This is a continuation of a previous post. Read part one here. Sex means something to me—something deep and important and spiritual. And that little fact about myself embarrasses me. It embarrasses me because it furthers the notion that women and their sexualities are innately more complex, that they require emotion and fidelity and intimacy more than their masculine counterparts, that sex with women always needs to come with some kind of a heart and soul commitment. I've met lots of people who express themselves sexually in ways that fly in the face of that traditional understanding about sexuality my last several dates are a testament to this. I've been envious of folks who are able to have sex without meaning, who feel the primal urge of sexual desire in their bodies and have no qualms about scratching that itch with someone they hardly know or have a heart connection with.

We made out for a bit. In the past, play parties have been a stressful place. In short, play parties are like real life — a microcosm of everything that happens in sex, dating, and relationships out there, but at warp speed and on steroids.

Last weekend, in the penthouse of an upscale, downtown hotel, I attended my first sex party. Fair enough, I thought. I was skeptical. How amazing could the participants of a paid orgy really be, even if it was invite-only?