All photos courtesy of Mackenzie Thomas.
From a distance, any casual observer would assume that I’m someone who has a struggle-free relationship with freedom. Ask Google for a synonym of “free,” and I’ve been called it: “open,” “boundless,” once “allergic to convention,” and twice “bohemian.” A word that’s never sat kindly between my ears, resting sharp and awkward, a bit like a soft slur, encouraging both of my eyebrows to raise in question: “Does this bitch even know me?”
If anything, I’d self-describe as an uptight person hiding in plain sight underneath some mood lighting, colorfully hidden within a stack of those a little more daring than I; a master of the performance of freedom. Living in New York, this performance is just a part of my social graces, an act I must uphold to deceive potential friends or lovers into thinking I’m a little more fun than my truth. My days are slow and repetitive. My nights, faster and more varied, but mostly netted and safe. I attend therapy every week to hold my emotional range at bay. I take chances rarely, and Ativan when I’m sad. And up until recently, I’ve had a string of long-term boyfriends and crushes that I’ve loved improperly as tethers that hold me down, stuck ever deeper in a routine that inspires little exploration.
I’ll admit this has gotten kind of boring. You can only stick to what you know for so long until you know nothing anymore. Your world becomes condensed to just you, your New York, your five friends, the five people you talk about, and the five problems you cycle through. So when I was approached to cover a sex party at a club I had never heard of, SNCTM, I jumped.
———
I had never been to a sex party before. I think the closest I ever came to something like that was a handful of corporate-coded, overly promised and yet undershot, sexy-sexy-sexy literary readings and my jailbroken copy of The Sims 4, which I played when I was lonely and dating someone long-distance in college.
Desire, for me, has become repetitive. I’m relatively normal for someone who grew up in the era of accessible hardcore porn—something that has become so tired and sticky, like honey mustard underneath fingernails, that I barely watch it anymore.
When I unplug my Hitachi Mini Magic Wand, I run through the index of fantasies and close my eyes to make a wish: six Hard Day’s Night-era Paul McCartneys standing over my bed, bukkake-style, all wide-eyed and British with perfect haircuts and crisp suits, telling me that I’m really, really talented and really, really pretty. Or sometimes, but a lot less often, I reach for something real: a sound I miss, a tattoo, a laugh I never understood but welcomed.
———
SNCTM’s rules were simple: black tie and no phones. Two things that shouldn’t be a problem for anyone over the age of 21, but I’m a self-described “internet native” who dresses like a character cut from The Big Comfy Couch. So, naturally, I had to spend $400 at Reformation on a butter yellow evening gown I despised and wrinkled before even calling an Uber to the party.
As I sat in the car, I felt myself get a little nervous. First-date nervous. A feeling I hadn’t spun in a minute. Catching myself taking face-forward photos in the backseat, flash on, and hating all of them, I began to worry. But before I could even think about the email I’d send explaining my lack of bravery, the car stopped and I was pushed onto the street in front of a very heavy-looking, very intimidating, gothic chamber door glowing red, like something out of a cautionary fable. All it was missing was smoke. As one last bargaining chip to myself, I began to pantomime struggling with turning the doorknob, until an older couple walked up behind me. They’re attractive, dressed in a suit and gown, and assure me with a laugh, “It’s actually quite light.”
I anticipated a cold welcome. I figured that sex clubs and journalism were some type of oil and water situation—they shouldn’t mix. I was ready to receive loads of skepticism masked with weird behavior. But after dropping my phone and handbag in a tented lobby beyond the front door, it seemed that the staff couldn’t hold back their excitement about my arrival. I was greeted with smiles and hugs, all of which seemed pretty genuine.
I slip into my familiar performance. I half-laugh and smile, eyes a little wild, hoping that feigning enthusiasm could distract from my acute discomfort. I knew that beyond the lobby was where shit was gonna get real, and I had to be calm.
———
The inside of SNCTM reminded me immediately of “sex clubs” I had seen on TV, especially in new-age sci-fi shows from my youth. Orphan Black. The OA. Black Mirror. The lighting was moody, the couches were large and leather. Hints of exposed brick on the walls, concrete on the floor, cold air, rugs, rugs, rugs, and of course, the club’s totally-not-suspicious-looking-at-all tear-drop-shaped insignia hung up on the wall, huge and blinding. Too far off from my taste to pass any judgment, but I could tell guests felt like they were a part of a very “luxe” experience while I felt the opposite, like I was standing in a large living room designed to appeal to the kinks of whoever invented Voss water.
I clung to the wall near the open bar, watching party attendees file in from the lobby, some hand-in-hand, others solo, some in masks and others with open faces demanding to be seen. I was so conscious of my inability to take notes on my iPhone that I almost overlooked the most important thing. Dead center, in the middle of the room, two performers on a large, spinning, baby pink ottoman fucking.
I tried to ignore my shock. Before my face could decide if it wanted to smile or laugh or bloom into a blush, I was escorted downstairs by a staff member. I grabbed the side of my gown to avoid tripping as she told me, “We’ve got a table and a bottle of champagne for you in the VIP section.”
I wanted to reject the idea of my VIP status immediately, but I struggled to get the words out, like some just-go-with-it demon had possessed me. I told her, through gritted teeth, “THAT SOUNDS GREAT!!!!!!”
Downstairs, the atmosphere was a little darker than the main room. It was cavernous and the ceilings were low. The lighting choices made me feel like I was in a Vanderpump Rules–themed haunted house; if I were to drop a bobby pin or an earring, the chances of finding it again were close to zero.
There was an empty bed in the back and another bar. I walked past both toward a singular string of velvet rope protected by a security guard whose frame was almost comically too large to be safeguarding a piece of rope so fucking tiny. He took a look at my wristband and nodded with approval. There were about fifteen people in the VIP section. Women in various states of dress. Cocktail dresses, lingerie, and a mixture of both. The men were still in suits without so much as an ankle to be shown. There was a fifty-fifty split of high and low. Aimé Leon Dore and Uniqlo. Agent Provocateur and Alibaba.
There was another performance, this time on the floor. Two women on their knees taking turns tying each other up, keeping it sensual but gray, staying away from lesbian territory.
I felt awkward standing there; it was a high-school-cafeteria feeling, and I was the new girl with nobody to talk to. I listened for a soundtrack, but the music was lyricless and pulsating, and everybody was stuck in conversations about anything other than sex.
I wondered if the rest of the night was going to be like this, if I was going to be stuck wasting air in this worn, proverbial cuck chair I tend to sit in most days.
I was approached by a man much shorter than me—something that rarely happens (I’m 5’3″).
He’s suited, like every other man in the room, and immediately shakes my hand. We exchange names and begin to chat.
I wish I could’ve been brave enough to play a spy and act like I was invited here by chance, but despite my dense history with improv classes, I’m an awful liar.
“I’m a reporter,” jumps out before I can catch it. Way too bold.
I try again.
“Actually, I’m a journalist.”
No, no.
“I’m writing a personal essay about being here,” I say, jumbled and unconfident, but certainly more me and closer to the truth this time.
I’m the new puzzle piece challenging the meaning of a finished picture; this could be tricky. He takes in my descriptors and digests them, trying to figure out a safe angle.
“This is a really sophisticated place,” he tells me, “full of really sophisticated, powerful people.”
I scan the room as a courtesy, even though I’ve already taken account of every moving body. I already know he and I have different ideas of sophistication, but I’m here for the story, not to reveal myself as a slob. He tells me that SNCTM is responsible for some of the most important relationships in his life, creating them and maintaining them, stressing that it’s not just about the sex. Pointing around the room with stories of wedding parties, lavish vacations, and general closeness. He gestures toward his wife, who works for the club and greets me with long lashes and a painterly smile. My skepticism drops as he begins to explain the bond he feels with the other members, that he feels closer to his friends at SNCTM than he does to people he’s known for decades. I believe him.
I feel a charm wash over me as I look beyond his shoulder and watch the girls on the floor touch each other’s nipples, laughing, undoubtedly happy.
I think about a Birthday Boys sketch I loved so much in high school and think, “Yeah, maybe this could be a family.”
And as this strange bliss starts to melt on my tongue, my conversation is delightfully interrupted by a girl about my age in slightly see-through lingerie.
She makes a beeline for my sophisticated friend, towering over him, yet bent by her desire. She has an aura about her that is unmistakably sweet and familiar—the type of girl you’d love to have braid your hair or give a friendship bracelet to.
She kisses him on the mouth and asks, “OKAY … WHEN ARE WE GETTING NAKED?”
———
I head up the stairs with the unusual pair, past the main room, and onto the third floor—the boudoir. I trail behind my new friends past an archway. Inside is a bed and two couples. Non-performers. Members. Having sex as they would in the privacy of their own home, except this time with an audience. A woman quietly howls with her legs splayed open as her partner finds his place between them. A man gets his condomed dick sucked by a pristine mop of blown-out black hair.
The couches in this room are mostly full, and I lean against a bondage board, observing. I realize I’m in the middle of a heterosexual fantasy. The stuff my exes have probably thought about in place of me during moments of blow job and doggy.
My silence seems to worry my new friends. The sophisticated one tries to put me at ease the only way he knows how, eyeing two cuddled-up voyeurs.
“…that couple over there, two of the most powerful attorneys in the country.”
Which prompted me to ask, “How much does all this cost?”
———
SNCTM is a members’ club that operates on a tiered system. Each applicant is vetted by a consul and judged by aesthetic, reputation, and discretion. It says on their website that those accepted join a community of “artists, entrepreneurs, executives, and visionaries who share a pursuit of refinement and freedom.”
The lowest tier, Aurum, starts at $15,000, and the highest tier, Deus, is a screaming $125,000. A number that’s heftier than most liberal arts educations, and left me slack-jawed at my laptop.
I guess my new friend was right. Technically, these are pretty sophisticated people.
———
I find myself floating from room to room, this time alone. Wandering the hallways. Losing time. Standing on the other side of the glass, looking into a see-through bathroom. Watching a couple fuck on the sink and another through the steam of a shower. Naked people pass me, and I feel like a ghost. Not like the unseen, monotonous trap of my personal life, but in an exciting way, like I’m finally privy to another realm I couldn’t explore in my other life.
I stick to the walls of another dimly-lit bedroom watching an orgy. A girl passionately sucking dick in the corner while the man she’s with has his focus locked on a scene unfolding on the bed. A half-dressed man is cumming as a sandy blonde rides him, her mouth interlocked with another woman’s.
It’s tits everywhere. Beside them is a couple fucking normal-style, holding hands, savoring every moment of this unlocked real-life fantasy, and I’m the cuck in the corner.
With eyes wide open, I notice each participant become aware of me individually. I watch them adjust their performance to my gaze, heightening it, shifting it.
And for the first time—maybe ever—I was the only person in the room who was free.
———
I feel a tap on my shoulder, along with a familiar Gen-Z affect. The type of fry that hangs out of the mouths of a few of my younger friends who lace their sentences with words like aura and ki.
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
I regrettably turn away from the orgy and am greeted by a half-up, half-down pony attached to a light blue sequined two-piece. A combo that would’ve killed at a Miami prom and felt rebellious amongst all the lacy lingerie, stuffy suits, and occasion dresses. And though her face is unfamiliar, I immediately recognize this girl as someone more like me. She’s warm with an edge and loose with her words, less protective of the space than the other attendees.
“LET’S GET OUTTTT OF HERE, TONIGHT IS TOO FUCKING SLOW,” she says, which confuses me because I just witnessed Bang Bus-level ecstasy in the room beyond us, but I have no choice but to believe her.
She calls out for a friend, a taller girl in all white. The two stand together, arched and well acquainted, their body language reading: platonic, girl besties.
I ask them what they do for work because I genuinely wanted to know, and they both shoot me a one-word answer, giggly but flat: “finance.”
They tell me it’s almost 2 and the club is about to close—shocker—they’re both hungry for dancing at Paul’s Casablanca. They invite me, but it’s late and I’m eager to write in the morning, so I hesitate.
“PLEASE COME WITH US.”
“PLEASE, PLEASE!”
“WE CAN TELL YOU’RE SOOO LIT!”
“DO IT FOR YOUR STORY.”
“WAIST ON THINNA COME AWN…”
“THE NIGHT IS YOUNG…”
I roll my eyes, signifying a “yes,” and make my way down to the main room.
The space is mostly empty now. The air feels colder than it did before, and unsatisfied stragglers hang onto couches, talking quietly amongst themselves fully dressed. I see that ottoman from earlier, this time empty, and without thinking I commit an act of teleportation. I find my head laying next to a cum stain on pink velvet, sandwiched between two girls I just met. Spinning, laughing, screaming, pointing both legs skyward, comfortable in this wobbly gravity. Feeling unconquered and uninhibited.
The ottoman slows its orbit, and Miami Two-Piece shifts to her side, locking eyes with me as if I were the only girl at the sleepover who picked truth.
“How long have you been single?” I wonder if I’m in the mood for sympathy.
I tell her it’s been since October, and recount my last very New York, very intense, very below me, very painful, very brief, very overly-discussed and ruminated upon relationship, ending with my favorite somber punch:
“AND BITCH, he FUCKING cheated on me.”
“OH, GIRL WE CAN’T HAVE THAT,” she says, eyeing the exit, giving her quieter friend a cue. “I’ve heard LITERALLY enough, he sounds STUPID and very GAY…”
We collect our phones and handbags, and I pop back in to quickly grab a handful of condoms for friends as souvenirs.
———
Outside, it’s humid, and we wait for an Uber to Paul’s. The three of us talk on the pavement like old friends outside a bar or restaurant, confirming a few sentiments I’d heard on the inside about the bonds that could be formed at a place like SNCTM. Both girls hype me up in shades of chin up princess, your tiara’s falling, telling me I was perfect despite my hair losing its shape pretty immediately upon hitting the open air.
The last guests trickle out. I watch them climb into their designated Uber Blacks and start to get a little sleepy.
Our car eventually arrives and Miami Two-Piece gets in the front, asking the driver if he knows any good Afrobeats, while I take the backseat with her friend. We turn the music all the way up and roll the windows all the way down.
Blurry, like tampered stills in a slide reader, the city rolls by us. I know the path we’re taking, each stoplight. I’m in my city, but a couple worlds away from it right now. I relax my head against the back of the seat, untensing my neck, letting the drums decide which direction I’ll lean.
The car stops, and we get out, birthed onto the pavement in front of a new door of possibility. I look at my two new friends, unable to find any artificial wild to place in my eyes.
“I think I gotta go home.”
And as I walk down the block, feeling unstuck and with a newly polished soul, I laugh to myself. I could’ve said no to this. I could’ve refused. But as much as I push it away, there must be a penny of truth to what’s been said about me—maybe I am a little bit bohemian.
