by Hannah M., as featured in Kasidie Magazine

Strutting crosstown in stilettos and a short red dress, I was excited to play a part for the night. I had no idea what, exactly, a “hostessing” position at an “erotic event” entailed. Would I be fending off naked, old swingers all night? Or stoically, unemotionally opening a dark curtain that led guests into an S&M den of inequity?

As a serial-monogamous 22 year old, I had only experienced the swing scene through Henry Miller novels. Organized orgies? I didn’t know they existed – outside of Europe and porn. But when “School of Sex” responded to my job wanted ad on Craigslist, I was intrigued enough to accept the gig.

The entrance to the building in Midtown was unremarkable. There was no indication that any type of party would be taking place that night. I called the male host, “Rocco,” from downstairs as businessmen passed me by on the street. He buzzed me up. The loft was huge and sparsely decorated, with a curtained-in area filled with mattresses.

The clack of my stilettos echoed off the walls as average-Joes walked in and out of the outdoor terrace, setting up speakers and dispersing bowls of condoms throughout the room. I didn’t know whom to approach for instructions, so I just stood there, awkwardly watching hardcore porn on the screen behind the bar. After several minutes of watching lubed-up breasts on screen, I was approached by a smiling, curvaceous 20-something in a schoolgirl’s skirt.

“Would you like something to drink?” “Sex Kitten” asked, shaking my hand. As she poured me a vodka cocktail, her equally friendly husband Rocco explained the simple check-in procedure. I went straight downstairs where the first person to walk in immediately shattered my preconceived notions about swingers. Namely, the notion that all swingers are old, ugly skeezeballs.

“I’m Bruce, of Bruce and Betty,” he said, “My wife is on her way.” As I told him the secret floor number, a barrage of cheesy pickup lines filled my head (all involving Batmobiles and serial killer sex positions). Bruce was Bruce Wayne sexy –well sculpted, with dark, mysterious features.

“This must be a fun job watching the newbies walk in all tentatively,” he said, winking at me before disappearing into the elevator. At 1 a.m., a security guard took over for me at the door. I was officially off duty, and free to follow my curiosity upstairs.

Sticking to my comfort zone (well, pseudo comfort zone) I walked past the curtained in area where I could hear a woman moaning in pleasure, past the nude couples making out on the couches, and up to the bar where I chatted up two young “newbie” women who happened to be wearing clothes.

Jackie, single, 23 told me she had never before been to “this type of … thing” and also had never had an orgasm “that wasn’t vibrator induced.” Her friend Lydia, an elementary school teacher visiting from Chicago, was trying to convince Jackie to get a “sensual massage” from the masseuse-in-residence for the night. We watched in awe as the masseuse worked the woman currently on the massage table, both hands inside of her. The woman writhed and moaned, her body convulsing from multiple orgasms—or otherwise, multiple seizures.

“See, you have to get one of those,” Lydia said to Jackie. While it seemed like a strange place to make friends, I conversed deeply with the pair about everything from Missy Elliott to Hitachi Magic wands. Half naked couples approached to chat us up while also observing the spectacle on the massage table. Even those who propositioned us were straightforward and polite about our refusals. The whole vibe was shockingly comfortable. When the woman on the table was done with convulsing – and stumbled off with her husband in a daze, Jackie was fully convinced. While she undressed for the masseuse, Lydia and I wandered over to see what was going on behind the curtains.

“I’ll admit it. I’m here as a voyeur,” she said. As we took a seat on an empty mattress, I nearly lost an eye to a red stiletto. It belonged to Batman’s wife, and was attached to a leg suspended in acrobatic air as she got rammed by a muscular man in his thirties. Batman was lying next to her on the same mattress. A brunette was naked on top of him, her obviously fake (yet glorious) boobs bouncing everywhere as she screamed, “Fuuuhmygock!”

“Whoa,” was all Lydia could say. On the adjacent bed, it was much more difficult to discern what was happening. One woman was on all fours, arched like a cat. She gave her husband a blowjob as a beautiful Mediterranean woman pleasured her, and was simultaneously pleasured by her partner. A couple that had previously told me they were visiting from Poland were pleasuring each other on the edge of the mattress, slightly separated from a tangle of (12?) legs, (6?) tits, and a whole lot of thrusting. Orgies can be super confusing.

Satiated by our voyeuristic fix, I followed Lydia to the outdoor terrace, which provided a panoramic view of the rooftops of Midtown. Entranced by the electric skyline, we almost didn’t notice the couples from the orgies we had witnessed filing outdoors to get some air.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said a voice behind us. Batman, now half-clothed, was lighting his wife’s cigarette. Somehow, the whole lot of us ended up discussing Pulp Fiction. Talk about shattered expectations. I remained at the party until sunrise and ended up helping Rocco and Sex Kitten clean up the food that no one ate while they were too busy gettin’ busy.

In the end, the most shocking part of my experience was that I was approached with more respect than I would expect at a bar, let alone at a sex party. After talking to couples throughout the night, I understood the human quality behind every man’s fantasy. Many guests looked like porn stars, but others were just your average New Yorkers. The sentiment many of them recited was the idea that it is healthy and natural for couples to fantasize about people other than their partners. And honestly, I am beginning to see the truth in this philosophy.