They always kept the most amount of jewelry on when naked, were mostly a good-looking group but usually very vanilla in their sex, and were not, it seemed, into sex as much as money, the new artwork on their walls, and what you thought of the quality of their grass and coke.

Surprisingly terrific sex and surprising lousy food. Lots of tall thin Protestants who delighted in being kinky, apparently not in spite of shame but as a privilege of their class. They were sort of like us hippies but with more attitude and less innocence.

Early on I got tired of the Lipton onion dip. The Kinky Blue Bloods, I think, saw their evenings as either sex or food and never saw, as Jews and Blacks and Italians did, that both could coexist.

And the very cream of the scene...

Whatever prejudice I had towards Blacks turned mostly positive after I started going to their orgies. The most deciding factor is that these orgies had the hottest women—all shades but mostly white, and including some of their working girls who, pro bono, would come and go in gently changing shifts. This was a thrill in itself, like getting the keys to the candy store.

The guys were macho and this attracted submissives. There were lots of Black tough guys, a smattering of some Italian business associates, “wise guys” with a taste for melanzane (for some reason Italians either love Blacks or hate them; I don’t think they can be neutral).

I got invited to my first orgy with this group because a female friend of mine, a lovely slender doe-eyed vixen of a Jewish girl, a bit pushy but quite sexy, was the Main Sqeeze of Bob, the pimp, dealer, party giver. I was reinvited because Bob liked fucking Andrea who especially liked fucking him.

These Black outlaw parties, and I bet I went to at least seventy-five at three different locations, mostly in Brooklyn’s Park Slope, featured the wildest sex including a little bondage and very mild S&M. Whatever hard S&M some of the participants privately indulged in they only ever revealed their PG-13 versions in public. But this meant that there were a lot of submissives in the room, which suited me.

Delicate sauces, gorgeous presentations, the finest china... incredible feasts of lobster, shrimp, crudité, homemade fried chicken, prime rib and takeout French cuisine... the food served at these bacchanals is worthy of a chapter in itself.

More intense than the joy of innocence, stronger than the erotic energy derived from guilt, more powerful than the erotic power of class privilege, is the gusto of pure, knowing, shove-it-in-your-face hedonism from those who live 24/7 outside the law.

 The food served at these bacchanals is worthy of a chapter in itself! Incredible feasts! Not just the gourmand-inspired huge deli trays of the white middle-class but spectacular gastronomic festivals of lobster, shrimp, crudité, homemade fried chicken cooked in bacon grease, prime rib, and expensive takeout French and Northern Italian cuisine. Delicate sauces, gorgeous presentations, the finest china, crystal, silver, and even gold ware!

Not one piece was ever missing I’m sure. There’s a sign in a martial arts store in Soho, London, one of my favorite signs in the world, that says “We Dare You To Shoplift.” No such unsubtle reminder was needed here.

Sometimes, if fewer than the normal 30 people were invited and there was enough room around the dining room table, we ate before the orgy and had a chance to show off our clothes and wit. More often we ate in organic shifts, a few hours into the orgy. Couples and groups would gravitate between fuckings toward the huge dining room and the food.

The conversations, clothed or unclothed, were no different from any group of hip twenty-somethings having a private dinner in the back room of a restaurant. Sports, movies, books, TV, or something that you read about in the papers. Rarely something sexual. Lots of laughing and lightness and a place to show off my sense of humor.          

Naturally, drug dealer orgies always featured vast supplies of the best-quality drugs.

Plus Bob often peppered his parties with delightfully sleazy, swinging Eurotrash he and his Jewish girlfriend would meet during their frequent two-week binges blowing money in Europe. I’d get to fuck fast-talking, animated, dark-haired, skinny little Italian girls who would shout in melodic Italian when they came or tall Scandinavians, the kind that darker Jewish boys are genetically encoded to lust after, the girls of Aryan propaganda, the kind Hitler wanted for breeding stock.

I once fucked this ravishing Czechoslovakian TV star at one of Bob’s parties who was so wild that while coming she bit the foot of the girl next to her who just happened to be my girlfriend Andrea.

All the Blacks who were into orgies, both the middle-class with just the fried chicken and deli platters and the dealers and/ or pimps with the more lavish spreads, always had the right music.

I love the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin and the Kinks and Jeff Beck and ZZ Top and you can fuck to these white boys, especially if you are into quickies but they just don’t work at an all-night orgy when slow and long is the name of the game.

There was hardly a Black-sponsored orgy without the right groove for sex and while my own record collection has always been mostly white and predominantly English there is absolutely no music that befits humping sweaty getting down and dirty carnality like Isaac Hayes, Sly and the Family Stone, James Brown, Otis Redding, Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, Curtis Mayfield, Barry White, Brook Benton, The Spinners, Lou Rawls, Eddie Kendricks, David Ruffin, and the Godfather of Orgy Music—Marvin Gaye, whose “What’s Goin’ On,” “Mercy Mercy Me,” and “Inner City Blues-Makes Me Wanna Holler” so permeated my brain after hearing them during several hundred fucks with a couple hundred women that even today, nearly thirty years later, every time I hear these Marvin Gaye songs, they set off an electro-biochemical chain reaction way back in my dorsal cerebellum where an entire wing of retired neurons and worn-out dendrites are awakened and triggered by this funkitude and line up to create a frail herd of synapses—and I feel if not a twinge then at least a pang of a twinge of the ghost of hard-ons past.