The Intellect At The Sex Party

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• February 15, 2022

Now, it’s a well known fact I’m some sort of insomniac. More nights than not, I’m up extremely late, cursing my brain to just shut the fuck up so I rest and be a functional human in the morning. Sometimes, this leads to late night smoking sessions. Sometimes, weed will aid me into passing out. And other times, I’ll just be stoned at 2am browsing the internet. This is how I ended up with certain Amazon orders like a pogo stick and a microscope. Completely unnecessary things that I gave away (I had quickly injured myself on the pogo stick and if I had more space I probably would have kept the microscope but I gave it to my extremely nerdy cousin who I know will actually use it because he loves science.).

Anyway, it’s the middle of the night. I’m high. I can’t sleep. The next thing I know, I’m going down this rabbit hole about high end New York City sex clubs. And this goes on, for I don’t know—2 hours? I’m just reading about these exclusive sex clubs with intrigue. One of the most exclusive, hard to get into sex clubs I’ll call “SC” (for “sex club,” which is not the name and I won’t reveal the real name) is this real “Eyes Wide Shut” type, masquerade sex party that literally costs $75,000 a year to be a member. I shit you not.

However, there is a loophole if you’re a single, attractive female. Because the rich who are paying are elite swingers, but of course they want hotties, especially unicorns at their parties. Without going into too much detail, I have been with swingers and find the “lifestyle” to be totally fascinating. It can be fun if you meet the right people. This isn’t easy though. Think of how hard it is to meet one person you jive with personally and sexually, let alone two simultaneously. So I have been a unicorn before. Unicorns can apply to SC, and if you’re accepted, you can be invited to parties and get on a guest list that exempts you from paying like $3000 to go to a party.

Late night stoned Lori, thinks, “I’m a hot, single, all around weirdo, I’m applying.” Because I was so inebriated, I don’t remember either the questions nor my answers. But I probably had some good answers given I’m a better writer than most. You also have to include pictures (no, not nude pictures).

The following morning, I got a stock email response, “thank you for applying to SC, we have a high volume of applicants… blah, blah, blah.” I just laughed, “oh late night Lori, you rascal.” And then I completely forgot about it, not expecting a response, ever.

Some days pass and I get an email from SC, “congratulations! Your application was accepted. In order to complete the process, you have do a Skype interview. Would you like to continue?” I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then laughed some more.

Yes. I accept.

So my Skype interview for the one of the most elite sex clubs in New York City (also LA!) was scheduled. All of this is hilarious to me. It’s not exactly a Cinderella story, unless instead of finding true love, Cinderella was after sexual awakening, but it’s still hilarious it’s happening to me—starving artist, comedian, Long Island south shore trash… my kind isn’t supposed to be invited to these types of things. The interviewer was an attractive Asian woman (because of course it was). She went over the club/party rules, and how strict they are with the “ask before touching,” and how there is security, no phones allowed, safe space, you don’t have to participate, and dress code (gowns and/or lingerie for women, black ties for men). We were feeling each other out. The conversation was easy going. She was making sure I wasn’t a psycho, and I was making sure this was a ‘Jared Leto’ type orgy and not some gross Epstein shit. I’m not an idiot.

“Would you like to be on the guest list for the next soirée?”
 
“Sign me up.”
 
I mean… how could I pass that up? How many rich people sex parties have you been invited to? Freaky stuff aside, I’m a writer who lives for weirdness. You know you would do the same. Plus, I’m not going to be attractive or single forever. There was no sweetheart in my life at this time and I was striking out on dating apps on the regular. For fucks sake, I could use some sexual release times ten. I’m the girl who jumps off cliffs, remember? When life presents a thrill, I’m probably going to take it. Live a little, right?

Of course, this meant I had to do some preparation. And by preparation, I mean decide what the fuck am I going to wear—the poor girl at the wealthy sex party. I would need both a dress to wear and some sort of sexy lingerie thing to change into. But I was particular about what I wanted for the lingerie. I wanted it to be sexy but a little classy. No thongs (thongs are wretched things). Something that would make my already great breasts look amazing. In addition to this, I also had to buy heels because most of my footwear is made for men. And a handbag. Because I literally didn’t own a handbag. Just tiny backpacks. And tiny backpacks don’t exactly say, “I’m here for the sex party, with the rich people.” Tiny backpacks say, “I’m ready for a hike, writing my thoughts in a notebook and have a Neil Gaiman novel to read if at any point I become bored.”

I ended up getting a super hot lace number that was kind of like a skin tight lace dress (thanks, Victoria’s Secret) and I have to admit, I looked pretty dang good in. For the regular dress, I ordered this red dress on Amazon with an open back. Red isn’t a go to color for me– I prefer my blues, dark greens and grays. But I wasn’t going to be “Lori, the awkward comedian on the spectrum” on that night. Fuck this insecure shell I’ve been living in. On this night I could be “Gloria Nimbus,” mysterious, sexy, and looking for trouble.
The truth is I looked goddamn adorable in that red dress. Some of my friends have been to sex parties so I consulted them on what to expect. The location of the party wasn’t revealed until two days before. I let some people know where I was going to be, and promised to message them late at night when I got my phone back just to be cautious.
The sinful Saturday arrives. I’m so anxious/excited, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything else all day. The venue was a three story penthouse in Manhattan. I’m almost immediately intimidated as the guests are all very beautiful, men and women. The women’s gowns are something you might see at the MET Gala. I know I look good, but my dress cost like $25 on Amazon. I feared I was the obvious poor girl at the rich sex party. There are mostly nude masked dancers. Erotic decor. Three bedrooms with bowls of condoms and sex toys on night-tables. I’m quick to start drinking, but get familiar with my surroundings first. Everyone is eyeing each other.
There’s a rooftop where a shirtless, gorgeous woman is playing a harp. This is where I make myself comfortable. It’s a glorious evening. Summer just ended and the temperature is perfect. The sky is clear and the moonlight makes for a romantic scene. I don’t really know how to react to any of this and I’m not drunk yet to shed my shyness. I’m joined by another single woman. She compliments my body, asks if I do Pilates. I laugh and say “no, I’m a surfer. Fuck Pilates.” It’s true I was in extra great shape during this time because surfing really does tone your body something wonderful. This girl was not from New York, but she’s in town specifically for this party and travels the country to different “lifestyle” parties. She says SC is the best sex club of all of them. I’ll take her word for it. I admit it’s my first time at something like this, and that I came alone. She promises to keep an eye out for me, and to let her know if at any point I need “saving” from anyone, but says in her experience people are respectful. Soon after, we’re joined by a swingers couple. This couple would become highly interested in me throughout the night. I really hooked them when I pointed out that the brightest star in the sky wasn’t actually a star, but it was the planet Jupiter. They asked how I knew that. “I’m fucking nerd,” I told them. Drinking continued and I became looser. I started to adapt this “other version” of me. No one knew me here. And no one ever would. Not really. I could be anyone. But there’s one thing I cannot be: not funny. Suddenly, I’m in a group of sex maniacs cracking jokes and I’m killing. This is probably no surprise to you, but most very good looking people aren’t very funny. This is my edge. And now, I’m not the poor girl at the sex party anymore. I’m the funny one. This feels right.
There’s a sex show around midnight. Some people were hooking up before this, but it’s the sex show that sets the tone. What is a sex show? There’s a thin story line and hot women fucking one extremely ripped guy. You’re watching a live porn.
After the show, things start to get kinky. People are starting to hook up. I change out of my red dress into my lace lingerie. A lot of the women here are younger than me. A lot of them are models. These are New York models, so they’re interesting looking, have perfect bodies and faces you won’t forget. New York models are hotter than LA models because everyone in LA looks the same. My confidence was building, however. Because even though I was eight years older than some of the knock-outs here, they don’t outshine me by much. It’s not that often in my life I feel really beautiful in a sexy way, where both men and women drool with desire. But tonight I do. And that confidence shift, I’ll later find, carries long after this night. It’s kind of crazy it took an elite sex party to grow more comfortable in my own super soft skin, but it did. Finally, at 32, I can accept that I am pretty fucking hot.

It’s hard to tell, initially, who works for SC and who are guests. It’s pretty easy to tell who the “members” are who are paying a fortune to be here versus the ones who got hooked up on the guest list. I got to talking to one of the guys who runs the show. After learning I was a writer, he was curious if I had feedback about the show. I didn’t really. Erotic fantasy isn’t exactly my genre. Perhaps it was my vocabulary, jokes, or how much I knew about space that he deemed me the intellect of the party. I liked that. I’m the intellect at the sex party.
The night goes on and I find fellow stoners to smoke on the roof with. Everyone is getting more and more fucked up. The night is getting wild. I end up being asked to stay for the after party and I’m given a special bracelet which ensures the bouncers won’t kick me out when the party is over. Two couples court me and try to get me to go back to their hotels with them. I thank them, but let them know I’ve been invited to SC’s after party, and I’d like to check it out. “Lucky you,” they said.

So, it’s like 3am now and most of the people are being told to go home. About 30 people stay for the after party, including me. This is when shit gets really weird. Pretty much everyone is nude or half nude. Everyone is fucking. Cocaine vials come out. Everyone is doing coke off of tits all over the place. Did I indulge in sex and cocaine off the the tits of models? Use your imagination. But don’t use your imagination too hard.

The night starts to get blurry at this point, admittedly. It’s all very amusing to me. Everyone is laughing, kissing and doing drugs. This starts to slow down when the sun comes up. Everyone is getting pretty tapped out at this point. I’m laying in king sized bed with a couple guys and four or five other girls. I’m talking to one of the guys who works there and he asks me what it is exactly I do. I’ve been pretty tight lipped about it all night. I didn’t want to reveal that much about myself. But by this time, I stopped giving a shit. I confessed I was a writer and a comedian. He then asked me if I knew a certain comic. Usually when people ask you if you know a comedian, it’s either someone famous, or some idiot who isn’t really a comic and has just tried stand up a few times. However, the guy he named is neither a famous comic nor a non comic. It happened to be one of my very good friends, who I’ve known for a decade and he’s helped me get writing jobs. I started hysterically laughing. This guy used to work with him years ago. Then says to his wife, who is naked on the bed, that I’m friends with said comic. She pauses and goes, “that’s how I know you. I knew you looked familiar! We’ve seen you open for him.” What a fucking world, right? I didn’t expect to be the famous person here.
By 7am, I left the party. I texted those who know where I was that I was okay, and had a hell of a story.

The following week, I did go to the doctor to get a COVID test and an STD screening, as my neurosis took over replaying the night in my head. Thankfully, any fears of contracting anything were quelled when everything turned out negative.
Polyamorous couples genuinely intrigue me. Though, when I’m in a relationship and if I’m really into that person, I don’t desire others. But I sometimes wonder if this is the future. As a species, we’ve mostly proven ourselves to be lousy at monogamy. That being said, I still think having a deep connection and meaningful relationship with one person is more valuable. This is something I desire. But in the meantime, let that freak flag fly. You’re only young once, and you’re not sexy forever. Like anyone else, I’ve my secrets and my desires. I’m a comedian, surfer, intellect and a freak. I wear many hats. And sometimes, I wear nothing at all.