The Day I Went to an Orgy in My Mom Jeans

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Two years after leaving a 20-year marriage, I’ve finally agreed to socialize with people who identify as males and were born with the corresponding genitalia. I hope that doesn’t narrow the field too much for me.

Lucky for me, I have a friend who knows a friend who knows people with penises.

She coordinates my induction ceremony by inviting me to a Saturday afternoon mixer at Bagatelle in New York City’s Meat Packing District. We arrive fashionably late to our quaint little brunch spot and are immediately interceded by a Bagatelle bouncer. This is my first indication that my friend has led me unwittingly to the gates of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Talk about getting your cherry popped.   Curtains are drawn, music is blaring, and an effervescent darkness ensues. We’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of beautiful, bouncing millenials encircled by tables of wealthy partiers ordering bottle service to entice the boisterous crowds to dance on tables and chairs in their roped-off corners.

I try to inconspicuously pull the scrunchie out of my hair and shove it into my GAP shopping bag before making my way to the six Marine Harrier Jet pilots celebrating a comrade’s bachelor party. (Coincidentally, they all have penises. I can tell from across the room.)

As I’m temporarily distracted by a Bon Jovi look-a-like holding an electric guitar while delivering a bottle of Cristal as he sits atop the shoulders of a neon-lit fur character who parts the seas of paganism with the flames of live sparklers, I turn to find that my friend has already hooked up with a pilot.

I am officially alone at a borderline orgy…in my mom jeans.

Fortunately, my own mom blessed me with straight, white horse teeth that I’m pretty sure are glowing an attractive radioactive purple in the UV lighting. So at least I’m approachable.

Before I know it, I’m engaged in a conversation with the opposite sex, learning all sorts of new trivia. Did you know that there’s a lot more to “rimming” than putting salt on a margarita glass?   Really? Did he not see the mom jeans?

My girlfriend now has officially left the building. Time to pull up my big girl panties, but, Lord, I wish I had the foresight to wear a thong. Sharks are circling, and I’m both flattered and terrified.

A carefully coifed lawyer buys me a drink. Upon careful inspection, I notice his perfectly ironed shirt, cleanly shaven face, and the perched pinkie on his glass of rosé. My inner voice has sounded off the code-red, high-alert siren. Either this guy is a homosexual or his lubricant of preference is hand sanitizer. Neither interests me at the moment.

Next, an Australian pilot who just flew in from Sydney announces his arrival at the party by slapping my “arse.” (Maybe these fucking mom-jeans aren’t so bad after all.) “Just a tap, Mate.” But the stinging handprint on my left butt cheek says otherwise, and I start looking around for an ice bucket to sit in.

Soon enough, I come across the realization that there’s simply not enough vodka in the world to help me digest this sensory overload and culture shock. I quickly gather my shopping bags and escape the surrealistic bedlam.

I step outside onto the cobblestone streets, and I’m not quite sure if it’s the bright sunlight or the magnetic allure of pelvic sorcery that has my head spinning. And although Adventures in Penis Land have concluded for the day, I’m pleased that I stood tall enough to ride that ride, and may even cue the line again soon. Just give me a chance to change my jeans.

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