Romance comes in all forms, and our polyamorous writer Alicia Morgan has tried many of them on — sometimes, all in the same evening. In honor of Valentine's Day and our 29 Days Great Sex, we asked her to catalog everything she's ever considered wearing to a sex party.
A black and tan string thong; a full-length, backless Reformation dress, and leather Miista shoes with lucite heels and an ankle strap.
This is my first sex party ever, and I have no clue what to wear. The invitation says “upscale attire to start. Inside the suite, nakedness and sexy variations thereof are highly encouraged. The dress code is strictly enforced.” But that still leaves many questions: Do I wear a black-tie gown to start? Or just a cocktail dress? A sexy cocktail dress? When and how do I strip down? What does “sexy variations” mean? When we get to the party and I see the ornate and expensive lingerie on display, I realize I am much too simple. When I finally take my gown off after 2 a.m., a man looks at me and says, “It’s about time!” I keep my heels on. The floor is covered in spilled cocktails and who knows what else. We engage in a short threesome with a blond girl. My thong ends up draped over one leg when I am done having sex with my partner in the corner by the fireplace. Cotton granny panties.
My partner and I get into a debate wherein I posit that what lingerie you wear to a sex party matters a lot, and he says it doesn’t matter at all. I threaten to wear granny panties and no makeup to the next one to prove that no guy will hit on me. A white lace thong and demi-cup bra from Agent Provocateur underneath a see-through, nude-and-white embroidered cocktail dress — and gold glitter pumps.
I do not follow through with my threat. I’m not a masochist. Cognizant of the thousands of dollars of lingerie I saw at the last party, instead I opt to wear the most expensive lingerie I own. I take my cocktail dress off almost immediately upon arrival. The guy I made out with at the last party looks at me appreciatively and says, “Nice,” in front of his fiancé. But looking around, I feel as though I look too much like a bride on her wedding night. I feel adorable and naïve, instead of sexy. I resolve to wear something elaborate and black the next time. My partner and I hook up with each other, but no one else.
This is my first sex party ever, and I have no clue what to wear. The invitation says “upscale attire to start. Inside the suite, nakedness and sexy variations thereof are highly encouraged. The dress code is strictly enforced.” But that still leaves many questions: Do I wear a black-tie gown to start? Or just a cocktail dress? A sexy cocktail dress? When and how do I strip down? What does “sexy variations” mean? When we get to the party and I see the ornate and expensive lingerie on display, I realize I am much too simple. When I finally take my gown off after 2 a.m., a man looks at me and says, “It’s about time!” I keep my heels on. The floor is covered in spilled cocktails and who knows what else. We engage in a short threesome with a blond girl. My thong ends up draped over one leg when I am done having sex with my partner in the corner by the fireplace. Cotton granny panties.
My partner and I get into a debate wherein I posit that what lingerie you wear to a sex party matters a lot, and he says it doesn’t matter at all. I threaten to wear granny panties and no makeup to the next one to prove that no guy will hit on me. A white lace thong and demi-cup bra from Agent Provocateur underneath a see-through, nude-and-white embroidered cocktail dress — and gold glitter pumps.
I do not follow through with my threat. I’m not a masochist. Cognizant of the thousands of dollars of lingerie I saw at the last party, instead I opt to wear the most expensive lingerie I own. I take my cocktail dress off almost immediately upon arrival. The guy I made out with at the last party looks at me appreciatively and says, “Nice,” in front of his fiancé. But looking around, I feel as though I look too much like a bride on her wedding night. I feel adorable and naïve, instead of sexy. I resolve to wear something elaborate and black the next time. My partner and I hook up with each other, but no one else.
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Hanky Panky After Midnight black crotchless panties and bra that unties over the nipples; matching garter with thigh-high stockings; a vintage, see-through mesh full-length dress, and black suede pumps.
This is the ideal situation for crotchless panties, allowing me to play without having to disassemble my outfit at all. Our girlfriend, who we are bringing to the party for the first time, wears a lace bodysuit with a peek-a-boo cutout over her beautiful butt. She bought it out of the window of Journelle, spending more than she can afford. Taking it in at our apartment before we take a cab to the hotel, we all decide it was worth it. After we take our dresses off after midnight, one man tells her she has “the ass of the party.” The peek-a-boo butt allows us easy access, so I sneak up behind her and finger her while she is having a conversation with a man on the dance floor. The man is confused by her moaning in the middle of the conversation, and when he discovers the cause, quickly whisks her away to a bedroom with his date. I decide that I want a bodysuit, too.
This is the ideal situation for crotchless panties, allowing me to play without having to disassemble my outfit at all. Our girlfriend, who we are bringing to the party for the first time, wears a lace bodysuit with a peek-a-boo cutout over her beautiful butt. She bought it out of the window of Journelle, spending more than she can afford. Taking it in at our apartment before we take a cab to the hotel, we all decide it was worth it. After we take our dresses off after midnight, one man tells her she has “the ass of the party.” The peek-a-boo butt allows us easy access, so I sneak up behind her and finger her while she is having a conversation with a man on the dance floor. The man is confused by her moaning in the middle of the conversation, and when he discovers the cause, quickly whisks her away to a bedroom with his date. I decide that I want a bodysuit, too.
A black mesh, drape-front, thong bodysuit with a snap crotch.
My partner bought this for me for my birthday more than year ago and loves me in it. He keeps suggesting I wear it to a party, but I hate the way I look in it. I think it makes my boobs (what I consider my best asset) look droopy, and my butt shaped weird. Instead, I wear… A white-and-gold chemise, the white Agent Provocateur thong, and the gold heels.
I know this isn’t the sexiest outfit, ever (empire waists never are), but I’m running out of options and don’t want to spend more money. I leave the party feeling like a failure — we didn’t make any new connections, just watched other people have sex in fantastic configurations of four or more. I know I should come to these parties without expectations, but I feel the way I did in middle school, when the popular kids were laughing loudly at their lunch table while I read a book and pretended not to care. I wonder what I’m doing wrong. Hanky Panky After Midnight black crotchless panties and bra that unties over the nipples; matching garter with thigh-high stockings, and black suede pumps.
Since we are attending another sex party thrown by different organizers, I repeat my outfit. And our girlfriend also repeats her outfit, wearing the same bodysuit she wore earlier. We don’t make any new connections. At the end of the party, I end up taking a nap downstairs while we wait for our girlfriend to finish up with a dude. I’m not sure I want to attend sex parties anymore. Nothing.
Our girlfriend attends a sexy party without us, sparking jealousy, a huge fight, and a breakup. A leather harness with gold hardware that snaps around the waist and neck over a black beaded gown, Land of Women high-waisted black mesh panties, and Miista heels.
Our ex-girlfriend, with whom we have reconciled and are now (mostly) platonic friends, watches me try on the harness and helps me pick out the panties to go with it. She is not coming to this sex party, since we have decided to keep the peace by divvying events between us. I work the bar for the first two hours of the party, and flirt shamelessly with the other bartenders and cute men who come to get drinks. I feel gorgeous and classy. Once my shift is over, I take the dress off. The harness, which frames my breasts, is a success. One couple chases me down and asks me to join them, but I decline — my partner would need to be involved, and the woman is not his type. A man I’ve had a crush on yelps, “Boobies!” when he sees me coming down the hall. I decide I don’t want to hook up with him after all. At the end of the party, my partner and I have yet to make a connection. We turn down a few, and get turned down. I end up lounging on the sheepskin rugs by the fireplace with my partner, looking up at the perfect butt of a model-like woman wearing an elaborate strappy, black and tan assemblage by Agent Provocateur. I have that feeling you get when you hate-like a fashion blogger’s perfect Instagram. I want to look like her, even though we are built completely differently.
My partner bought this for me for my birthday more than year ago and loves me in it. He keeps suggesting I wear it to a party, but I hate the way I look in it. I think it makes my boobs (what I consider my best asset) look droopy, and my butt shaped weird. Instead, I wear… A white-and-gold chemise, the white Agent Provocateur thong, and the gold heels.
I know this isn’t the sexiest outfit, ever (empire waists never are), but I’m running out of options and don’t want to spend more money. I leave the party feeling like a failure — we didn’t make any new connections, just watched other people have sex in fantastic configurations of four or more. I know I should come to these parties without expectations, but I feel the way I did in middle school, when the popular kids were laughing loudly at their lunch table while I read a book and pretended not to care. I wonder what I’m doing wrong. Hanky Panky After Midnight black crotchless panties and bra that unties over the nipples; matching garter with thigh-high stockings, and black suede pumps.
Since we are attending another sex party thrown by different organizers, I repeat my outfit. And our girlfriend also repeats her outfit, wearing the same bodysuit she wore earlier. We don’t make any new connections. At the end of the party, I end up taking a nap downstairs while we wait for our girlfriend to finish up with a dude. I’m not sure I want to attend sex parties anymore. Nothing.
Our girlfriend attends a sexy party without us, sparking jealousy, a huge fight, and a breakup. A leather harness with gold hardware that snaps around the waist and neck over a black beaded gown, Land of Women high-waisted black mesh panties, and Miista heels.
Our ex-girlfriend, with whom we have reconciled and are now (mostly) platonic friends, watches me try on the harness and helps me pick out the panties to go with it. She is not coming to this sex party, since we have decided to keep the peace by divvying events between us. I work the bar for the first two hours of the party, and flirt shamelessly with the other bartenders and cute men who come to get drinks. I feel gorgeous and classy. Once my shift is over, I take the dress off. The harness, which frames my breasts, is a success. One couple chases me down and asks me to join them, but I decline — my partner would need to be involved, and the woman is not his type. A man I’ve had a crush on yelps, “Boobies!” when he sees me coming down the hall. I decide I don’t want to hook up with him after all. At the end of the party, my partner and I have yet to make a connection. We turn down a few, and get turned down. I end up lounging on the sheepskin rugs by the fireplace with my partner, looking up at the perfect butt of a model-like woman wearing an elaborate strappy, black and tan assemblage by Agent Provocateur. I have that feeling you get when you hate-like a fashion blogger’s perfect Instagram. I want to look like her, even though we are built completely differently.
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An $800 Agent Provocateur outfit.
I ask my partner to buy me something from Agent Provocateur for my birthday, and he balks, saying he doesn’t want to buy something for me if someone else might get to fuck me in it at a sex party. And also, he can’t afford it. But I want that outfit. I want to walk into a sex party armored in $800 of perfectly positioned straps and lace. I want to look both fuckable and unattainable. That strappy ensemble represents my body insecurities, his insecurities about his salary, and our negotiations about what is allowed and what is not in our open relationship. We compromise by going shopping at Brooklyn Fox. I try on bodysuits, but I don’t like any of them, so he buys me a satin tank and panties for me to wear at the apartment for him. At Shag, a sex toy shop nearby, I buy a glass butt plug with a white fox tail. Nothing.
For the next sex party, I am out of town. I allow my partner to go since he has been invited to DJ. He finds a connection there, and has a great time. Oddly, I’m happy for him, and kind of relieved that I didn’t have to go. I muse about the fact that I actually don’t like my butt, and I wish that a sex party — the one place where I feel most self-conscious and socially awkward, where the stakes are so high and at the end I always feel as though I have been weighed and measured and found lacking — didn’t require me to show my butt off. My partner is appalled; he thinks my butt is beautiful. We go back and forth, and finally I say that I will give the party one more try. The key, I am told by my friend the professional dominatrix, is to go without expectations and just relax and have a good time. I suspect the key might be to wear gorgeous lingerie so I feel like a sexy boss bitch. Black lace halter bra, thong, and garter belt by Mimi Holliday; thigh-high Wolford stockings; polka-dot lace mouse ears; a leather collar with a gold ring by Theresa Dapra; suede kitten heel pumps, and a glass butt plug with a long, white fox tail.
I march into Journelle the week before the party and ask for a butt-plug-compatible set of black lace lingerie. The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eyelash, and I walk out 30 minutes later with almost $400 worth of diaphanous underthings that expertly cage my curves. At the party, my outfit is a smash. Giggling women ask to stroke my tail. Men compliment me on my ears. The model-like woman from the last party is there, and her partner pulls me over to tell me how good I look. I feel sexy, cute, and beautiful all at the same time as I bounce around the dance floor wiggling my tail. And I do relax. I dance and talk with friends and couples, but I don’t worry about the end goal. I turn down connections with couples and singles I’m not so into. I’m worth more than that. Finally, near the end of the night, we abscond to a bedroom with a cute couple. I can’t find my lace mouse ears when we finish, but I don’t care. As we gather our things to leave the hotel, my partner asks me if I had a good time. “I did,” I say. “Would you go to another one?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. But secretly, I’m wondering if I can afford it — now that I’ve experienced the power of luxury lingerie and well-crafted, sexy accessories , I don’t ever want to go back to the down-market stuff. At least, not when it comes to sex parties.
I ask my partner to buy me something from Agent Provocateur for my birthday, and he balks, saying he doesn’t want to buy something for me if someone else might get to fuck me in it at a sex party. And also, he can’t afford it. But I want that outfit. I want to walk into a sex party armored in $800 of perfectly positioned straps and lace. I want to look both fuckable and unattainable. That strappy ensemble represents my body insecurities, his insecurities about his salary, and our negotiations about what is allowed and what is not in our open relationship. We compromise by going shopping at Brooklyn Fox. I try on bodysuits, but I don’t like any of them, so he buys me a satin tank and panties for me to wear at the apartment for him. At Shag, a sex toy shop nearby, I buy a glass butt plug with a white fox tail. Nothing.
For the next sex party, I am out of town. I allow my partner to go since he has been invited to DJ. He finds a connection there, and has a great time. Oddly, I’m happy for him, and kind of relieved that I didn’t have to go. I muse about the fact that I actually don’t like my butt, and I wish that a sex party — the one place where I feel most self-conscious and socially awkward, where the stakes are so high and at the end I always feel as though I have been weighed and measured and found lacking — didn’t require me to show my butt off. My partner is appalled; he thinks my butt is beautiful. We go back and forth, and finally I say that I will give the party one more try. The key, I am told by my friend the professional dominatrix, is to go without expectations and just relax and have a good time. I suspect the key might be to wear gorgeous lingerie so I feel like a sexy boss bitch. Black lace halter bra, thong, and garter belt by Mimi Holliday; thigh-high Wolford stockings; polka-dot lace mouse ears; a leather collar with a gold ring by Theresa Dapra; suede kitten heel pumps, and a glass butt plug with a long, white fox tail.
I march into Journelle the week before the party and ask for a butt-plug-compatible set of black lace lingerie. The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eyelash, and I walk out 30 minutes later with almost $400 worth of diaphanous underthings that expertly cage my curves. At the party, my outfit is a smash. Giggling women ask to stroke my tail. Men compliment me on my ears. The model-like woman from the last party is there, and her partner pulls me over to tell me how good I look. I feel sexy, cute, and beautiful all at the same time as I bounce around the dance floor wiggling my tail. And I do relax. I dance and talk with friends and couples, but I don’t worry about the end goal. I turn down connections with couples and singles I’m not so into. I’m worth more than that. Finally, near the end of the night, we abscond to a bedroom with a cute couple. I can’t find my lace mouse ears when we finish, but I don’t care. As we gather our things to leave the hotel, my partner asks me if I had a good time. “I did,” I say. “Would you go to another one?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. But secretly, I’m wondering if I can afford it — now that I’ve experienced the power of luxury lingerie and well-crafted, sexy accessories , I don’t ever want to go back to the down-market stuff. At least, not when it comes to sex parties.
This month, we're sharing steamy personal stories, exploring ways to have even better sex, and wading through the complicated dynamics that follow us into the bedroom. Here's to a very happy February. Check out more right here.