Maybe I’m remembering Eyes Wide Shut, but I always thought the rich and affluent were all about lavish orgies. Not so, per a report out of the Denver metro area’s upscale Castle Rock neighborhood, which related complaints from various residents against a local man who routinely hosts group sex parties in his private home. The horror!
What are the specific grievances? Parking problems, of course, but also that it’s “disgusting.” Plus, there are noises — filthy noises the children might hear!
I’m not buying it. You narcs are just jealous you didn’t get invited to a fuckfest that “boasts a 7,500-square-foot dwelling with every amenity, including alcohol, food (complete with a vegetarian menu) and chocolate fountain.”
Right? I’m right. And I’m betting it stung more to see some attendees bringing food as if for a lively potluck, as well as some guests so old that they “struggled walking up the stairs.” You can cook a tasty casserole, and you’re young enough to bang with vigor; why have you been excluded?
Because you’re a goddamn prude who worries that your precious offspring might ask you what’s up with the moaning that comes from the house down the street. Just tell them it’s haunted and mind your own business! You NIMBYs are the bad neighbors here, keying cars and calling the cops and blocking the guy’s driveway with trash cans.
If you truly wanted to curtail unapproved orgasms in your zip code, you might try what some killjoys in the Seattle suburb of Des Moines did back in 2008 when rankled by constant swinger shindigs on their block who lived in a “six-bedroom rental house with 15 mattresses, bondage crosses and sex swings,” and washed 50 bed sheets each week. Namely, have the city threaten the organizers with fines for running a business without a license.
Like the Castle Rock hedonist, the Des Moines couple running the fetish den known as Hardwood Cabin took “donations” from partygoers to pay for upkeep, and were consequently accused of turning a profit. It didn’t help their case, however, that they’d advertised the spot online and, despite foliage cover, let revelers be glimpsed sunbathing nude and skinny-dipping in the pool out back. The best quote, though, came from the dude next door, who would routinely go to sleep with the TV on to drown out the din: “Once in a while it sounds like a raccoon dying,” he said.
But long as the Denver orgy-master can prove he’s not skimming revenue off the fetishist gatherings, keep genitalia out of the public eye, and limit the audio disturbances as much as possible, Thunderstorm Play Palace — his kind of weird name for it — may be untouchable. If you gripe about the noise of anyone else’s sex, you suck, and there are, to my knowledge, no laws forbidding a vocal session in the sack. The issue here, as I see it, is that wealthy folks assume they’re entitled to the peace and quiet that is denied to us poors in thin-walled urban apartments, who accept regular symphonies of humps and squeals on all sides and overhead as a matter of course. Guess what: you’re not. Either make another billion dollars and buy your own island or start having some loud sex yourself, assuming anyone’s interested in a wet blanket with your negative attitude!
Oh, and since the moral panic crew in Colorado was lame enough to age-shame the elders showing up for a night of adult frivolity, I’d like to point out that for the most part, these affairs are for nice old nudists. In the 1990s, Orange County snobs went to war against a 71-year-old retiree who became an orgy host following the loss of his wife of 20 years to cancer. He liked to get his freak on, to be sure, but touted the eclectic community he’d built, saying they made great food, performed karaoke together, and sometimes just talked. He remembered the oldest attendee being a woman of 84. And when a neighbor did call him up to gripe, he was gracious enough to invite them over to join the festivities. That sounds like a mighty fine fellow to share a street with, doesn’t it?
I believe it’s no more than monogamist guilt that motivates these sex-party showdowns, where nosy cranks target wholesome people for a single crime: not concealing the nature of their leisure with a level of secrecy befitting the CIA. If you really object to a lifestyle because it’s slightly outside the mainstream — which is to say because you’re still afraid your parents might ground you for even thinking about it — shutting down your neighbor’s fun isn’t a solution, and it won’t provide closure.
Relax, man. Take a Klonopin. Take a long bath. Watch some porn. Or buy a telescope, pick out a solid vantage point, and start peeping on the merrymakers. I’m sure they’re into that, too.
Miles Klee
Miles Klee is MEL’s resident tank-top dirtbag, shitposter and meme expert. He’s also the author of the novel ‘Ivyland’ and a story collection, ‘True False.’
