I Knew I Was Bi When I Came in my Pants at a Lesbian Sex Party
"With her blue hair and my pink hair, we became Harley Quinn."
Even the best of bisexuals doubt our identity at times, partly because we know things would be “easier” if we were exclusively gay or straight. Like I know I’d become more “packageable” to future spouses' parents if I were just a nice straight girl who went through an exploratory phase. However, that’s not me, and it took a women-only sex party to remind me that yes, I am queer as fuck.
Many years ago, when I was a bit more innocent, I was invited to report on a particular sex party. The event's target audience was wealthier, married, bicurious females who wanted a night to leave their typical routine at home in favor of eating pussy in a Lower East Side penthouse. Not really my scene, but my job was to go and report on it.
I dressed to the nines in a short 1920s flapper-style dress, strappy black lingerie underneath, and made sure my pussy was perfectly shaved. (Don't forget the asshole; if you shave, you must get the asshole!)
As a reporter or single bisexual woman, I'm able to go to sex parties alone, but it's advisable to bring someone in the scene. Usually, for me, that means bringing a partner and then fucking them the whole time. But that night, I wasn't seeing anyone special (or who I felt comfortable bringing to a sex club). So I brought my friend Erin. Did we use to date? Yes. Did we hook up now? No, she had a boyfriend who I was pretty sure hated me, probably because I was bringing his girlfriend to sex parties. Were we going to hook up tonight at the sex party? Unclear. We had the responsible conversations and decided that no, we were going as buddies and could do our own thing, but the night before the event, I received a series of drunk texts from her that suggested otherwise.
Now at the risk of sounding like a dirtbag, I was only after new pussy. Plus, things were always complicated with her boyfriend, and I wasn't trying to get involved with that. Open relationships are great, but somewhat-open-but-my-boyfriend-gets-jealous open relationships are never worth the drama. But when she showed up at my apartment looking fabulous in her black, light sheer dress that complemented her porcelain skin and showed off her pierced nipples, I knew I was in trouble. After a hug and a kiss on the cheek, we smoked up and then eagerly jumped into a cab to head to the party.
It took place in a two-floor penthouse downtown. The interior design was modern and minimal, but with plenty of white couches and pillows ready to be stained with bodily fluids. There was a terrace with a hot tub. Women floated in it naked, kissing, touching, and making pussy soup. From the hot tub, you could see a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline. Most of the people there looked like the bicurious type. There were a lot of yellow-blonde women in their 40s, who sat in the hot tub chatting about Manhattan real estate. They were happy to enjoy a night away from the husband while he likely sees his secret second family, all the more secure in his secrets knowing that wifey is out getting some too. But then, that's me judging based on looks, which is problematic.
One blonde banker threw up her arms and shouted from the hot tub, "I'm free! I love New York fucking City!" These bright-eyed moments make it easy to forgive mostly straight people for being curious. Besides, as queers, we're too harsh on those experimenting. Nearly all queers, especially bi folks, go through our awkward trials and errors before coming out, so I tried not to judge these rich ladies too much.
(Photo by @fake.chadjohnson)
Erin and I disrobed and got into the hot tub naked. We were both stoned, and she'd had a little champagne. It's just impossible not to get turned on when you're in a warm bath of strange cunt. Erin must have been feeling it, too, because she plopped herself right on my lap and kissed me. Oh, so this was happening! We started making out, but then she whispered in my ear that her boyfriend fucked her right before we met up, and I realized that dude's cum was probably pouring out all over me. Usually, this would be hot, but I cared about this person and her relationship, and honestly, I didn't want her boyfriend's jizz opening my night of orgasms.
"Hey, I think we should go inside. Let's stick with the plan; I love you and don't want to do anything out of line." Despite giving her the kindest rejection imaginable, she didn’t respond well. Her whole demeanor changed to an anxious one.
"Yeah, let's go inside, but I don't know. I should probably just go home." Oof. Less than an hour in, and I was already fucking up. But while getting dressed—well, I stuck with just lingerie—I convinced her to stay a bit longer, and we headed inside together.
Everyone in the penthouse was mingling. The first person I noticed was a gorgeous girl with long blue hair. She wore a leather harness underneath a thin black cotton dress, coupled with jewelry made of bones—clearly an Etsy purchase or made by a local designer. She had olive skin, and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. When we made eye contact, I felt like I was looking into the abyss of death itself, and I was ready to jump in. She had a jawline that could cut glass, and the dark glamour of her bone structure matched her outfit. She looked like an art hoe, and I could tell this was not her first sex party. Homegirl looked like she had broken at least a dozen hearts at Burning Man, and I was ready for her to break mine.
I introduced myself. There was chemistry. Her dark pools of eyes met my curious green ones. Up close, I saw her eye makeup, which was a purple and turquoise gradient. Oh, look at me, I’m asking someone about makeup tips while fantasizing about how her pussy looks. How very bisexual of me.
I was going to fuck this bitch; or, I hoped so. I thought she was flirting, but couldn’t tell. I asked her what her favorite tarot card is. She responded “The Lovers,” and I told her mine was the Death card. Her body was covered in teeny, hand-poked tattoos, and was extremely muscular. She was small, but could totally beat me up, and I wanted her to. She seemed into me, but she kept glancing at Erin, who stood idly by my side. It looked like I was there with a girlfriend! Cucked once again. (Did I mention it's a bad idea to bring an ex as your date to a sex party?) With a smile, the blue-haired goddess left us to get into her own trouble. Goddamn, she seemed so much cooler than me.
While my blue, bisexual queen began to make the rounds, clearly in her zone, Erin was getting fidgety as attendees began to upgrade from mingling to making out. Here's the thing about sex parties. Not everyone likes them. For many people, outside of their bedroom, the only sex they've seen is in porn. And, as I'm sure everyone reading this knows, porn is often highly edited and directed. While many sex party attendees are outstanding in bed, this is real, live sex. There are condoms and bodily fluids, consent conversations and grunts, and likely at least one creepy person in the corner. You have to be down with the primal realities of sex to enjoy a public orgy.
No one was even having sex yet, but I could tell that Erin was getting even more uncomfortable. So, we followed a woman who looked just like Freddie Mercury, sans mustache, into a bedroom on the ground floor where people were playing spin the bottle. Ice breakers, like STB, are fairly standard for sex parties, but I wasn’t there because I needed any introductions. I was there to make out with Freddie, but it never happened. Instead, as Erin spun the bottle, more and more people gradually left the room.
"Okay, this is so lame," I said to Erin. "We are the only people gay enough even to play spin the bottle." Frankly, I said this hopefully, like a cheerleader, as I could tell that she wanted to go and was uncomfortable herself, and I wanted to reassure myself of my bisexuality. I felt uncomfortable for bringing her and making her uncomfortable. Contrary to popular opinion, it doesn't feel good to realize that you are the creeper. However, I did feel vindicated. I was queer and putting all of these other bitches to shame with my signature bisexual openness to new experiences. "Let's walk around and see what's going on upstairs."
(Photo by @fake.chadjohnson)
As it turns out, a lot was going on upstairs. The upstairs room was filled with a bed big enough to fit Angelina, Brad, and their whole herd of children (RIP Brangelina). Bodies filled the bed. Women were eating pussy, sitting on faces, sucking on tits, spanking asses, and a giant black strap-on was making the rounds. Turns out I wasn't the gayest at the party; I was the loser playing spin the bottle downstairs while everyone else had strap-on sex!
I spotted my blue-haired, manic pixie dream girl and stared as she went down on a beautiful brunette, their bodies mingling with others. My pussy was so wet that I was pretty sure I'd have to throw out these panties or never wash them and keep them as a souvenir. But while I was creating flood warnings, my date was officially freaked out and over it.
"I think I should go home," she said.
I could have left with her. As a friend, that was probably the best thing to do. But honestly, I felt a little played. I asked her as a friend, she wanted to hook up, and I was faced with the horrible decision of going for it, despite her boyfriend's marking of his territory and the many consequences that could come with hooking up with someone whose partner disapproves. BOYSLUT is a safe space, so I'm just going to be honest. I wanted her to leave so that I could fuck the blue-haired vixen. So, I politely got Erin a cab and returned to the scene of the orgy.
Now I remembered why people bring dates. Was I supposed just to nose dive into the bed? At the time, this world was all new to me. I watched. I watched like that creeper in the corner who’s jerking off alone. I walked around; my dear Freddie was occupied. Of course, she was. I went back to the bedroom. My blue-haired crush was sitting alone, on the corner of the bed, looking spent. But we made eye contact. I held it and then chickened out and went into the hall. She followed me.
Thank God for experienced sex party goers. Now with several years under my belt, I may pass on the gift of authority to others. "Hey," she said as she pressed me against the wall and kissed me deeply. At this point, my pussy was dripping onto the floor. We made out against the wall and took off one another's clothes. She was thin but ripped. Each muscle stood out, especially her abs, and I couldn’t think of anything else other than having them—her—on top of me.
Then, she took my hand and led me to the giant bed. It was late, and the orgy had thinned out. I knew I was far from the first person she'd been with that night, but that fact turned me on even more.
We began making out and rolling around naked. She had small breasts that were perfectly shaped, and I bit into her nipples. They could stay in my mouth forever. Up close, she smelled slightly of patchouli, but not in a dirty hippie way, in a burner-who-wears-Byredo perfume type of way. With her blue hair and my pink hair, we became Harley Quinn. I was about to cum my face off.
At that moment, I knew I was a full-fledged bisexual.
Fuck, I couldn't wait to taste her pussy, for her to taste mine. I saw the strap-on dicks lying around and fantasized about what that would be like. I was on my back, with my legs wrapped around her. We were naked and kissing but dry jumping. Yes, this is good, I thought, let's kiss like teenagers and then get to the good stuff. Except there was only one problem, or benefit, depending on if you see the glass half full or empty. My clit was going to explode. It was throbbing with such intensity that I wondered if I could cum just from making out, but that seemed impossible, as I wasn't a teenage boy. I was, however, a queer woman in her early 20s, with one serious ex-girlfriend, but mostly a history of fucking men.
And then it happened. My body betrayed me. As she thrust up against me, dry humping, all of a sudden, I came. I came my face off. I had an orgasm that started in my throbbing clit and ricocheted throughout my entire body. I came harder than I had in ages from dry humping this bitch.
I came so hard I gasped and moaned, and my entire body shook. From fucking dry humping! All I could mutter was, "Uh... I'm sorry… I came… you're so pretty." Kill me.
Thankfully, the fun thing about sluts is that she'd already come multiple times that night and was happy to curl up in my dirtbag arms. So I held her until the sun started to come up, and then I took a cab alone, blasting David Bowie over the Brooklyn Bridge, knowing that yup, I'm very much bisexual. Always have been, always will be.