringed and was pulled out of the moment.

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I felt weird cleaning up in the washroom afterwards. It was strange to be washing in a strange sink after sleeping with strangers significantly older than me in a strange bedroom while other strangers came and went. And while the sex left me physically fulfilled, I also felt a little empty. Up until that point, I'd never fucked anyone I didn't really care about and I guess severing the tie between the emotional and physical was jarring. Or maybe it was the jump from kitchen party to threesome that threw me off.

Maybe it takes some getting used to. Maybe it's better with a more experienced crowd. Maybe I should stick to fucking people I know.

We said goodbye without much ado, and when I got home, I got into the shower, turned the water up to just before scalding and sat until the smell of sweat and perfume and cologne washed off. And then I stayed there for a little while longer.

While I don't exactly regret going, turns out sex parties, like a lot of what porn and Hollywood tells you, aren't always what they're dressed up to be.

I found another attendee's social media account a few days later—it was the girl who'd arrived before me. She'd written about how much fun she'd had and how she couldn't wait for the next party. And all power to her—I guess she's been initiated into the "sexual elite."

But I wonder if, perhaps, it's best I remain amongst the commoners.