What Buffets at Sex Parties Have Taught Me About Pleasure

My forays into the world of adult parties have taught me two things. First, that hosts of orgies everywhere believe that the recipe for a successful sex party is a free, all-you-can-eat buffet. Second, that the food and drink on offer at these buffets is usually a good precursor of the sex you are about to have. I like to think that these experiences build on a millennia of sex and food traditions. That each night is an extension of those long glutinous evenings in Ancient Rome, where strangers would dance to the sound of flutes and have sex together in marbled backrooms, while guests feasted on suckling pigs and fried veal.

Moon City was my first experience of the food-sex-club-combo. It’s essentially a sex hammam in Paris’ Pigalle neighbourhood, containing a hot tub, tiki bar, sauna, steam room, and numerous playrooms. On entry, you’re given a Hawaiian-patterned sarong to change it to, a towel, and three condoms. The perimeter of Moon City’s hot tub is patrolled by a silent bouncer who points to the “No sex in the Jacuzzi” sign whenever the androgynous Eastern European MMF threesome kicking off in one of in the corners gets too excited. You’ll find lonely looking young men hiding in the steam room in the hopes that someone needs a spare dick. My tip: never be the hottest person in the steam room. If you are, leave.

Moon City’s buffet is an array of simple French foods. You’ll find baguettes, which are often hard and unsatisfying by the end of the night (similar to the venue’s clientele), a selection of Brie and Camembert, as well as ratatouille and chocolate mousse. The cocktails are a lethal, luminous orange combination of fruit juice, Malibu, and sugar. You get three free glasses but drink sparingly. Think of your poor genitals/stomach/mind.

My partner and I were not tempted by Moon City’s cuisine, nor did we ever meet anyone particularly interesting. Each time we visited, the cheese had always started to melt and its odour clashed with the smell of chlorine and lubricant. Nothing ever felt quite right in the sex department; my partner once skipped a queue for a gangbang and had to be escorted back into the corridor politely. I gave a stranger three seconds of fellatio out of kindness in the steam room but nothing ever clicked.

A more upmarket club in Paris is Les Chandelles, which caters to tanned young professionals, and old horny white men in suits. It’s an exclusionary place (I had to change my heels for a pair of their pre-approved higher heels in the cloakroom.) Its buffet includes foie gras and truffle pasta, and if you are feeling extravagant, you can pay $260 for a three-course dinner with Champagne.

My partner and I had no intention of dining at Les Chandelles when we arrived at 2 AM. We braced ourselves for what we assumed would be an excessive entrance fee, but were surprised to find it was only $40 between us. Seconds later, a young, attractive Russian woman took me to the side and cautioned me “Watch out, it’s DP [double penetration] night.” No wonder the entrance fee was low. Like the food at Les Chandelles’, the clientele are a bit too rich to be genuinely enjoyable. My partner was coerced into a dull conversation with a self-proclaimed business mogul about the financial industry. Most of the action going on was whispered gossiping between young Russian women who were accompanying their significantly older French husbands.

CJ’s Townhouse in Glasgow was the first sex club I visited in the UK. My partner considers it one of the greatest places he’s ever been. As soon as you arrive, CJ himself shows you around. Downstairs, there’s the bar, a couple of rooms with sofas and stripper poles, and the buffet room. Upstairs, past the life-sized statue of the grim reaper (a leftover from Halloween apparently, dressed up in red lingerie) are the seven playrooms.

CJ’s is an inclusive adult party. It’s cheaper than most sex clubs, and you can bring your own booze (everything a Tesco Bag for Life can carry) and help yourself to soft drinks at the bar. The buffet contains the sort of finger food you’d find at a Scottish community centre. The last time I went, there were three different types of crisps, mini pork pies, sausage rolls, and crustless egg mayonnaise (egg mayonnaise!) sandwiches cut into triangles. I watched my partner eat six of these sandwiches in quick succession, which was not an aphrodisiac.

CJ’s food is bare bones fuel, just like the free Irn-Bru at the bar. It wasn’t very sexy but that’s because CJ’s is about creating a comfortable environment for a small band of people who want to take a break from the relentless sexual hunt of the Scottish club scene. The BYOB vibe allows you to add whatever element you want free from judgement. Sex at CJ’s is as unobjectionable as the buffet, but could do with a bit more flavour.

Sex club buffets may vary in quality, but they are the ultimate safe space at any party. You can’t put someone’s penis in your mouth when it’s already filled with salted peanuts. When you need a break from talking dirty, there’s nothing better than stuffing your face with crisps.

Exploring these hedonist environments has taught me that my pussy and my stomach are inextricably linked. They are one and the same. And they can both be quite picky.