From my perspective, walking through a space filled with naked or partially nude bodies—simply existing, unselfconsciously—creates a sense of equality. Being surrounded by a variety of bodies, all held under an erotic lens without the pressure of performance, makes everything feel more grounded. It’s like that advice to picture everyone naked before giving a presentation—but in this case, you’re actually naked and part of the crowd. And somehow, everything feels much calmer.
On this particular evening, I stepped into a dark, winding space filled with leather-bound benches, chaises, swings, and beds tucked into clandestine corners. People gathered to watch scenes play out while others stood in open areas sipping water, complimenting each other’s outfits (or lack thereof), and catching up like it had been too long. I felt my body move without restriction, serene and open with only stringy pieces holding together any modesty. The space was filled with guttural sounds, soft moans, and that familiar vibrator purr. People moved around each other with grace—smiling, biting lips, making an effort to be both conscientious and deeply sexy. And every part of me felt in a kind of meditative calm—equipped with my sex party essentials bag and the steadiness that comes from knowing myself, what I’m into, and how my body likes to feel pleasure.
Even under the gaze of others, bent like a pretzel in a vulnerable, receiving position, I’m so at home in my skin at a sex party. There’s a quiet confidence that comes when I step in, feel present in my own pleasure and limits, and leave knowing I’ve navigated sexual boundaries with others. Self-doubt, who?
Caressa Chester, a therapist at The Expansive Group, says that sex parties might just be an ideal environment for retraining your brain: “Within the safety of sex-positive spaces, there is an opportunity to transgress the internal narratives that our shame holds onto, and center one’s voice and capacity for pleasure instead.”
Outside the confines of a sex party, a tragically timed fluorescent light or an upward side-angle selfie can still threaten the delicate peace I have with my body. The separation between my peace and my trauma is paper-thin. Sometimes it rips.
When it does, I fill the space with deep breathing, with the reminder that this moment is better than the days of counting the calories of turkey-and-cheese no-carb roll-ups. So I take mirror selfies. I believe in nude photos. I keep a hot little private camera roll album of myself that I cherish. Because I like the way my waist glides into my belly and how that belly hangs low over the tops of my thighs when I sit. I am soft. I feel like butter. This practice of seeing myself just as I am allows my brain to really recognize my body—to expose myself to myself. So when that internalized, shamey voice creeps in, I can hear them, acknowledge, and let them go.