A Little Primer on Orgy Throwing

Not too long ago I was telling a friend of mine the reasons why I was no longer attending a semi-regular group sex session held at a motel local to me. “Do all orgies end in drama?” he asked, when I was done.

I was seriously taken aback by the question. “No!” I exclaimed, sure of myself. Then I had to think a bit.

First, a lot rests on one’s definition of drama. If my friend meant, did every group sex meetup end with slaps, recriminations, weeping, flouncing, and bitches pouring beer in each other’s weaves? Then no. There’s no drama. Have there been grudges and hurt feelings that were nursed quietly? Sure, occasionally. I’m not sure I’d call that drama, though. I’d classify it more under the day-to-day social stickiness that every adult has to deal with at one time or another.

There were actually two reasons I stopped attending this particular group. The first was a long-simmering resentment of the way the host was handling invites. He was in the habit of sending out a preliminary private email to the twenty-five or thirty guys who usually attended his parties, asking if they wished to attend on a date three or four weeks in the future. To the men who RSVPed to say that they’d like to join, he would send an email with a list of participants, so everybody could check each other out and send off emails indicating interest in hooking up at the party.

It’s a nice system, actually. I like and recommend it. The week of the party itself, the host would send out reminder emails with a final guest list and instructions of where to show up, what to bring, and all the usual information a good host provides. I had a problem, though, and it was that the host was including me every single time on the guest list that got emailed out to attendees, whether or not I was actually able to come to a particular get-together. He’d have an event in April, say, and I’d RSVP in March that I wasn’t going to be available. But then a few days later, on the roster of folks attending, there I’d be. When the finalized list went out only a few days before, there I’d be again . . . despite the fact I’d told the host I’d be out of town or busy or whatever.

I asked the host why he kept listing me and he tried to make it sound like a positive—as if I was always welcome to attend at the last minute if my plans changed or my flight was canceled or I had a change of heart. Besides, he said, attendance went up when my name was on the list, because guys would see my photos and decided they had to be there to get a piece of me.

That’s all well and good, I tried to explain to him multiple times, but putting my name on the list of attendees when I wasn’t actually going to be in attendance was really doing me a disservice; he was making guys think that I’d said “Yes! I’ll be there with bells on!” and then decided to bail at the last minute. I even forwarded him an email from one of the guys who wrote saying he’d attended twice specifically to meet me because I was on the list, and wondered why I’d been a no-show.

I might have been a giant carrot (pun intended) dangled in front of the guests’ faces to lure them to the party, I argued, but it was deceptive of him to do so when I wouldn’t be there. It gave my reputation a hit. Over and over again he attempted to assure me that wasn’t the case, but I wasn’t buying it.

Finally, I caved and went to one of his lunchtime parties at the local sleazy motel. In attendance was kind of a motley crew—a few regulars I liked a lot, a couple of new guys I had fun with, and two men I was trying to avoid at all costs. One of the guys was a married schlub I’d tricked with a year before and had such staggeringly mediocre sex that I’d had to do some unpleasant misdirection (involving jacking him to climax and then pretending I’d shot at the same time) in order to get the hell out of there. Him, I could stay away from easily enough. The other guy, though, was the host’s best friend. He’s always at every party. He’s always annoying. And at the last party I’d gone to, he’d done this, this thing with his hands on my dick that I really, really hated.

Let me digress ever so slightly here. When I was growing up, among the stacks of books my parents kept in their basement was a sex manual from the very early 1960s. I say sex manual, but this was before the sexual revolution, so my recollection is more that it had a title that never actually used the dirty word, sex. A manual for young marrieds, it was. My ten-year-old self read it with great amusement when I discovered it, marveling at the way it managed never actually to use the words penis or vagina, nor any of their synonyms. Late in the book was an entire chapter devoted to what a young wife should do when her husband failed to be in a romantic mood—or when he couldn’t get it up, I figured out. The blushing young bride, the text advised, should not at all be afraid to grasp her husband’s manhood in her hand (that’s about as close as they got to referencing actual genitalia), apply a modicum of moisture to the palm of her hand, and then rub the flat of her palm firmly and briskly in a circular motion against the glans of his manhood, thus producing an electrical sensation of such felicity that the husband would gladly meet his conjugal duties with enthusiasm and zest.

Wow, okay, my ten-year-old self thought. This sounded like hot stuff. I licked my palm and rubbed it on my cock head. OW. That shit HURT. I tried it again, just in case. FUCKING OW. Yeah, the technique produced an electrical sensation, but it felt like someone was channeling megawatts of that shit right into the most sensitive place on my body and DON’T TASE ME THERE, BRO.

And that’s exactly what the guy, the best friend, did at the party. He wet his palm up with spit or lube or something, and then while I was making out with someone and my boner was on display, he pressed his flattened palm down onto my glans and scrrrrrrrrrrrraped across it.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled in pain while I leapt to my fee. “Don’t DO that.”

Scowling, I left the best friend on one double bed and went to join the dogpile on the other mattress. I’d just made my way in when suddenly I felt a searing jolt of pain on my dick again. “What are you DOING?” I snarled at the best friend. “Stop that shit. It hurts.”

“Aw, don’t be a pussy,” he said.

Now, I’m not sure whether he thought I was joking around with him (I wasn’t), or whether I was really aroused by his torturous form of foreplay and not letting on (I really was not), or whether he was some kind of freako sadist who just enjoyed hearing me yell, but the asshole followed me around the party for the rest of the time I was there and did that thing with his palm no less than three times more. Angry that I wasn’t able really to put any distance between the two of us in a small and cheap motel room, and angry that he wasn’t leaving me alone, I finally put on my clothes, said a polite farewell to the host, and made my way out into the sunlight and home.

Then I simply declined all his invitations from then on out. The mess with the host constantly not respecting my wishes about the attendance list were grumblings I might’ve lived with. But the best friend following me around and trying to get my goat by making my dick feel as miserable as possible was the straw that broke the camel’s orgy.

But was it dramatic? I don’t think so. I didn’t toss my brush cut and issue ultimatums as I stalked out the door. I didn’t write nasty emails after to either the host or the best friend and decree that they were no longer welcome in my lives. I just politely declined to return. If that’s drama, it’s the mildest and most yawn-inducing drama there is.

My friend’s question, though—do all orgies end in drama?—really got me thinking. I’ve been to some incredibly bad orgies in my lifetime. I’ve been to group sex parties in which I and some bottom were the only ones naked and fucking, while a bunch of slobs stood still clothed around the room’s perimeter doing nothing but watching and pushing away each other’s hands. I’ve been to hotel orgies that were promoted as if they’d be sybaritic pleasure domes, and ended up being only three guys staring at each other. I’ve been to a couple of parties in which those attending were shuffling around in a meth-induced haze, unable to perform on any level. So yeah. I’ve been to some pretty damned bad group sex parties.

However, I’ve been lucky enough to attend some really excellent ones as well—and they’ve been in the majority. It’s occurred to me that all of them have a solid base of common denominators.

A good group sex party has an organizer. That is, someone steps up to take the lead and to plan the damned thing. He has to arrange for the venue—a hotel, his own place, maybe the basement playroom of a buddy. He has to send out invitations. And he has to let everyone know where and when it will take place. If there’s a hotel room involved, he gets there a little early to rent it, and let guys know what the room number is. He stays last to do a little cleanup after, and to return the key.
The guy organizing the party is doing a considerable amount of administrative work. It’s not terribly time-consuming work, and it’s not something it takes a Ph.D. to accomplish—but it’s work nonetheless. If you’re attending the party, make sure to let the organizer know your gratitude. Tell him thank you. Spend some time paying attention to him. Respect the guy. He’s doing the job that no one else wanted to do.

The best group sex parties are carefully curated. The very best orgies I’ve attended—the ones I’ll go back to again and again—have always had an organizer who is very careful in his selection of men. In fact, I’ve never attended a truly awful orgy in which the guy who put it together took his time to hand-select the bunch of guys he thought would be compatible.

Careful selection is more than just putting an ad on Craigslist for a hotel gang-bang and then picking the guys with hot photos. (I’ve been to a couple of good parties that began in this way, but the un-fun groups with guys standing around clothed and doing nothing all fizzled from this approach.) Careful selection means knowing, to a certain extent, all the guys involved. It means exchanging a couple of emails with them, at the least, and getting an idea of whether or not they’ll fit in with your other guests.

One of the best parties I used to attend had a specialized bent. It was half bareback-fuck-free-for-all, and half fisting party. It took place in the host’s playroom, a soundproofed, specially-constructed basement enclosure that featured a large shower area, a double-wide padded fuck bench, a couple of sofas, and a pair of slings hanging side by side. On a massive pegboard at one end hung all kinds of dildos and other invasive toys; there was a trough-like sink with towels and soaps for clean-up. The host would be extremely choosy in selecting an exact ratio of tops to bottoms at these parties, and would pick men who were all compatible with each other.

More importantly, since he was very heavily into fisting, himself, he’d make sure the bottoms were equally hungry for a man’s paw in their butts, and that the tops were experienced at working an arm into an ass. The result was a party in which no bottom ever went unsatisfied, and by the time the evening moved from fucking to fisting, there’d be two bottoms in the slings, two kneeling on the fuck bench, and the others bent over the sofas—each with a top’s arm inside them.

Now, that’s not to say that a good host can’t give someone new a chance, or that it’s impossible to put together a decent party from random men online. I know what’s worked for me in the past, though, and it’s always involved a little bit of curation.

A good host always sets in advance the expectations, limitations, and requirements for the party. If it’s a condoms-only party, the host needs to let everyone know. If it’s a bareback party, likewise—with the reminder that everyone needs to be comfortable enough to accept the responsibilities involved with swapping raw fluids. If the host wants people to donate ten bucks to help cover the cost of the hotel room, that should be established well in advance. If it’s a drug-free environment, or poppers-only, the host needs to notify the guests well in advance. When the host expects people to bring something—their own water bottles, or condoms, or lube, or snacks—he needs to spell it out in all the communications leading up to the day of the party.

If a host communicates all these things, and chooses guests who are going to respect his wishes, no one is going to show up surprised. There are going to be very few bad guests, in fact.

The best sex parties have a set duration, and expect the attendees to arrive at the start time. The friend of mine who’d asked the question sparking the thoughts in this post had only attended the sessions of one group. It was hosted by a guy who would put out the word for it on Craigslist and host it at the local sleazepit motel. Guests were invited to drop by anytime between noon and ten-thirty at night.

“That is not a good way to run a party,” I told my friend.

“Yeah, but it worked out for me,” he said. “There were people there when I went.”

Yes, I reminded him, but my friend had spent hours—literal hours—agonizing and strategizing and asking my advice about the perfect time to arrive in order to guarantee that people were there, the first time. He’d had to contact other people who’d been to the party in the past and ask them what time he should plan on showing. Even when he got there, he’d been in suspense up until the moment that he knocked on that motel room door whether or not he’d be stuck by himself with the host. His first-time experience might have turned out all right, but what about those guys who had chosen to show up at eight-thirty in the evening to find that everyone had left by then? They arrived disappointed.

No, the best parties are set to last a handful of specific hours. Seven-thirty at night until ten-thirty. A lunchtime quickie from noon until two. Ten in the morning until eleven-thirty. I’ve been to great orgies during all those time periods. Everyone arrives knowing that other people are guaranteed to be there. Nobody has to do any guesswork or engage in endless speculation. The party can either begin when everyone who’s been invited arrives and the host invites everyone into the play space, or guys can simply shuck their clothing and start fucking the moment the door closes.

Sure, if a person or two invited has let the host know he’ll be arriving a half-hour late, that’s fine. Likewise, if everyone’s having such a good time that the party lasts past the originally-scheduled end point, great—so long as the host is good with it. The host can always be flexible.

But it’s kinder to guests, many of whom might be nervous about meeting so many new naked people at once, to placate the fear that they might be the only one sitting around for someone, anyone, to show up.

The best guests at a sex party are those who are there for the group experience—not for themselves. There’s usually an expectation at these parties that guys are expected to mingle and fuck around with multiple men. If you are invited to an orgy and your intention is to pick out the hottest guy there, monopolize his time to keep him for yourself, and to shun the other men who want to play either with him or with you, you really should just consider staying at home. If you attend a sex party intending to have all the tops for yourself and to make yourself the center of attention, you’re missing the point of the event. (I mean, it might happen that way, but you shouldn’t plan on it.)

Have fun at a sex party, by all means. Enjoy yourself. It’s supposed to be a blast. But know there there may be moments (and there may be many of them) in which it might be best to place the welfare of the group over your own personal desires.

I’m a top with good stamina who can fuck multiple holes over the course of the evening and squirt out multiple loads. When I attend a party, it gets me noticed. I get the attention of some incredibly good-looking guys. If I wanted to go in, pick the hottest bottom there (or, let’s be honest, I could equally easily pick the hottest top with the slightest versatile inclinations), and spend the entire evening fucking his brains out while other guys watched in envy, I totally could.

But I don’t. I’ll fuck an incredibly-desirable guy long enough to let him know how I feel about him, then against my dick’s urging I’ll disengage and let him play with other people at the party. I might make a promise to come back to him later. I might exchange numbers or emails with him so that I can savage his hole one-on-one at some point. For the group’s sake, however, it’s better to move on every now and then and give pleasure to men who’ve been waiting patiently on the side lines.

The best guests are those who go out of their way to make everybody at a gathering feel comfortable and welcome. Isn’t that true of any party, and not just those where the men are naked and looking for holes to fuck or cocks to service? A guy like me of modest looks who does his best to aid the host in getting guys to swap partners and mingle is doing more for the party than two good-looking studs who keep to themselves in a corner and reject the advances of anyone else. More importantly, I’m more likely than they to be invited to the next orgy.

Likewise, the best guests are those that respect the host’s wishes. They show up on time; they let the host know well in advance if they’re not going to be able to make it. They respect the rules on protected or bareback sex and substance use. They keep the apartment or hotel room as tidy as possible. They’re courteous and friendly.

The host is there to get the party started. He shouldn’t have to police the event the entire time. He really wants to have as much fun as the other guests, after all. Make yourself useful to the host by being a good and helpful guest, and you’ll find yourself being invited to more parties in the future.
But most of all, don’t do things to a top’s dick that they don’t enjoy. That shit is annoying.

Have any more tips that you think would contribute to someone throwing a successful, drama-free orgy? Leave them below in the comments section!