It’s almost time for the Eurovision Song Contest. That point in the year where every country in Europe dusts off their flags and their uplifting late-90s EDM tracks and competes to see who can vote the most politically. But sadly, the road to Eurovision doesn’t hold the same uniting, Brexit-defying thrill for me as it 100 percent definitely does for you. Why? Because I ruined it for myself that time I went to a Eurovision-themed sex party.
It was, of course, a gay sex party. To reiterate: Eurovision themed. The theme was Eurovision. You wouldn’t think you’d need a theme to put your cock in an arsehole, but you’d be wrong. You don’t know gay men at all.
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It was a friend of a friend who asked me on Grindr if I wanted to go, and focusing on the “sex party” element, it was me who said: “Yes.” You’re thinking of a dark, squalid nightclub. Forget that. This was a cheery, wholesome, naked party, conducted with the lights on in someone’s actual home.
“Naked parties” are like polite networking drinks, except everyone’s naked. There’s something curiously charming about a room full of people shaking hands and chatting about work, all bollock naked, glad-handing for a good couple of hours until someone breaks character and starts sucking someone off. It’s at that point that everyone drops the conversation about house prices and gets steadily to it. The tone remains upbeat, though. Cheery. Laissez faire. Big bowl of condoms in the kitchen. Think of it like a nod-nod, wink-wink, Carry On movie type thing, but with way more actual rimming.
I made several assumptions on being invited to a Eurovision-themed sex party. My expectation: just as the contest had united the countries of a war-torn Europe, it would unite 30 odd gay men who wanted to watch each other bone to the latest pop hits from second-world nations. Sexy, inclusive, uniting. The music was not a concern: I do not like Eurovision, at all, but I was willing to endure it because I like having sex with men.
I was last to arrive – it is not possible, I discovered, to be fashionably late to a fuck party – and everyone was already gathered in front of the TV. As is sex party etiquette, I was told to go strip to my underwear upstairs. So I got in my pants and went out to join the crowd that would presumably be, in tribute to Eurovision, a glorious cross section of multiculturalism. Nope: 30 white guys in their pants, none of them pretending that they weren’t weighing up all of my bodily imperfections. It must be said, when faced with that many guys you may be having sex with later, entering late and picking where to sit is pretty awkward. But I spotted a guy I kind of knew – or, at least, had sucked off a couple of times – and nestled in next to him.
Eurovision was starting, and the host told us the rules. The rules. Nothing quite gets the juices going like a rigorously enforced and laminated list of regulations. We would each be assigned a country, the rules stated, and when our country performed, we would take our underwear off in front of everyone. I was Ireland, which made me nervous in case the hosts had plans for the winner, but by the time the winner was crowned we’d all be in the shameless post-coital glow by then. Right?
It occurred to me, as each guy whipped off his underwear every 10 minutes as his country performed – each like a Bucks-Fizz era Cheryl Baker – that this little game would only work if we were watching every performance. We weren’t watching every performance, were we? Were we? Then the nightmare dawned on me: I was in a room with 30 guys who wanted to have group sex, but not until we had watched every song of the Eurovision Song Contest.
So as the TV began its musical war of attrition, the pants came off. Everyone checked each other out, made eyes, winked. For three hours. Of Eurovision. If this was what I wanted, I could’ve gone to literally any club in Soho. I’d be on about blowjob number three and I wouldn’t be stuck in Zone 4.
This wasn’t a Eurovision-themed sex party. This was Eurovision, followed by a sex party. Huge difference.
Finally, the singing section was finished, and everyone was naked. Now to fu— ah, no. Just as the voting started, somebody shushed us. Process this: somebody looked upon the crowd of naked boys, all ready to fuck, all in one living room… and shushed them. The awful truth: this wasn’t a Eurovision-themed sex party. This was Eurovision, followed by a sex party. Huge difference.
Looking at hot naked bodies for too long is a mistake – abs become abstract, and those early, thrilling impulses go away, until you’re thinking, ‘What am I supposed to want to do with this body? Lick it? Sketch it? Make stock out of it?’ It’s strange. It’s like saying a word so many times in a row that it loses all meaning, all shape: penis. Penis. Penis. Penis penis penis. Penis. Peen. Peenie. Peen-thing.
It’s not for me to question the logistical decisions of a sex party organiser, but the hosts decided the best thing for a group of men who had spent four chaste hours in each other’s naked company was to turn off the Eurovision Song Contest and play icebreaker games. We were going to get into teams to play a game where we had to pass a balloon between our knees down a line, while still harrowingly undressed and un-fucked. This involved the single most upsetting thing I have ever witnessed: the humiliating cliche of an un-athletic guy being picked last for teams, only he was entirely naked, somehow more fragile, more vulnerable. Even thinking about his expression now makes me want to chop my cock off.
I absent-mindedly let one guy rim me on the sofa, put my clothes back on, and went home.
The game was like a Viagra antidote – I don’t have a type, per se, but it is not a chuckling, embarrassed, crouching nude trying to pass me a balloon from between his knees. Once the games were over, the shellshocked participants were meant – finally – to bang each other, but my buzz had long gone. I absent-mindedly let one guy rim me on the sofa, put my clothes back on and went home.
The moral of the story is this: group sex is fun, if you’re up for it. Eurovision is not fun. If there’s one thing that Eurovision doesn’t need, it’s 30 floppy cocks in your peripheral vision getting ever more abstract. And an orgy does not need any power ballads about unity. If you’re invited to a Eurovision party this weekend, make sure it’s actually a Eurovision party. If you’re invited to a sex party this weekend, make sure it’s Eurovision-free. Don’t confuse the two.
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