Local Gang Bang

Local Gang Bang
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What she wanted pushed the limits of our boundaries—and my ego.
Millennials, so we’re told, value experiences over things. One year, the experience my millennial girlfriend wanted was a gangbang: Being at the center of a hand-selected crew of hot, fit guys was how she wanted to ring in her 33rd year. And while it would mean challenging my ego to its very limits, I don't mind telling you that I was as turned on by the idea as she was.
I should mention that this request didn’t come out of the clear blue sky. In the eight months since we met, Alex and I had been getting up to all kinds of no good. A threesome here, a sex party there. But a gangbang—in which one person is the focus of sexual behavior with several people—was for sure a leveling up for us. We were also about to discover that staging one required an amount of forethought and planning that’s rarely alluded to in porn.
The first thing we had to figure out was the number and identity of the participants. Having a six-pack counted for a lot in Alex’s book, though not nearly as much as being respectful, safe, and onboard with her pre-defined boundaries. Luckily, a month or two prior, she and I had attended a sex party where Alex had identified several guys who seemed like they would fit the bill. It was my job as the gangbang organizer to do some Facebook sleuthing and create a list of potential invitees for Alex to choose from.
Though she decided that five guys would be an ideal number, I’d read that even experienced gangbang goers are prone to dropping out at the last minute and that it was wise to overbook. With that in mind, I sent out invites to Alex’s six top draft picks, assuming that two or three might bail. Once I got the enthusiastic responses from the prospective participants, Alex told me all of her boundaries, which I then relayed to the gang in an email.
The next step was to secure a venue. While we could have done it at either of our apartments, we agreed that the event warranted something bigger and more luxurious. We opted for a boutique Brooklyn hotel with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping view of the Manhattan skyline. With the date, venue and participants set, all we had to do was wait for the big day to roll around. We talked about it quite a bit over the next few weeks, discussing logistics when we were clothed, and vocalizing what it might be like during some particularly dirty sessions.
Three days ahead of the party, I sent out an email divulging the location, time, and what people should bring—a towel to shower before and after the event, their choice of condom, lube, or beverage. It also included a reminder of how Alex wanted the event to unfold, and the general vibe she wanted to foster.
Not long after I sent the message, I got a reply from an invitee telling me that he wouldn’t be able to make it, followed by another cancellation the following day. Though Alex took it in stride and reminded me that we’d planned for this very scenario, I started to worry about more people might drop out and Alex’s birthday celebration not living up to her expectations.
On the big day, we checked into the hotel, then headed out to acquire some essential gangbang birthday party supplies—including plastic cups, cupcakes, cut fruit, tequila, beer, and Vitaminwater because, y’know, electrolytes. While Alex got ready, I made some last minute additions to the party playlist, futzed with the lighting, and strategically placed condoms, lube, wipes, and black latex gloves around the room so that they are in easy reach for everyone.
With an hour to kill, Alex fessed up to feeling a little nervous at the idea of having sex with a carload of guys, two of whom she'd never met. Over tumblers of tequila on the rocks, I told her that I’d be with her every step of the way, though I couldn’t deny I had butterflies about the whole thing myself. This was performance anxiety on a whole new level, particularly as I’d seen some of these dudes in action and—on various levels—they were all impressive.
Now, this probably goes without saying, but if you're the jealous type, being asked by your girlfriend to corral some hot guys to simultaneously fill her every body cavity is something of a tall order, birthday or not. I know this because, until I got to my 30s and acquired some experience with polyamory, sex parties, and the like, a request like this would have made my head explode. It took a while, but I eventually chose to relinquish feelings of insecurity and have since gained an ability to celebrate and even help realize my partners' fantasies. And then I made it my specialty—my superpower.
At the appointed time, I got a text confirming that all four guys were in the lobby. I gave Alex a hug and went down to collect the respectfully punctual quartet. The five of us entered the room and found Alex looking small on the white expanse of the king-sized bed, wearing nothing but a rose-pink hooded sweatshirt. Everyone gave Alex a hug and wished her a happy birthday. We broadly chatted about what was about to happen over drinks. Then, one of the guys suggested we get things underway with an eight-hand massage.
“Oh my god, this is amazing!” said Alex with a wicked laugh, and from that point on, I was confident that the night would go smoothly. Indeed it did. Many of the highlights are a little too choice to detail here, but the big-picture view is that we went down the list of physically possible combinations—and the birthday girl’s expectations were exceeded.
After ninety minutes of sex and an hour of hanging out to chat—and yes, rinse off—the boys said their goodbyes and I got to spend some time snuggling with my girl. We left deconstructing the evening for a future time, and sat with the fact that we’d actually pulled off the X-rated get together she’d been dreaming of.

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