Naked Brunch: A Sunday Afternoon Sex Party
Inside a polyamorous commune that takes “bottomless brunch” literally
Author’s note: This piece was previously paywalled, but I’m unlocking it now for everyone! Enjoy xx
When I picture brunch, I think of bottomless mimosas, avocado toast, and blonde influencers with crest-bright smiles. I don’t necessarily picture a Brooklyn sex party—which is why, when I get the invite, I can’t help but go see for myself.
It’s my third play party in 24 hours, and I’m brutally hungover. This feels especially apparent when, upon descending the steps of the L train, I find myself surrounded by tiny dogs in immaculately chic Halloween costumes. As I later learn, it’s the Halloween dog parade, and Williamsburg is mecca. On the train, I sip my extra-strong coffee and make eye contact with a caramel-colored chihuahua who, like me, is wearing tinted sunglasses and a beleaguered expression.
Unlike last night’s soirees—housed in private mansions and penthouse suites—this one is in deep Brooklyn, inside a sprawling private home that feels more commune than club. The event copy promises a mix of creativity, enlightenment, and spontaneity, the kind of language you might find on the flier for a meditation retreat or an ecstatic dance class: it’s not an orgy, but a “petri dish of playful abandon.” Upon arriving, guests are checked in and briefed on the protocol—then encouraged to avail themselves of the “full-service BYOB bar,” which seems like an oxymoron, and a dance floor where DJs encourage you to “shake out your second chakra.”
Walking in to the sound of tribal beats, it’s clear the chakra-shaking is already in full swing—and I only need to peer around the corner to the first bedroom to see that the fucking is, too.
Looking into a mirrored room, I’m suddenly met with my own bemused reflection and a close-up look at a woman perfecting her blowjob technique, expression rapt with exquisite focus. I’d have been content to play voyeur, but soon, my attention is diverted to a friendly stranger, who introduces himself and tells me that he, too, is running on four hours of sleep. In fact, pretty much everyone I meet that day says the same thing, whether due to a sex party double feature, pole-dancing commitments, or simply a wild Saturday night. “Usually, the energy is a lot higher,” says one longtime member. “It’s like, it’s Saturday night, let’s really let loose! But today, it’s, you know… Sunday afternoon.”
By this point, we’re in the dungeon, and in front of us, a couple is playfully beating their sub’s ass. This is the dedicated BDSM area, with kinky furniture and a neon sign illuminated with the words “Pro-Domme,” though in this case, “pro” seems more like a statement of support than a demarcation of skill. No judgment; everyone seems to be safe, happy, and enjoying themselves, unburdened by the pounding headache that’s slowly taking over my seventh chakra. “You struggle with this one,” an energy healer once told me, before telling me I’m a warrior, or maybe a worrier—I wasn’t sure which.
At coat check, I learn the event is staffed primarily by the club’s members, who donate their time in exchange for free or discounted tickets—a stark contrast to the black tie soiree of the night before, which costs thousands to attend and decidedly does not offer discounts. After a night spent rubbing elbows with the one percent—and watching them rub more than elbows with each other—it’s a relief to inhabit a more laid-back, communal atmosphere, with the familiar pleather harnesses and heart-shaped D-rings.
The dress code for this event, I’m told, is “colorful, flashy, and whimsical,” evoking the attire one might expect at a day rave or music festival—and matching almost nothing in my wardrobe. So after scanning my all-black closet in a panic, I selected a flowing grey dress and hoped for the best. As it turns out, I’m somewhere in the middle of the spectrum: Some attendees sport harnesses and lingerie, but some are fully clothed, and others fully naked. Watching a woman’s hand bob up and down as she fondles her partner’s dick, I momentarily think she’s wearing a kinky wrist cuff, only to realize it’s an Apple Watch.
“Usually, the energy is a lot higher. It’s like, it’s Saturday night, let’s really let loose! But today, it’s, you know… Sunday afternoon.”
The moment I’m alone, an older woman promptly introduces herself. “It’s my first party flying solo,” she tells me, and I delicately attempt to find out whether that means she’s here without her partner or recently separated. It’s the former, and as she explains, a relative rarity: the party’s targeted toward couples and swingers, with some single women and only the occasional single man: rare exceptions, vetted for sexual charisma and knowledge of consent.
One of these well-vetted men quickly joins our group, as does a tall, dark-haired woman who’d never been to a play party before. She found out about it after someone suggested it as an alternative to the vanilla dating scene. “My friend said, ‘Hey, you’re pretty open-minded, and you’re always complaining about dating apps and people you meet at bars. Why don’t you try something different?’”
I try to imagine what the atmosphere feels like for a first-timer: a sprawling basement dungeon populated by thirty-some forty-something couples, most engaged in enthusiastic humping. High-pitched moans punctuate the air, along with variations of “fuck me harder” whispered into shoulders and sheets. Most of the floor is occupied by mattresses—in true Bushwick fashion, there’s not a bed frame in sight—and on the far end sits a small camping tent: “For couples who want, you know, a little extra privacy,” a member informs me. It’s a far cry from last night’s velvet ropes, but it gets the job done, I suppose, especially if you’re the outdoorsy type.
I’m not, but I appreciate the amenities: a hot tub and a yard so large it would turn any New Yorker on, even before people start fucking in it. “This is the first time I’ve seen it empty,” the well-vetted man from before tells me, gesturing at the hot tub. “Damn, I should have brought a swimsuit,” I say, then remember, sheepishly, that I wouldn’t need one. Later, I watch as it converts into a play area, naked couples packed in among rising steam.
Despite the slightly sleepy tone, everyone I meet seems to be in good spirits, horny or at least hopeful about where the day could lead. “I keep coming up to people and asking, ‘How’s your night going?’” one man tells me. “I’m so used to the nighttime events, I keep forgetting it’s like 2 p.m.”
Brunch and sex parties are both social rituals that revolve around indulging our more hedonistic desires—things like ordering French Toast at 4 p.m., drinking during the day, and, of course, having sex with total strangers.
As with any brunch, many people are day-drinking—but I’m still repenting for my sins the night before, so I skip the full-service BYOB bar and engage in water-cooler conversation with a gorgeous young couple visiting from out of town. They’ve been to a few play parties there, they say, but nothing quite like this—not that they need it: “I mean, we all have Feeld.” But after spending a few hundred to attend, they’ve found themselves a bit disappointed: “It’s definitely an older crowd,” notes the woman, who, at 26, is among the youngest in attendance. “I overheard someone be like, ‘When we get a babysitter, we always come here.’”
The party is billed as bohemian—but so far, most everyone I’ve met works in tech. It makes sense: Unlike the jaded realism of New York’s dating scene, it’s suffused with the sort of free-spirited sexual optimism one might expect in the Burning Man orgy dome. And just as that event’s countercultural significance has been diluted by an influx of Silicon Valley CEOs, the rising cost of sex parties fosters a crowd of people who are older, financially stable, and seeking a temporary escape from the monotony of their 9-5.
Suddenly ravenous, I loop back to the kitchen, where a man is cheerfully flipping pancakes as moans of “yes daddy” emanate from the next room. Behind him, I can see two couples humping just five feet away as the smell of bacon rises. “Talk about kitchen table polyamory!” I text my boyfriend from the bathroom, wishing he was here. We’re both hungover, but across town, he’s working the other kind of brunch—the kind with influencers and Instagrammable plates, single women dishing on their latest dates and middle-aged moms who whisper “Let’s be bad!” before ordering another Bloody Mary.
At first glance, the scenes couldn’t be more different—but after a few hours in the orgiastic townhouse, I’m starting to see the similarities. Brunch and sex parties are both social rituals that revolve around indulging our more hedonistic desires—things like ordering French Toast at 4 p.m., drinking during the day, and, of course, having sex with total strangers. But if brunch is performative leisure, then sex parties like this are performative liberation: a place to enact the fantasy of a more free-spirited, bohemian life, without having to commit to it 24/7.
If brunch is performative leisure, then sex parties like this are performative liberation: a place to enact the fantasy of a more free-spirited, bohemian life, without having to commit to it 24/7.
For some people, though, it is a lifestyle: When not rented to this particular sex party, the townhouse is home to an “intentional community” of polyamorists who accept applications on a rolling basis. That might be why the crowd feels more polyamorous than perverse, favoring a model of sexual adventure that’s got less to do with what you’re doing and more to do with who you’re doing. Some of these couples are swapping or pulling in thirds, from the outside, the sex all looks heteronormative and relatively vanilla—so uniform, in fact, that when a line of couples synchronize their thrusts, one girl looks over and says, condescendingly, “Awww.”
At the outdoor bar, I reconnect with the vetted man and a beautiful single woman who works in crypto—a unicorn twice over. She tells me she’s been to kink parties before, but often found herself turned off, because she never saw people having the kind of sex she wanted to have: “Normal sex, with lots of different people.” This is her first time here, and she likes the vibe, but isn’t sold on the brunch theme. “It’s so early, I had to come here straight from work. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be showing up to a sex party in jeans,” she says, gesturing at her outfit. “Well,” says the well-vetted man, “You could always take them off.”
There’s a spark between them, so I excuse myself, conscious of my role as an observer when everyone else is letting loose. It’s an odd role to play at a sex party, but when I broach the subject, they’re reassuring: “I think it’s cool that you’re writing about it,” the man says. “Because before people end up at sex parties, they wonder what’s going on at sex parties. Everyone’s curious about another way of living.”
The party’s winding down, but before leaving, I reconnect with a few people I met in the beginning—including the tall girl attending her first play party, hoping to discover a better way to date. I ask her how her experience was, and the answer is effusive: “I just had threesomes with two different couples, slept with a woman for the first time, and broke a six-year dry spell.” Upon hearing this, a woman nearby is aghast. “Congratulations. Can I hug you?” she asks, and they embrace.
As I later learn, the threesomes—and being with a woman for the first time—were on her bucket list. “I wanted three things out of today, and I’ve already got two,” she says, face lit with a post-sex glow. “What’s the third?” I ask. “Anal!” she replies cheerfully, noting she’s always been curious but not eager to try it with a random guy at a bar. “I’m assured that, if not STD-free, there’s a culture of regular testing,” she tells me. “To apply, you have to write about your philosophy of sex, so I feel safer doing it here than with someone on the apps.”
The other newcomer seems to have had a similarly positive experience; the jeans are off, anyway, and she and the vetted man are making their way to the nearest bedroom, hand in hand. I smile, and briefly imagine speaking at their wedding—then say it was great meeting them and begin to make my exit, plate of pancakes in tow.
“You too,” they say, and then: “Wait, do you want to watch?”
Great title
anal!