Better disasters through planning
You’re in the dead zone, that stretch of time somewhere between 2AM and dawn, when normal lovers of every configuration, from par-for-the-course to unimagined, are enjoying the sweaty fulfillment of eagerly-anticipated dates made early the previous evening, or even, in cases of terminal normality, entire days in advance.
You, on the other hand, threw out normal decades ago, along with those toe rubbers your mom bought for you during the great blizzard of ’91; monogamy; and the office job that interfered with your superior alternative of sitting at home, poor, staring into space while smoking.
That’s why you never have any idea what’s happening until it happens. This is what you call “spontaneity”. And when you think about it, as you now do for the first time, you’ve always assumed that spontaneity would free you up to choose one of the unlimited, or at least several, equally delightful options waiting for you, like an enticing selection of donut holes at Tim Horton.
Right now the only choices are tedium (staying where you are) or defeat (leaving). You’re naked and sitting on the edge of some random dude’s bed in some random condo somewhere between Maitland and Homewood, watching porn with a bunch of other naked dudes who, just like you, were hoping to show up, score some drugs from random dude, and then sneak out before random dude caught on.
Random dude is currently unavailable. Random dude is in the bathroom, scrubbing the floor tiles with a toothbrush. He’s been there for an hour.
Someone breaks the awkward silence.
“Gee, I sure wish we could be doing that!” he says, indicating the porn on the screen. Everyone laughs politely, he sure does have a point, but no one makes any kind of move.
What does Miss Manners say about starting the orgy without the host? It seems impolite, but then again, you wouldn’t want the orgy to get cold! Ann Landers and Dear Abby are non-committal. Is the answer a kind of esoteric knowledge, like which fork to use for the fish, and always refusing a second helping of the soup? Or should it be obvious, like not tying your napkin around your neck like a bib or drinking the contents of the finger bowl?
This is when you get the idea: You could do this so much better. Right? Your very own great, big, sleazy gay orgy. It needn’t even involve canapés or stuffed olives.
All you need to do is a bit of—and here you give an involuntary shudder, you may even experience a wave of nausea, so deeply upsetting to you is the idea—planning.
Nonetheless, over the next few days and weeks, once you’ve accepted the need for planning and can just about tolerate the accompanying dry heaves, this idea becomes an obsession—
—until, one fateful night, every greedy puff on the glass pipe is urging you, like a Pilgrim foisting a small-pox infected blanket on a wary native, to throw a great, big, sleazy-to-the-max, partied-up gay orgy, so you can finally shout to whoever’s got their windows open, “Hand me those fishnet tights, Lana Del Ray—I’ve arrived!“
Pre-Gay Orgy planning
This is where I come in, and I should probably first qualify myself. Naturally, a great, big, messy, body-fluid-stained gay orgy is not something to be taken on lightly. I mean, up in Fenelon Falls you might settle for a box of Triscuits, some onion dip in a pull-tab can and spin-the-bottle with whoever turns up from Bell Canada, but dude, you’re in Toronto, now. No running down the aisles and follow the arrows, OK?
It’s a Buddhist thing. This is my first qualification. I am Gay Orgy Buddha. Follow the protocols I give you, because when you do things exactly the same way as everybody else, you reveal your unique, true self.
Which is just another way of saying that your incompetence at following the protocols sticks out like an endlessly entertaining sore thumb, but at least it’s YOUR incompetence. So, take heart, little klutzky!
Second qualification, I am well known on the Toronto scene as the guy who spent forty-eight hours, naked and high, in a bathhouse, alternately wandering the corridors and lying on the little cot in my room in my signature position, the “Joan Collins” (knees behind my ears making me more attractive to men, or that’s the theory).
And during that forty-eight hours I was not so much as glanced at by another person. Yes, that’s right: I failed to have sex in a bathhouse.
And that got me thinkin’, as Barack Obama surely must have said at some point.
Point is, I know where you’re coming from. You’ve had it with togetherness at the breakfast table, eating broiled grapefruit with the broiled-grapefruit spoons, arguing about which Freedom Convoy trucker is totally hot; Justin’s beard?—Yes or No?; and whether Alberta, to be honest, even exists.
I get it. You’re tired of that weird intimacy of dinners for two, making eye contact over the pork tenderloin – I mean, what’s that icky, breathing-down-your-neck boondoggle?—and knowing someone’s name—as if!— before you excuse yourself, head to the men’s room and blow the busboy on the baby changing tray.
When you get back to your table, your dinner date, “oojamacallit,” is upset.
Upset? Whoa! Don’t smother me, Princess Cling-Wrap!
FUN AND GAMES
Anyone can throw a party, hand his guests a garbage bag for their clothes, then lie face down, in a coma. You’re better than that. Devise some games that will give your evening structure and your guests something to bond over instead of just bending over.
Try these fun, ball-stretching icebreaker party games on for size!
Let’s play: “Opera Diva”!
- Paper your tiny, junior one-bedroom apartment with life-size photos of Maria Callas. Then, while everyone stands around naked, griping about how long it took them to get there on the TTC, pelt them with radishes.
- In this round, everyone hunts for an ugly, eligible Greek billionaire, nails one, bores him, gets whiny, blows all their high notes at La Scala, then gets jilted for someone who’s not so totally high maintenance 24/7. Give it a rest, Screecharella! Prize is a good night’s sleep sometime way in the future.
- Everyone stands around naked, eating radishes and griping about how long it took them to get to the Four Seasons Centre on the Queen streetcar because of all the work on the tracks. It’s, like, they deliberately do it on weekends just to annoy people!
- “Vissi d’Arte” naked karaoke: Players have to sing the entire aria from “Tosca”, then jump off your balcony onto a mattress while screaming Tosca’s immortal dying words: “Fuck you, Scarpia! Last one before God’s a rotten egg!”
- First one to hit the mattress and not bounce up again gets the blue ribbon.
- While you’re at it, might as well just stay on the mattress.
Time-saving tip:
There’s no need to warn the neighbours in advance as they’re pretty much beyond caring at this point.
Quick Between-Game Breather:
Everyone stands around naked, griping about how long it took them to get there from Burlington on the stupid GO Train. And you’ll never fucking believe this but—a Chinese person sat right next to them! Why are they so goddamn pushy?
Let’s play: “Naked QAnon”!
- Complete the final word in this sentence: “A world-wide cabal of pedophile Democrats and liberal Hollywood elites are destroying my beautiful, freedom-loving c_unt_ _.”
- “Save the Children” Nostalgia Time: We celebrate the murky-lurky origins of QAnon! Toss a coin to see who has to sing “Come to the Florida Sunshine Tree” as professional homophobe Anita Bryant, then re-enact getting fired by the Citrus Marketing Board after all the gay bar no-orange-juice “protests” of outrage.
- Extra points for explaining why alcoholic gay men believe that not drinking Screwdrivers for a week is like a suffragette throwing herself under a horse.
- Finish with a Satanic Ritual involving a trafficked baby, followed by a leisurely grooming supervised by Baphomet, Hillary, or, honestly, whoever’s available.
- As a special reward for being such good sports, participants are offered either a shot of “L’Oréal Infernal Rejuvenation Serum with Adrenochrome”, or “How about you lie down for a nice little nap on the vivisection trolley?”
- Hard to decide, right? LOL!
CHOOSING YOUR GUESTS
You can’t have just anyone come into your home only to find their bare feet sticking to the floor you haven’t washed in five years. You’ve got standards! And whether they like impaling their taints with needles, snorting horse tranquillizer, or just crave the odd snack of steaming-hot excrement, there’s one thing you must must must remember: NO FAT PEOPLE !
Or OLD PEOPLE. Like Millennials! Are you kidding me? You didn’t get yourself all woked up just to let a bunch of fat Millennials touch your astonishing nine inches (when shot at the right angle), then trash the place.
Instead, be sure to invite:
The Only Bottom in The Room
“Little Miss Bossy Butt”. Don’t try to steal his limelight, detach any of the body parts currently suctioned to his mouth, or squeeze yourself onto even a corner of his Lululemon yoga mat.
You’re hoping for something like NAFTA, but for your junk. Forget it! It’ll be like, you’re a bunch of Canadian cheddar and he’s Trump slapping you with import duties.
You might as well just let him be the star, which rank he clearly deserves simply by having the gall to assert his dominance—while everyone else stands around griping about how the ticket collector at Davisville Station was asleep in the booth again, so they just took the train without paying. Fucking TTC!
The Person Slumped, Weeping, in the Corner
This guest adds a piquant dry-down to the proceedings. He is the pinch of smoked Spanish paprika, the finely-minced lemon balm, the chiffonade of Thai basil, garnishing the roiling, soupy, sweaty, man-meaty cassoulet of the main course; in other words, that throuple arguing in the bedroom, or anyone still breathing on the mattress underneath your balcony after the paramedics leave.
Why is he slumped, weeping, in the corner? It’s possible he just spotted his ex enjoying himself with—actually, just “enjoying himself”. He could be tripping out on one too many gummi bears, or he might have failed to, as it were, cram the sad clown of his flaccid tool into the clown car of the new guy in town.
(New guy—? Seriously? If these guests were ground beef from Loblaw’s, they’d all be stickered “50% OFF! ENJOY TONIGHT!”)
Our long-suffering host—event planner, Mollie Maid, and High Priest of the Cum Rag—will set him right. He’ll spot Person Slumped from across the room and, with a vocal projection that would do Merman proud, belt out: “We think we found your Prince Albert. And you’ll never guess—it was inside Albert!”
Can’t Hold Their Street Drugs
Blessèd Judy, Mother of Liza! These influencers are very very busy locating the secret cameras hidden in the walls, the computer monitor, and the soft furnishings.
They are frantic as they discover new hackings of their phones they don’t know how to use, mysterious transactions in their empty bank accounts, and pictures they’ve never seen before taken in the bedrooms they’ve never slept in.
Look! Patrick is standing naked on your West Elm wing back chair, exposing himself, like a dowager Sugar Plum Fairy harrowing the ballroom of ingenues who would usurp her crown, to a entire class of eight year olds in the National Ballet rehearsal hall across the street!
Look! Jimmy is cutting his favorite recipe—Boeuf bourguignon, of course!—out of your priceless first edition of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1!
And there’s Evan, painting over the camera lenses of your iPhone 12 with a black Sharpie, the better to foil that beam of taboo porn that’s right this second snaking into Gmail, addressing itself to his boss, his mother, his fiancé, Roger, and the news desk at Rolling Stone, and pressing SEND!
Better leave town, boys! What a bummer, to have all their sketchy secrets finally uncovered by an alien army of invisible cybercriminals who were just bored enough to find them even remotely interesting.
The Talker
It sure was open-minded of your Uncle Dennis to agree to come to your super pervy gay sex orgy. He’s so cool! He’s rooted to a spot in the rapidly-emptying centre of the room, flaunting his 70’s man bush, glass of cranberry cocktail in hand, smoking Black Russians, and talking very loudly about Justin’s ankle bracelet, his decades-long struggle with constipation, and his evening class in concrete furniture design.
Also, can you believe he waited sixteen minutes for a Leaside bus, then three came at once! What, do they travel in packs for safety?
The Gigglers
What is it about the tinkle of campy, barely suppressed giggles that grates fingernails down the blackboard of your dark journey? Lee and Billy are all breathless gossip, tart assessments and dog-whistle-pitched chortles that bring to mind a Teletubbies convention being chaired by a Cabbage Patch Doll.
Not if, but when, they get asked to leave, they’ll just cross the street and haunt Spa Excess with their glittering repartee; haunt it the way the soft plink of falling tentworms haunts your citronella-scented picnic spot on Cherry Beach.
Please note: when Billy finds something amusing, he actually says, “tee-hee!”
The Only Top Who Could Make It, and He’s Really Just Versatile When Forced by Circumstance
First of all, even if his profile states, “Brutal Top” – he’s a bottom. We’re all bottoms, Murgatroyd McGraw. We’re gay for Pete’s sake! Were you actually looking for the World Wrestling Federation? Two doors down the hall!
His profile insisted “no total bottoms!”, which, as he’s a Brutal Top who’s really a bottom, seems a little finger-pointy. He also casts doubt on the authenticity of your photo, your choice to use substances, and is adamant: if you use words like “mangina” you are persona non grata before you even had a chance to be grata.
If we’re lucky, he might even take off his sunglasses while he services the room like a prize bull let loose in a feedlot. But it’s iffy: after all, his colleagues at the World Bank, Goldman Sachs, Parliament Hill, and all the other places he’s never worked, might recognize him!
Still, we’re grateful he took time out of his busy schedule staring at his messaging app for a word from the two guys he hasn’t blocked, and using the FlexMaster chest expander that cost him two box tops back in ’73, to be God’s gift to faggotry.
Well, flush out my hole with a saline douche! Thanks for the memories, Helena Hungwell!
The S&M Queens
Surely even the slowest heteronormative hunk of alpha male knows by now that this is Toronto shorthand for “Stand and Model.”
Snacks And Crudités
Conversation
Conversation at your hot gay orgy must be limited to sex talk only! This really is no time to be bantering about the climate change hoax, blaming George Soros for your failures, or tossing out statistics about gaseous nebulae! You should need no more than the following vocabulary (which, incidentally, can be repurposed for a multitude of different occasions, from solemn (you get married) to silly (you get married in a church, with bridespersons in sweet-pea chiffon):
- Fuck
- Fuck yeah
- Holy fuck
- Oh yeah, unhunh, you love it
- There Ya Go!
Let’s deploy our corpus in a hypothetical scenario: John sees Timothy and decides he’s ready for a glazing of hot jizz like a pan of brownies fresh from the oven is ready for a drizzle of chocolate ganache. John sidles up to Timothy, intending to ask him if he enjoyed the Moncrieff version of Proust or the Moncrieff-Kilmartin retranslation, then remembers it’s a big gay orgy:
John: FUCK….
Timothy: Oh yeah…
J: Unhunh!
T: Fuck Yeah! You love it!
J: Holy Fuck! Yeah!
T: Unhunh there ya go!
J: Oh, FUCK YEAH! Unhunh!
You can see that what you dismissed as a limited vocab can actually hold its nuanced own in the poetry stakes against, say, the King James Bible, any day of the week. Verbal our socks off, Oscar and Wilde!
Bowls of peanuts: a cautionary tale
Some snacks are ill-advised. You scarf a handful of honey-roasted peanuts to keep up your strength, then dive onto someone’s dick like a hungry piranha, only to surface and see… Yep. That’s why Tommy the Toothbrush recommends flossing after every meal! There’s nothing for it but to double down, then do a quick hand-off to the next guy in line.
Bonus tip: Your taste buds may shout “pralines!” but resist the urge to bite down.
Pizza
Slime on a slab tempts you to a greasy time-out after demonstrating reverse-cowgirl. The boiling hot Mozzarella slides off the slick of tomato sauce right onto the balls of the guy who made a pass at the pizza delivery boy, and who is now passed out in the front hallway, from what you interpret as a good dose of GHB. After you’ve addressed the first-degree burns, it’s fair to consider him your prey!
But in fact the pizza delivery boy decked him unconscious, and is right now calling the sexual assault squad at 51 Division. Fun while it lasts is the name of the game!
Condoms
Unless you’re referring to one half of a legendary Broadway musical partnership whose first name is “Betty” — Huh?
Wet wipes
These come in handy for those icky moments, like when you’re covered with J-Lube, that elastic, stringy gloop used for veterinary scenes like inseminating a cow. And they call us kinky! This is when you notice that the host just used a wet-wipe to tackle the J-Lube, but the wet-wipe dissolved.
What’s in J-Lube, seriously? And why do nine out of ten cows prefer it to all other brands?
Background ambience
It is essential, at this your first, and probably last, out-of-this-world hot, pervy gay orgy, to have background porn videos. This helps people remember that this isn’t just any old party. This party has had planning alternating with the dry heaves.
This isn’t just a gathering where some random guys (“your friends”) get naked, and stand around not having sex while bitching about how long it took them to get to work on the Scarborough Light Rail because of all the immigrants. Not the whole night, anyway!
This is a gathering that’s all about everyone else getting it on, while you repair to the bathroom and scrub the floor tiles with a toothbrush until 51 Division arrives.
You, our gracious host, will appoint someone to choose the porn from the vast selection available online, because, delegate; also, you’re way too busy scooping up big, stretchy, mucous-y strands of J-Lube after someone spilled the half-gallon container all over your vintage cherrywood RCA Victor entertainment console.
And it’s frankly kind of a unique feeling to know, with all of the ups and downs, scratches and wax paste that console survived, that the long, long road ended here, in your living room, filled with the sort of woke gay men who know just how hot those yellow plastic 45 rpm adapters will look glued onto their nipples.
The delegated pornmeister tends to overthink. He wonders if it would be hot to watch straight porn for a change—and just to clarify, no, it wouldn’t—but, too late: he just clicked somewhere random on StraightOrgyTube dot com, and is now regaling the three remaining guests, currently coming to blows about who stole whose stash, with “Trashed big-tittie’d Latina ho’s desperate for cash gonna shave their beaver at the CN Tower”.
Our gracious host, enveloped in mucus, is shrieking, “Why are you subjecting us to this?!”, prompting the terrified pornmeister to click somewhere random on ClassicEurotwinks dot com.
The final dregs of the party—you, gracious host, and the pornmeister—are immediately bathed in the nostalgic orange glow of old videotape, and hypnotized by the synthesized THROB of a soundtrack which bears the same relation to actual music as does a faded photocopy of a hamburger to an actual hamburger.
Man, could you use a big, juicy hamburger not covered with J-Lube right now! Just before the door slams, you hear: “Choose your own fucking porn!”
It’s blissful, being by yourself again, isn’t it? Go on, have a little happy-cry. You deserve it. It didn’t go too badly, really, considering. You’ll rinse off later, because this porn has a plot, and here’s when you get the idea: you could do this so much better. Right?
The Boy Scout troop of EuroTwinks—or whatever is the equivalent in Bavaria—has arrived at the quaint mountain lodge shaped like a giant cuckoo clock, but by an almost inconceivable act of serendipity every last Boy Scout has forgotten his wallet! There is only one solution: they must sell themselves, each and every one, into gay-pervy, hot-orgy, gay white slavery—
—but before you can start taking notes, your instinct for survival, god knows it’s rarely off the mark, tells you that you should really offer a couple of slices of cold pizza to those officers from 51 Division who are standing in your hallway.
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