Would you pay $1 million to join a members-only sex club?
Sex, exes, and excess: Inside the masquerade ball where New York’s wealthiest libertines let loose
For the past few months I’ve been reporting on sex parties everywhere from the Caribbean to Canada, and I keep ending up with stories too strange, funny, and revealing to be included in a traditional magazine feature. So I’m sharing them as a series of sex party diaries: intimate, unfiltered, and juicy enough that you should really be paying me to read them.
This entry follows a black-tie, Eyes Wide Shut-style party in Manhattan; an unexpected run-in with an ex; and what happens when you go from observing an exclusive sex party to participating in it. If you’re a family member, please skip this one. And if you’re a casual reader who enjoys these more diaristic pieces, upgrading your subscription for $6/month or $60/year is the best way to keep them coming!
At the same-day tux rental on 36th and Broadway, the attendant, Wayne, doesn’t know what to make of my boyfriend. In a sea of hedge fund guys and finance bros getting fitted for weddings, Devin—with his long hair, sleeveless Smashing Pumpkins tee, and visible tattoos—sticks out like a sore thumb.
“You know this tux is $260, right?” Wayne asks, clearly profiling Devin as someone who would be surprised and dissuaded by learning this information.
“Yes,” Devin says. Wayne, disappointed, makes a note on his clipboard.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks.
“A party,” Devin says.
“What kind of party?”
“A masquerade party.”
“Like a gala?”
“No, like an Eyes Wide Shut–style masquerade party.”
“Okay, so a gala.”
Wayne has clearly never seen Eyes Wide Shut.
Three hours later, we’re boarding the L train in full black tie. “I bet we’re the only people taking public transit to this sex party,” I remark, lifting my floor-length Norma Kamali gown to step over a rogue pizza box. On the train, the carabiner lesbians and avoidantly attached Bushwick boys eye us with distrust.
This is my second time attending one of these events, and Devin’s first; having heard about it a few years ago, he’s eager to see what all the fuss is about. Over the familiar droning voice of the MTA—and the buzz of a Saturday night out—I explain that he should temper his expectations; I’m going to this sex party for work, after all. “Sure,” he says good-naturedly, adjusting his mandatory bowtie.
The party is in an unmarked event space in lower Manhattan, so unassuming that I almost think we’re in the wrong place. Until I see the bouncers dressed in all black, and a handful of couples in formalwear chugging coffee from styrofoam cups. The bouncer, an imposing man with a large clipboard, turns to address Devin. “Name?”
“Actually, it’s under my name,” I say. He’s visibly surprised. Not a lot of women pay to attend sex parties, and especially not this sex party.
“Oh, so you’re her +1?” he says, bemused. “Lucky man.”
Inside, we strip off our masquerade-style masks and check our phones, a requirement for entry. The attendant tells us the night’s theme is “Wall Street in the 80s,” which explains the sunglasses indoors—and why my heels skid as I duck under the velvet curtain, failing to gain traction on a floor slippery with fake hundred-dollar bills.
We make our way to the bar. Near the drink line, I spot a silver bar cart full of dildos, sunglasses, and condoms emblazoned with the party’s illuminati-like logo. Sunglasses in one hand, I accept champagne with the other. It’s served off a silver platter, but in a plastic glass.
In the main room, barely-dressed women gyrate on a circular stage. We crowd in close as a femdom in black latex teases her female submissive, glancing performatively at the crowd. Then she takes out a slip of paper, places it on the woman’s chest, and writes something in black Sharpie. She lets it fall to the ground like a mic drop; I spot the words “GOOD GIRL” in all caps.
“I’m going to go change,” I tell Devin, and disappear to the bathroom, where I eavesdrop while wrestling with my impossibly complicated lingerie set. “I’m so glad you’re here and not asleep!” one woman exclaims to another outside the stall. “Are you just, like, so horny because you’re pregnant?” They swap details of their third-trimester sex lives; then another girl appears, adopting the singsong voice used by women complimenting each other in bathrooms: “That’s so cute,” she coos. “Where did you get it?” “Oh, Amazon. It’s like 34 dollars, and I’m pretty sure it all comes from the same place.”
Afterward, I rejoin Devin and make a lap around the space. It’s populated by people in various states of undress, but there aren’t many beds, and for a sex party, surprisingly few people are fucking on them. Seeking the center of the action, I pull some strings to get into the VIP area, where things finally start to get interesting.