Originally published in Philosophy, Pussycats, & Porn

The New York Soho House, whatever it was initially built for, feels like a playground for those with too much money and too little sense. This is how I justified sneaking through its corridors with a very attractive man, searching for a dark corner to touch each other in. Not to imply that either of us possess too much money, or that he possesses too little sense.

New York City is full of people, piled on top of each other and squished into multi-story buildings. You have to love people, or love grumbling about them, to exist happily here. There’s a public quality to daily life, more so than in a city built on people transporting themselves in private vehicles.

So many concepts around sex are grey, including the general boundaries of what intensity of interaction is appropriate in which settings. Because I’m conscious of the discomfort that can be inspired in others by overt displays of sexuality in public, I try to be conscious of the effects of those displays. Try in no way means that I succeed—I’m comparatively oblivious and also very myopic when aroused by a wonderful person.

Because of my career, I’m also wary. I’m not egotistical enough to believe that every move I make is of interest to someone likely to record it on searchable parts of the Internet. But I also know that once a proximity or attachment is on public record, it can be used to discredit people who have become associated with me, and I prefer to avoid casually inflicting that on others.

Buy the ticket, ride the ride, yes. But I feel a responsibility to explain the details and potential ramifications of the ride before that ticket is indelibly obtained.

All of that said, Soho House feels secretive and permissive. As though any behavior, up to the point where they throw you out, is acceptable. A place where premium is paid in exchange for permitting any impulse.

I live on the south end of Brooklyn and he lives somewhere in Queens. This seems convenient, both places being in New York City, until you bring bus schedules and traffic into it. Because it is two trains and at least one bus, probably more. Our evenings out in Manhattan all end with me writhing around, pouting that he won’t come home with me, and trying to decipher why, specifically, he keeps saying I’m trouble.

So we snuck and explored, through the winding halls and up and down staircases. There were no dark corners. Not in the movie theater, not in the library we couldn’t actually find, and certainly not in the brightly lit sitting area next to a storage room. And the storage room turned out to include a staircase which looked highly trafficked.

The brightly lit sitting area did have a large window, though. Sheer curtains against the glass blocked the view across rooftops, towards the Hudson River. The sill was just wide enough for me to kneel on, and thick curtains hung on the outside of it.

I sat on that sill and tugged at the curtains. he asked how we were going to make this work, and I said I didn’t know but we would. He climbed in after me, and then we did make it work, in a desperate and cramped way, until he pushed his cock as far into my mouth as it could possibly go and came down my throat.

I swallowed and giggled as I pulled those sheer curtains aside and looked out across my city, because every detail in that moment was good.

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