Farah Haze gets invited to a sex party.
Illustration by: Iza Buleczka
I assumed I’d get to a sex party in this city sooner. With a sexual appetite you’d struggle to describe as modest, sane, or even safe, I thought the moment would present itself. The usuals intrigued me, but the queues put me off. I wanted maximum debauchery, minimum effort. I’d like an orgy to spontaneously coalesce around me, please. Don’t the best things in life come to you? And on you, in a room full of strangers fucking?
It didn’t quite happen like that. But it is true things find you in the end. I was a month into a blossoming friendship-romance with Eli, 25, from Barcelona. So it was make or break territory: flirting with being forever refined to the new-friend-graveyard of Insta DMs, a memorial for those relationships that never get off the ground. (The people you have to catch up and need to get a drink with, DM to make, postpone and cancel plans with ad infinitum. This goes on for years. So long one of you moves to Prenzlauer Berg and you are finally free.) But Eli was captivating. Naturally energetic, stunning and disarmingly smart, she’s also a true deviant. An enlightened sinner.
Text from the enlightened sinner. Do I want to come to a sex party tonight? Her friend’s dropped out and there’s a €50 ticket to snap up. I’m deep in my ‘say yes’ phase, before the pandemic essentially cancels the concept of decision making, and chaotic energy is my lifeforce. So I’m in, no questions asked. Well, one. Where the fuck do you get a hooded robe from in Neukölln on a Friday night?
It’s the dress code, as specified in on the group message sent out from the organizers. I muster a vintage silk robe and cheap lingerie that just about passes as matching. Of the 150 people crammed into the private party in a penthouse overlooking Boxhagener Platz, I’m one of the few without one. The enlightened sinner is more prepared, wearing strappy lingerie under a full length red velour cape, little red riding hood style. When we arrive, she’s hood up, clutching two bottles of Rötkappchen in the lift up to the top floor. The hero Berlin deserves.
The place is packed. The 300sqm penthouse is basically a sex club for the night. There’s a main room with a dancefloor. And three separate rooms, each startlingly well-lit and filled with damp mattresses and people grinding unselfconsciously under the bright lights. The enlightened sinner and I take up space on the side of the dancefloor, clutching our wine in cups and watching the bodies in the room. She dives straight in, snogging guys and girls and making a big show of it as others watch.
Turns out, I’m not so much of a natural. I’m not super aroused when two minutes of average small talk is the gateway to guys shoving their tongue down your throat, but I think, I guess I did come to a sex party? So I let go, and one of the two-minuters slips his fingers in my pants. Something about the dull lack of connection and awkward dancefloor finger bang makes me feel like a teenager, and I pull away. Consent is sexy. And there doesn’t seem to be a huge emphasis on it from the guys hungrily prodding pussies on the dancefloor.
So I spend a lot of time grilling people about their life in the sex party scene. I meet an NYC rich kid with a thing for ketamine. Wholesome party people genuinely warmed by the sense of community in the scene. A few unfriendly hotties. While everyone around me’s fucking, my insistence on getting people’s life stories doesn’t make me hugely popular.
On the balcony around 3am, I’m wasted and ready to admit defeat. I need a final cigarette before I slip away in an Uber. A woman with unbelievable, cartoonishly-perfect boobs softly demands I touch them before I’m allowed one. Next to her, a woman in a mask, bunny ears and latex (under her cape, of course) lightly roasts me for my sloppy German. Straight away, I’m in the palm of her hands. Though not as much as her slave. Stood