Naughty Noir in the Naked City

It was a warm Friday night in Manhattan when I sat at the mahogany bar next to him. I politely struck up an obligatory 15-minute conversation about the Mets and the upcoming World Series before taking him back to my hostel.

Adorable and Kennedy-esque, I immediately nicknamed him “Preppy.” Fifteen years my junior, and a recent graduate of an Ivy League grad school, he worked on Wall Street. He had been enjoying his chicken fingers and wheat beer two-fisted, but we were both about to feast on something neither of us had ever tasted.

Preppy looked like a model stock broker dressed-down for “business casual Friday.” He had pedigree thick hair, eager brown eyes, and the teeth of an orthodontist’s son. He also blended into the yacht club scene (a hobby of his) with his khakis and neutral blazer. Thinking about him now, and how inexperienced he looked when we met, makes me grin as I write this.

Back at the hostel, and to my delightful surprise, I was impressed with his… ability. I was reminded for the zillionth time in my life that you cannot judge a book by its cover. It was a titillating experience, and the fact that my room had a bunk bed added an air of rebellion to the whole thing.

Much to my surprise, one thing led to another with Preppy, and we soon found ourselves cleaned-up and walking towards a Manhattan swinger’s club. Neither of us had ever visited one. The nearby club only accepted patrons in pairs and it cost $150 to enter. In direct contradiction to its upscale Manhattan location and the high fee to enter, club patrons were asked to BYOB. Without a liquor store in sight, we stopped at the corner drug store and bought some cheap white wine. Somehow, it all seemed right.

The lobby of the club was draped in velvet. You could taste sticky cherry lubricant hanging heavy in the club’s stagnant air. There was almost no ventilation. Red fabric and black lights with surrounding fetish-driven fantasies played on flat screens on every wall. We decided to chug the entire bottle of wine before going into the main room: “The Playroom.”

Once we changed into our required (and club-provided) robes, we went upstairs to “play.” It smelled like summer sex on old Thunderbird leather. And the rows of bodies: a few patrons kept their white robe tied shut, but most were completely naked. And everyone was damp. Erect breasts glistened with perspiration and saliva, and sweaty hair stuck to foreheads and curled hairlines. The room was all mirrors, all except the red velvet flooring. And the mirrors closest to the floor were fogged-up with an occasional handprint or hand-smear here and there.

It was a gluttonous feast for the senses. Women tasting women, men and women kissing, and voracious fucking everywhere… Men and women alike watched the sensual circus, while others joined-in. Voyeurism, ménage a trois, heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, masterbation, oral, anal…you name it. And everyone was beautiful. All colors, shapes, sizes, and ages, but all with a common innate factor: passion. They all desired to feel something more than just physical pleasure.

Watching Preppy was like watching a lion who was raised by vegan hippy humans his whole life, and now he’d been released into the wilderness for the first time. He started out slow, his eyes widened to the visual effects and he was aroused by the ascending smell of ecstasy. With his human nature emanating deep within, he was instantaneously triggered by the stimulating environment. And like the lion after his first bloody kill, Preppy became insatiable. He got a taste for something primitive, and he could not indulge fast enough. But, wow, did he try.

Pampering and responding to every sexual impulse took time. In fact, it took hours to tear Preppy away from that underworld playground of high-class sin. It was a very long night (no pun intended), but we left spent and satisfied. And so fucking alive.

I think Preppy learned something about himself that night. Something wild about his spirit. As for me, I was and am well-aware of my need to push my senses to that dramatic limit where I feel reborn, inspired, and moved–no matter how provocative or untraditional the means. I was surprised by Preppy, though, which is funny. Particularly when cornered face-to-face with one’s primal nature, humans generally never cease to amaze me.

A week later, Preppy friend-requested me on Facebook. In his profile picture, his head peeked out just above the hatch of a sailboat. (Talk about a metaphor!) The ironic part of this whole is that my biggest “shock” was borne from watching Preppy come out of his shell (again, no pun intended). I was naked and engaged in a room full of orgies for hours. Orgies partaking in things I’d never imagined in my fairly liberated life. However, ironically, the sexual acts and people involved weren’t what I found shocking at all. Rather, the lion inside Preppy is what caught me off-guard.