I Went to a Eurovision Sex Party
It's almost time for the Eurovision Song Contest. That point in the year where every country in Europe dusts off their flags and their uplifting late-90s EDM tracks and competes to see who can vote the most politically. But sadly, the road to Eurovision doesn't hold the same uniting, Brexit-defying thrill for me as it 100 percent definitely does for you. Why? Because I ruined it for myself that time I went to a Eurovision-themed sex party.
It was, of course, a gay sex party. To reiterate: Eurovision themed. The theme was Eurovision. You wouldn't think you'd need a theme to put your cock in an arsehole, but you'd be wrong. You don't know gay men at all.
It was a friend of a friend who asked me on Grindr if I wanted to go, and focusing on the "sex party" element, it was me who said: "Yes." You're thinking of a dark, squalid nightclub. Forget that. This was a cheery, wholesome, naked party, conducted with the lights on in someone's actual home.
"Naked parties" are like polite networking drinks, except everyone's naked. There's something curiously charming about a room full of people shaking hands and chatting about work, all bollock naked, glad-handing for a good couple of hours until someone breaks character and starts sucking someone off. It's at that point that everyone drops the conversation about house prices and gets steadily to it. The tone remains upbeat, though. Cheery. Laissez faire. Big bowl of condoms in the kitchen. Think of it like a nod-nod, wink-wink, Carry On movie type thing, but with way more actual rimming.
I made several assumptions on being invited to a Eurovision-themed sex party. My expectation: just as the contest had united the countries of a war-torn Europe, it would unite 30 odd gay men who wanted to watch each other bone to the latest pop hits from second-world nations. Sexy, inclusive, uniting. The music was not a concern: I do not like Eurovision, at all, but I was willing to endure it because I like having sex with men.
I was last to arrive – it is not possible, I discovered, to be fashionably late to a fuck party – and everyone was already gathered in front of the TV. As is sex party etiquette, I was told to go strip to my underwear upstairs. So I got in my pants and went out to join the crowd that would presumably be, in tribute to Eurovision, a glorious cross section of multiculturalism. Nope: 30 white guys in their pants, none of them pretending that they weren't weighing up all of my bodily imperfections. It must be said, when faced with that many guys you may be having sex with later, entering late and picking where to sit is pretty awkward. But I spotted a guy I kind of knew – or, at least, had sucked off a couple of times – and nestled in next to him.
Eurovision was starting, and the host told us the rules. The rules. Nothing quite gets the juices going like a rigorously enforced and laminated list of regulations. We would each be assigned a country, the rules stated, and when our country performed, we would take our underwear off in front of everyone. I was Ireland, which made me nervous in case the hosts had plans for the winner, but by the time the winner was crowned we'd all be in the shameless post-coital glow by then. Right?
It occurred to me, as each guy whipped off his underwear every 10 minutes as his country performed – each like a Bucks-Fizz era Cheryl Baker – that this little game would only work if we were watching every performance. We weren't watching every performance, were we? Were we? Then the nightmare dawned on me: I was in a room with 30 guys who wanted to have group sex, but not until we had watched every song of the Eurovision Song Contest.
So as the TV began its musical war of attrition, the pants came off. Everyone checked each other out, made eyes, winked. For three hours. Of Eurovision. If this was what I wanted, I could've gone to literally any club in Soho. I'd be on about blowjob number three and I wouldn't be stuck in Zone 4.
HERE is the full text written by Jamie Dallinger
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