An orgy. A pass-the-cock gathering. What the millennials happily call a Sex Party. I should be flattered. From what I understand of the decorum surrounding sex parties one only gets invited if they are considered good looking by a group of people. Why, then, does it actually make me feel bad about myself?
I have a list of things that one should do in life just for the sake of doing them. Cocaine? Maybe once just to know what it’s like. Skydiving? Sure. Deliver a speech in front of 50,000 people? That sounds like fun. But sex parties? No. I don’t think so. At most I might attend something like this as an observer, Andy Warhol style. But the idea of even that limited exposure feels entirely awkward. Without mythologizing the meaning of sex I think that orgies contradict the spirit of it all. On top of that this event appears to assume I would be ok with man-on-man activity, which I am not… although I have to assume that no activity would be coerced.
…
I am trying to squeeze out a story on the “too busy to die” theme. It’s harder than I thought, but I think something is coming together. I can’t spend too much time on this sort of thing, especially with so little practical incentive. It’s just a thing to do. That is what I need more of: Things to do. Writing this little story is hard because I do not know who I am talking to. I reminds me of what I’ve known all along: If you want to be a writer you have to put in long, long hours.
