naked party in the cesspool.

It was the night that drew the line between Libra and Scorpio. October 20th. It was also Saturday on a college campus. Harmony and horniness were inextricably bound, both doomed to be toyed with by wild, intoxicated youths. As the sun set and the prospects of that night danced in their heads, some students may have experienced a vague sense of premonition. It was going to be one of those nights. It was going to be a shitshow. Things would be broken.

The co-op down the street was throwing its annual naked party, a festivity by invitation only. An invitation with cartoons of monsters, some cute, some grotesque, all of them smiling with exposed genitalia. While others scrambled to find someone with an invitation to spare, I received mine with no difficulty. Let’s just say that I’m a pretty good friend to hippies, deviants and dogs.

I was nineteen, a sophomore in college. I had been to two naked parties before, one with all women as part of a female sexuality workshop, and the other in a basement with a pool table, blacklights, several erections and a tub of red wine. But this naked party – this naked party was the real thing. If you were lucky enough to receive an invitation, you bet your ass you’d be there. I was single for the first time in years, had taken my first visit to California over the summer, let loose at a reggae festival...let the liberation come, I thought, all over me!

I arrived at the co-op with a few friends, one of whom hadn’t planned to attend the party. Her name was Jade Paris. She was my first female friend in college and, really, since grade school. My other friends Jacqueline Kennings and Kaden Boyer were also with us. Jacqueline had been fretting for the last 24 hours because she was having her period and didn’t want everyone knowing it. Pubic hair was also a concern. “I’m completely shaved!” she moaned. “Everyone there is gonna look at me like a freak!” I told her to use a tampon, cut off most of the string, and that only freaks lived in the co-op so it didn’t matter. Kaden would only be staying briefly; he had a date with a French boy, Niko Something-or-Other. Kaden had just broken Numero Dos of our illustrious Manifesta only three days earlier. La Manifesta - in reality my creation - clearly stated: “Rule Number Two: No Boyfriends.” And what had Kaden gone and done? Agreed to “being exclusive” with some older pretty boy with an accent who wore his five o’clock shadow like his jeans. Close-cut and stylish. Soon enough I would be spitting at Kaden, “Exclusivity breeds exclusion!” but, for now, like I told Jacqueline, it didn’t matter.

We were getting there early so as to ensure sufficient blood alcohol content for the evening’s festivities.

“You don’t think anyone will be naked yet, do you?” asked Jade.

“Nah…”
“No way…”
“Not yet…”

We tiptoed to the front door through the cans, trash, and tattered couches littering the porch. I went to open the door, but it was locked. I was stunned; the door was never locked. “Just knock,” someone said. Without missing a beat, the barks and squeals of three pitbull mixes sounded. The door swung open, a curtain of beads parted, and there stood our friend Drew Bayne. He was naked. Jade will just have to deal with it, I thought, as I yelled, “Alright!” and slapped Drew’s hand high in the air. “Yeah, people here have been naked all day, man,” he said. We entered the house.

Upon entering the co-op, the stench of stale cigarette smoke, beer, body odor, compost, dirty dishes, dirtiness that has stuck to every surface, every corner for 30 years – all of it assaults you at once. (For me, it’s like a creepy molestation, one that tickles a deep perversion inside of me and so I adore it). There are two sets of stairs, one of which is climb-at-your-own-risk. Someone is always coughing. Paintings, scribbles, poems all over every wall. The word GENDERFUCKED scrawled across a red spray-painted anarchy symbol, for example. Or Uncle Sam farting in the face of America. Or dirty personal ads pasted over cracks in the wall. Saran wrap covering the windows. One of the dogs shits in the “dining room” at least three times a week, more often if its owners are lazy. And they are. Make sure you always check for toilet paper before taking a seat in the bathroom, and never use the shower on the first floor. Not like you’d want to once you saw it.

It was the poorest excuse for a cooperative establishment I’ve ever seen. I mean, the motto of the place is “the ******** Co-Op…where they eat soybeans and fuck like animals.” I can personally attest to both. It was not the kind of place you’d want to come home to. But for a naked party, it was perfect. So long as you wore flip flops.

That night I had chosen my jewelry carefully. With nothing else on, my earrings and necklace were the outfit. Why did it matter? Well, as with any party, there had to be music. And as with any good house party, there had to be a band. Except this was a naked party, and so the band would be naked. And the boy I had been seeing for a little over a month was in that band. The band playing naked. He was the singer. With a guitar. And soft bluegreengray eyes. Adam Brown, a sly, sexy sonuvabitch.

Drew led us up to his room on the second floor. His girlfriend Lily was sitting in bed, nude, with a silver platter balanced on her lap. She was drinking straight out of a bottle of wine. Her eyes shone with excitement as she leapt up to greet all of us. “Aaah!” screamed Drew. “Was there anything on that?” “Relax Drew, don’t be such a fiend,” said Lily, and we all had a good laugh. One by one we began removing our clothes (except Jade). We poured drinks. We cut lines on Lily’s platter (engraved with the title, “My Best Friend” for reasons unknown to all of us, Lily included). We talked about the band. Soon it was ten and we could hear them warming up. It was time to descend.

“You have a great ass,” Lily said to me as I led the group down the stairs, plastic cup held delicately in my left hand. “Thanks!” I replied. Really, I didn’t give a shit what Lily thought of my ass. Or anyone else in the house, with the exception of one. But it was nice of her to say so.

The music began and I was right up front, as usual. Everyone was dancing, cups in the air, beer spilling everywhere. Despite the beer, the room distinctly smelled like vagina. I danced with a few girls, all of us pretending there was an imaginary joint in the room, taking outrageous imaginary hits and passing it along. A tall boy with dirty, blond dreadlocks and a tiny dick hit me in the face with his pink boa. I lit another imaginary joint and gave it to him. In the future, I would share a cat, a house, and a lover with him, although none at the same time.

When the band started playing “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window,” one of the girls I was dancing with grabbed my shoulder and yelled in my ear. “Isn’t Adam your boyfriend?” she asked. I laughed out loud. “Oh god no!” I screamed back. “We’re just fucking!” She howled in response.

The police were outside, being stalled by some half-naked residents. The noise complaint would later reach $1200. At the time, I didn’t give a shit. I thought to myself: I’m naked, and I’m dancing in front of this naked boy who is playing the guitar and singing and looking into my eyes. He likes me. I know he likes me. I am young, and drunk, and I think I’m in love. I am on top of the world.