So You Wanna Have a Gay Orgy

Better disasters through planning



You’re in the dead zone, that stretch of time somewhere between 2AM and dawn, when normal people are enjoying the happy fulfillment of definite plans made with definite people they definitely wanted to meet. These plans were made early the previous evening, or, in cases of extreme 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 used to call “spontaneity”, which in its ideal expression would imply that unlimited, or at least a few, equally delightful choices were just waiting for you, like an enticing selection of donut holes at the donut shop.

Right now the 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 strangely silent on the issue. Is the solution 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 is to do a bit of—and here you give an involuntary shudder, you may even experience a wave of nausea, so deeply upsetting is the idea to you—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 of throwing your very own great, big, gay orgy becomes an obsession…


The Nitty Gritty or Pre-Gay Orgy Mindset

There comes a point in every gay man’s life, like, now, when he must clutch his glass pipe, take a few little rapid puffs and, like a Pilgrim clutching a smallpox-infected blanket, set himself hopelessly adrift on the high seas of personal discovery.

And sure as Lana Del Rey wears fishnet tights, this means he’s finally decided to throw a great, big, sleazy-to-the-max, hopefully drug-fueled, gay orgy to tell the world, “Hey, move over, Minerva—I’ve arrived!” 

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, I failed to have sex in a bathhouse.

And that got me thinkin’, as Barack Obama surely must have said at some point.

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, reveal-your-true-self boondoggle all about?–and knowing someone’s name before you excuse yourself, head to the nearest men’s room and blow that guy from Bound In Public who’s tied up naked on the baby changing tray. 

You’ve had it with heated discussions at the breakfast table about which Freedom Convoy trucker is totally hot; Justin beard—Yes or No?, and whether Alberta, to be honest, even exists.

You’ve come to that dark crossroads, where everything you’ve ever wanted to say can be expressed with blunt, Anglo-Saxon-derived words of one syllable, assuming you’re not in a court of law and there are no middle-aged ladies in the vicinity. 

Well, Murgatroyd McGraw, have I got a disaster plan for you—Let’s get ‘er done!

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.  Choose some games that will give your evening structure and your guests something to bond over instead of just bending over. Geddit?

Try these fun, ball-stretching icebreaker party games on for size!

Let’s play: “Opera Diva”

  • Paper your tiny bachelor 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 “O Scarpia!  Avanti a Dio!” First one to hit the mattress and not bounce up again gets the blue ribbon.
  • In the likely event of accidental defenestration deaths, be sure to update your Classic Rolodex iPhone app to cut down on excess battery use. 
  • While you’re at it, might as well just stay on the mattress.

 Let’s play: “Maxime Bernier”

  • Everyone stands around naked while griping about how long it took to get there from Burlington on the GO Train. As they do this, they pretend they’re not gay.

Let’s play: “Naked QAnon”

  • Players have 60 seconds to decide what pizza toppings go with thin slices of trafficked baby. Share the hilarious results!*
  • Nostalgia Time: Spin the bottle to see who has to sing all eight verses of “Come to the Florida Sunshine Tree” then get fired by the Citrus Marketing Council anyway.
  • Complete the final word in this sentence: “Democrats and liberal snowflakes are destroying my beautiful, freedom-loving c_unt_ _.”
  • Finish with a Satanic Ritual involving a trafficked baby, followed by a leisurely grooming supervised by Baphomet, Hillary, or, honestly, whoever’s available. 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!
  • While you’re at it, might as well slice the baby, ready for the pizza! Also, the *white button mushrooms.

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 poo, there’s one thing you must must must remember:  NO FAT PEOPLE ALLOWED! 

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. Cancel! Cancel!

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. Embargo!

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, so they just took the train without paying. Fucking TTC!

The Person Slumped, Weeping, in the Corner

An essential element of any super hot drug-fueled gay orgy, this character adds a much-needed piquancy to the proceedings. He is, as it were, 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 couple 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 some of those gummi bears from the bowl on the coffee table that weren’t clearly labelled 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. Except there are no new guys in town.

Our long-suffering host—chief cook and bottle washer, wiper of asses, event planner, Mollie Maid, Priest Voyeur, wielder of the sacred handkerchief—will set him right.  He’ll spot Person Slumped from across the room and, with a vocal projection that would do Merman proud, shout : “We think we found your Prince Albert. As it happens, it was inside Albert. Seriously! And take the puppy hood off.  Nobody is fooled.” 

Hilarious?! Not a dry nose in the house!

Can’t hold their street drugs

Sweet 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 uncovering new hackings of their phones, bank accounts and bedrooms, certain that their every guilty sodden secret has been laid bare.

Look! Patrick is standing naked on your West Elm wing back chair, exposing himself to the entire freshman class of eight year old ballerinas 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 insinuating its way through the circuits and chips and motherboard, 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! Your cerebral cortex went thataway!

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 the spot, flaunting his 70’s man bush, in the rapidly-emptying centre of the room, 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? Seriously!

The Gigglers

What is it about the tinkle of campy, barely suppressed giggles that grates yellow 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 comments on your style of photo, your choice of grammar, 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, or wherever the fuck else he doesn’t work, might recognize him! Jeezus.

Frankly, who would care if he were gay?  To even find that out, you’d have to trek the secret pathways of his crappy personality first.  So far, no one’s returned from that day-trip alive.

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 a bunch, Henry Kissinger!

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 chiffon):

  • Fuck
  • Fuck yeah
  • Holy fuck
  • Oh yeah, unhunh, you love it
  • There Ya Go!

Consider a possible 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 vocabulary can actually hold its nuanced own in the poetry stakes against, say, the King James Bible, any day of the week!  Sex-talk our socks off, little orgy scamps!

Bowls of peanuts: 

Some snacks are ill-advised. You learn this when 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 maybe do a quick hand-off to the next guy in line.

Bonus tip: Your tastebuds may shout “pralines!” but resist the urge to bite down.

Pizza:  

Slime on a slab adds a greasy frisson to any reverse gangbang, especially if 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 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 famous 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 lube 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 cows prefer it above all other brands?  Moo? Moo!

Background ambience: 

It is essential, at this your first, and probably last, out-of-this-world hot, pervy, gay, anonymous-sex jizz-orgy, to have background porn videos.  This helps people remember that this isn’t just any old party.  This party has An Agenda.

This isn’t just a gathering where a bunch of 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 proud gay men who know just how hot those yellow plastic 45 rpm adapters will look glued onto their nipples. You spin me round, baby!

The person choosing the porn, let’s call him Irving. Or not. He tends to overthink. He wonders if it would be hot to watch straight porn for a change, and just to clarify: no, it would not, but, too late: he just clicked somewhere random on OrgyTube and has now entered a porn loop whereby every video suggested by the algorithm takes its cue from the previous one, which is probably why he’s regaling us with “Trashed big-tittie’d Latina ho’s desperate for cash gonna shave their beaver at the CN Tower” and can’t seem to find a way to switch. Or look away.

Cue our gracious, J-lubed host, who staggers past, enveloped in mucus, shrieking, “Why are you subjecting us to this?!”, at which point the person choosing the porn gets rattled and ends up playing a compilation of hairless buff Eurotwinks from the 80’s. This copy of a copy of an old VHS award-winner glows with that comforting, grainy, orange glow of olde time video tape. Remember the big race-to-the-finish of VHS versus Betamax?  Ya, neither do I. 

This porn has a soundtrack: a synthesized leitmotif which is a kind of endlessly repeated THROB that 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!

This porn has a plot: The Boy Scout troop—or whatever is the equivalent in whatever Swiss canton—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 but one solution: they must sell themselves, each and every one, into gay-pervy, hot-orgy, gay white slavery—but first:

Do you know how YOU can make millions in just ONE HOUR, right now, online, with NO skills and NO experience?

Ya, neither do I.

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