Flavor of the Week: Bobbing for Boys

The closet was full of lumpy white garbage bags with men's names written in all caps. TIM. MIGUEL. STEVE. JOHN. TY. It looked as if bodies had been chopped up and the dismembered parts were being stored for later, an unintended, but gruesome, detail to the Halloween sex party.

The evening's host was naked save for a white chef's apron and hat. I got it: He was the Naked Chef. But since he was on the heavy side, he also looked like one of those Muppet pigs. At least he seemed friendly.

"Welcome, welcome, come on in," Donny said, directing me and two other strangers who had come up in the elevator with me to his apartment. We followed his bare bottom into the hallway.

I’d found out about the Upper West Side Men’s Party by responding to an ad I came across while trolling Craigslist on a Friday night. The guidelines were simple: Send a face pic to the host, and if he thought you fit in with the crowd—under 45 and not too overweight—he’d send you the details and rules for the night. I waited a few minutes and then received my email acceptance. A list of rules were embedded in his response: No illegal drugs, be quiet in the hallway (so that neighbors didn’t complain) and no chewing gum (since “some just cannot chew responsibly!”). I decided to check it out.

“You can keep your shirt and underwear if you want,” Donny explained. “Everything else goes in the bag. Oh, and it’s a $20 donation.”

“Can I at least keep my shoes or socks,” I asked.

“Sure, if you want,” he said with a smile. “Guess you never know what you might step in.”

I took off my jeans and shirt, checked to make sure my ID was safe in a pocket with a few more dollars (I’d learned my lesson after a few stupid darkroom mistakes, and left my wallet at home) and handed my garbage bag of clothes to a guy who slapped a piece of tape on it, wrote the name I gave him in blue magic marker and stacked it next to another bag that read TRAVIS.

This was my first sex party in a private apartment. Although I’d gotten acquainted with backrooms in bars (and even a few saunas) in my travels, I’d been disappointed so far in what New York had to offer. The bars were mostly dead and other than the two skeevy sex clubs—one on the East, the other on the West Side— which I’d avoided, it seemed everyone had retreated to the “safety” of finding guys online and hooking up at home. None of that thrill of a random encounter and nostrings pleasure that gay men should enjoy.

“We have spiked punch and snacks in the kitchen,” Donny explained, escorting us into the one room where brightish lights seemed to be allowed. “The living room is for socializing. Keep all the action in the playroom.” He then sat back down at his laptop set up on a collapsible table near the fridge and began opening emails and chatting with the next crop of interested guys. Donny had figured out a lucrative way to pay the rent of his large, twobedroom apartment located near 96th Street and Broadway. I must have passed the corner hundreds of times, but I never imagined there might be a room full of naked guys getting it on. I guess that was one use for an eat-in kitchen.

I walked into the living room, still wearing my black Calvin Kleins, and smirked at the decorations, which Donny had explained were in place for his Saturday Halloween party. A theatrical fog machine belched fumes that gave the porn on the flat screen a certain romanticism. A dog-sized plastic tarantula attached to the ceiling, its two front legs moving spasmodically in the strobe light, was only slightly more provocative than the guys who lounged around on the sofa and a large mattress flopped in the middle of the room.

A couple of the men looked my way, but then returned their gaze to the screen. One guy had wedged himself between another’s legs and was beginning to kiss his thighs as he rubbed his belly. Threading through the room, I found the bedroom door and a dozen men inside. Here the Halloween motif was absent.

At first I stationed myself against the wall. The only light was an orange glow from a desk lamp in a corner. I could see someone on his knees in front of another; a few others leaning against the wall. A young blond guy was laying on his back on the bed surrounded by a clutch of admirers. Although no drugs were allowed, the blond lolled around as if he were deep in the throes of ecstasy or something he took before he arrived—content to lay prone as the hands of a few men fondled his chest and groin.

A few minutes later someone approached me. He was taller and aggressive, in a way that was seductive and not too scary. I was surprised by his long black hair. Was it a costume? A wig? Were we supposed to wear a costume? He pressed his body against me and we began to kiss. It was effortless and natural.

Soon elastic was stretched and I was naked. As we made out, other guys would try to muscle in, but I would gently nudge their hands away.

Things started to progress, he was pressing his dick against me. But I pushed him away when he seemed to go too far.

“What? You don’t want it?” he asked, annoyed.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” I said softly. We kissed some more, hands holding, nipples pinched, rubbing, stretching and groping. “Get a condom.”

He looked at me and smiled. He walked to the dresser and plucked a foil wrapper out of the bowl as if it were a bowl of candy. Another container had small packets of lube. Better than a box of Milk Duds.

We were soon the center of attention and began to put on a show. I let hands touch and tug. Maybe Halloween is just a big commercial gimmick, but we didn’t need masks. At that moment, it felt like were celebrating some lingering pagan rite. Well, except I still had my sneakers on.

Afterward, we kissed a little more and said goodbye. I left the room and made my way back to the kitchen. Here people chatted while sipping pink punch. There was a jovial feel, as if it were normal that strangers would stand naked and talk about plans for the weekend and how long Donny had been throwing these parties (close to a year at the time). I was impressed that a sweet-natured guy had decided to open up his place once a week for others to get their groove on. Instead of plates of cheese or hummus, he had buckets of condoms and lube, spiked punch and paper towels. He’d even invited an organization that offered quick AIDS tests. It wasn’t fancy, but it renewed my faith in New York.

Who needs expensive, exclusive, obnoxious restaurants and bars? If the government restrains liberty, why not find a loophole in the law and organize our own good times. It was a DIY party that fought against the ghouls and goblins that would curb our pleasure and spontaneity.

Glitz and glamour? Sure, if you want.

Or just forget it all, embrace the strangeness of the city, and do it yourself.