Killing Kittens, the roving, London-based sex party, made its New York debut last weekend, to much media attention. Despite my anxiety, I was drawn to them and kissed them both, but still felt too nervous to do anything but allow the man to gently caress my shoulders, neck and waist. The party itself was hardly a secret. I told him I had no idea if I would play—the word often invoked at the invitation stage—until I got there. I agreed not to share the name of this party. This is the only time someone asks the question asked at all social gatherings in New York: And several men are wandering around alone. Then, all at once, women begin removing their clothes and making out at the bar. He was the Zelig of the party, seemingly having sex on every surface, wherever I turned.
Only a few persistent stragglers remained, including the blond, curly-haired man from before. Here, requests for a cigarette on the smoking porch are heavy on subtext. It was YesMeansYes meets Hedonism 2. There is tremendous attention to detail for each party: There were very few lecherous creeps. I was grateful for the referral, but still had to go through another layer of security: Among the other rules detailed in an email sent to guests: Could I remain totally open to whatever might come up without being in a constant defensive stance? I had recently spent the night with my new guy, and it was just too soon. She pointed to her armband to show me how to identify the roving guardians. Sayle told the Post that a crew of British female bankers from UBS and a slew of models were already confirmed among the 60 vetted guests as of last Tuesday. I agreed not to share the name of this party. We debated whether Killing Kittens welcomes only beautiful, wealthy, sophisticated types. Masks are a requisite, though their main function is to create an environment of intrigue. I could not stop apologizing because in the end, I felt like an unintentional tease. It quickly devolves into a Bacchanalian scene soundtracked by house techno music and women moaning and shrieking at various octaves, like so many feral cats. Zero tolerance for inappropriate behavior, including nonconsensual contact, harming others, and making anyone feel unsafe. Getting in had seemed nearly impossible—until I got in. Not all attendees go through this particular round of vetting, but I aimed to be transparent about being a reporter. This is the only time someone asks the question asked at all social gatherings in New York: Very sexually proficient aristocrats? In general, it seemed that men were there to service women. If you ever feel uncomfortable, find a guardian and ask them for help. Young women and men secure their masks—no mask, no entry—and gulp down champagne while waiting in line to check their coats. Even though I appreciated the rules, with this many levels of screening, I still had no idea what to expect—or what to wear. I turned to smile at her and she grinned back.
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