Warning: Explicit Content

In life, you have people that love to party. That’s me. People that love God. That’s me. People that love sex. That’s me. People that love people. That’s me. And people that make mistakes. That’s me also. —R. Kelly

The sexy party you dreamed about is real, but chances are you’re not invited

Update: The response to our application took a bit more than the 48 hours advertised, but late last evening the email finally came through:

We are quite surprised! We’re definitely not members of high society and if they were checking our bank balance they were almost certainly disappointed. This makes us wonder exactly what their criteria for membership are? If we can get approved I wouldn’t expect the bar to be set too terribly high. Although, at the same time, it may simply be that they don’t have many members from this part of the country and are looking to grow. That would rather make sense to some degree, I suppose.

What I do know is that there were several hits on this website (particularly this story) from London and New York shortly after it was published. I’m guessing that they looked at our photography page as well, though both of our personal pages are locked down and private. Did they talk to our friends? Did they confirm employment? Did they do any kind of background check? If so, no one has told us.

So, we’ll continue and see what happens. Should we find out more, we will most certainly let you know!

Here’s the original story:

Yes, that’s really explicit.

No, it’s not who you think it is.

No, it’s not them, either (whoever “them” may be). Just stop trying to guess. Identity is irrelevant in this situation. The picture is an illustration, an attempt to get your attention, as if the term “sexy party” didn’t have it already. The picture also defines the level of party we’re talking about. This gets deep so hold on and try to enjoy the ride.

Back in 1990, before many of you were even old enough to think of such things, Stanley Kubrick captured the world’s attention when he set the movie Eyes Wide Shut around an underground community of sensual desire involving luscious and lavish masked sex parties.  That theme has been used and re-used hundreds if not thousands of times since then for masked, sexy parties, especially at night clubs in large cities where women wearing lingerie out for the night isn’t really all that big a deal.

If you tell me that you’ve not thought at least once about what it would be like to attend such a party, I’ll call you a liar. We all have. And I’ve even heard tell of a few instances where someone tried to re-create that masked party theme, but they were never as lavish (a warehouse as the location? C’mon …) and never quite as sexy (is there anyone here not using Viagra?) as one might imagine. Sexy parties the magnitude of those seen in Kubrick’s movie are so rare, so difficult to produce, that we’ve often wondered if they actually exist at all.

Apparently, they do. We just live in the wrong place to be invited to the party.

In the deluge of articles being thrown at me, I came across this one a couple of weeks ago with the intriguing headline: The Roving Sexy Party Coming To The Hamptons This Summer. Okay, a headline like that is going to get my attention every time.  Although, there is a bit of immediate disappointment in that it mentions the Hamptons, that lovely summer homestead of the super-rich to which we mere mortals are not allowed access. Everything is gated. Everything is by invitation only. The Hamptons are not for we mortals. I’m not sure even Bernie Sanders can get in here.

What’s happening, though, is a coming to America of a British sex party concept that apparently has been working quite well across the pond. We’ve always suspected that those uptight Brits were a bit more cheeky than they let on and it would seem now that we have the proof.

The sponsoring organization has a rather morbid name, though, Killing Kittens certainly doesn’t sound sexy, and if it’s a party it doesn’t sound like the kind that is legal in the United States. But then, perhaps that’s part of the cover. Who would think to go looking for an underground event with a name that invokes feline homicide? The actual events, though, do not involve the harming of any animals, except for maybe your boyfriend.

When I went searching for more information about these parties (because, you know, journalistic curiosity and all that) I found the explanation on their Facebook page (yeah, that’s really underground) more helpful than anything on their website. It reads, in part:

Killing Kittens was launched in 2005 to both address and grow the demand from young, attractive, charismatic couples and single girls for decadent, hedonistic, female focused parties.

Killing Kittens parties create an environment for people, especially girls, to explore their sexuality in a daring yet safe and controlled environment without the seediness associated with the traditional ‘scene’. The parties are held at intriguing and glamorous international locations; from a New York penthouse to a yacht in St. Tropez. They have attracted the rich and famous and generated immense media excitement as being at the centre of the world’s newest and coolest underground party scene. Marie Claire declared that Killing Kittens has now become synonymous with the world’s ‘sexual elite’.

Again, I’m not so convinced about this whole “underground” thing if Out, The Cut, and Marie Claire all know about it. Those are not exactly low-circulation rags, there, ya’ know? If everyone knows about the parties, are they still “underground?”

What’s interesting, and likely most attractive about the Killing Kittens parties is that they are female-focused. In fact, the whole company is owned by one Emma Sayle, a British socialite who just happened to go to the same school as the Duchess of Cambridge. This gives the parties a very different edge from the pictures Kubrick planted in our minds. With the women in control, the party isn’t as likely to be as much of a sausage-fest, but it is also likely to be a bit more lively as women, especially those in the Hamptons, are still enamored with the S&M flurry started with Fifty Shades of Grey and now continued, so I’m told, with the HBO series Billionaire (I understand the 12th episode is where things get spicy). The parties are apparently popular among “pussy whisperers,” that is, women who have same gender flings just for the summer.

Yeah, let’s make that phrase go viral. Go ahead.

My curiosity not yet satiated (is it ever?), I visited the Killing Kittens website to see just how filthy rich one had to be to even join their little club. Turns out, it’s not all that expensive, at least not up front. Their basic membership is $15 (US) a month. They do have a free option, but that doesn’t include party invitations and without the party invitations what’s the point? They also offer a special designation for those over 45, if one wishes to make that disclosure. That doesn’t seem all that exclusive, does it?

So, I went ahead and signed us up for a couples membership just to see what would happen. The first step was rather straight-forward personal information like one would find on any dating site: age, height, body type, religious preference, drinking, smoking, etc. They encourage uploading pictures for the vetting process and promise that those pictures will be kept private. Nothing unusual, nothing overtly erotic, and nothing expressly limiting that would have me bailing out and running in fear of my life. Yet.

I’m betting that the vetting process will somehow eliminate us from consideration. Hell, this article is likely to eliminate us from consideration; it’s not like I’m hiding what I write. Still, the more insight we can get into this allegedly underground playground for the super-rich, the more we can stoke our own dreams of perhaps one day being elite enough to attend one of these oh-so-exclusive parties.

Not that we would know what to do once we got there. Nope, not us. Not a clue. Totally innocent here. Totally. This is just journalistic curiosity. I promise.

Or maybe we just have our own party. I have ice cream. Vanilla.