by Dommie Darko.
I used to attend a now-defunct but very elite sex party in San Francisco’s Armory, called “The Upper Floor.” It was, more-or-less a BDSM orgy, with people flogging and fucking in every corner, while others walked around sipping champagne and eating fancy hors d’oeuvres.
I would stick around after people started heading home, playing the piano and drinking free booze and occasionally talking to the party organizer, Stefanos as he organized the cleanup. He donned latex gloves to pick wipe down the sex tables, pick up the used wash clothes, and make sure all the lube was accounted for.
There is this time after every orgy, perhaps the next morning, when all the fun has been had, and bleary eyed and perhaps hung over, you have to survey the carnage. It’s a quiet time, when you can rehydrate, put on Yo-yo Mas Bach Cello Suites and joyfully reminisce, and also reflect on what went well and what didn’t.
It isn’t that much different from cleaning up after any other dinner party, except with more washcloths, lube, and wet wipes. Also I imagine normal dinner parties you don’t end up finding used condoms behind the couch.