I wasn't wearing anything particularly sexy—just a black bikini top and bottoms. Before I left home, I pulled on a pair of wide-leg leggings, a basic black tee, and a faux-leather trench—an outfit meant to blend in with both the sea of city commuters and the crowd I was heading toward. I took the subway to lower Manhattan, double-checked the address, then hopped into an elevator with about a dozen strangers. At the coat check, we all disrobed. And then, I stepped into my 10th sex party.
My body and I are in a long-term negotiation; currently in a peaceful era, stable at a solid size 18/20. I've done so much work on not hating my body—on actually being buddy-buddy with it, enjoying Pilates, yoga, and acupuncture with the vigor of someone who really wants their body to function at its best. So while I'm not about to scrutinize my naked frame under dressing room fluorescents (and I refuse to slide back into that kind of self-deprecating thinking), I have full capacity for internalized harm, equipped with the mental lexicon of a mean girl from my self-hating past.
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As I grew into myself—my interests, my art, my writing—my sexuality has also developed. In my late 20s, I started going to queer-specific parties and events and surrounding myself with queer people—an identity that felt more and more right as I leaned into adulthood. I loved a queer space's ability to see beyond the external. There is a tangible release from perfection, from the rigor of beauty standards, from insecurity. All the things I felt like were flaws on my body were suddenly given a marker of attractiveness.
At the same time, I was letting go of some damaging disordered eating patterns and actively seeking out people who looked like me and didn’t hate themselves. I found plus-size boutiques and art spaces, which eventually led me to sex toy shops—and that opened up a new door: sex parties. So. Hot.
My foray into queer sex parties came bit-by-bit, shaped by my own maturity and exploration of body acceptance and queer identity. At the beginning of this ride, I’d go, take a timid lap, feel too nervous to speak to anyone, and leave before midnight—curious, but not ready. But over time, as I started to embrace myself—not just sexually, but as a person—I saw my body differently. Not as something to fix or perform with, but as a vessel that brings me real pleasure.
I found parties through Instagram, mutuals, exes, hookups—each leading me to a new space. I remember standing in a shadowy corner at one of them, eye-fucking someone I’d never met until one of us finally said hi. That moment felt huge. Monumental—not just for me, but for every plus-size girl who dreams of a cinematic kind of experience that, I find, we’re so rarely afforded.
From my perspective, walking through a space filled with naked or partially nude bodies—simply existing, unselfconsciously—creates a sense of equality. Being surrounded by a variety of bodies, all held under an erotic lens without the pressure of performance, makes everything feel more grounded. It’s like that advice to picture everyone naked before giving a presentation—but in this case, you’re actually naked and part of the crowd. And somehow, everything feels much calmer.
On this particular evening, I stepped into a dark, winding space filled with leather-bound benches, chaises, swings, and beds tucked into clandestine corners. People gathered to watch scenes play out while others stood in open areas sipping water, complimenting each other’s outfits (or lack thereof), and catching up like it had been too long. I felt my body move without restriction, serene and open with only stringy pieces holding together any modesty. The space was filled with guttural sounds, soft moans, and that familiar vibrator purr. People moved around each other with grace—smiling, biting lips, making an effort to be both conscientious and deeply sexy. And every part of me felt in a kind of meditative calm—equipped with my sex party essentials bag and the steadiness that comes from knowing myself, what I’m into, and how my body likes to feel pleasure.
Even under the gaze of others, bent like a pretzel in a vulnerable, receiving position, I'm so at home in my skin at a sex party. There’s a quiet confidence that comes when I step in, feel present in my own pleasure and limits, and leave knowing I've navigated sexual boundaries with others. Self-doubt, who?
Caressa Chester, a therapist at The Expansive Group, says that sex parties might just be an ideal environment for retraining your brain: “Within the safety of sex-positive spaces, there is an opportunity to transgress the internal narratives that our shame holds onto, and center one's voice and capacity for pleasure instead.”
Outside the confines of a sex party, a tragically timed fluorescent light or an upward side-angle selfie can still threaten the delicate peace I have with my body. The separation between my peace and my trauma is paper-thin. Sometimes it rips.
When it does, I fill the space with deep breathing, with the reminder that this moment is better than the days of counting the calories of turkey-and-cheese no-carb roll-ups. So I take mirror selfies. I believe in nude photos. I keep a hot little private camera roll album of myself that I cherish. Because I like the way my waist glides into my belly and how that belly hangs low over the tops of my thighs when I sit. I am soft. I feel like butter. This practice of seeing myself just as I am allows my brain to really recognize my body—to expose myself to myself. So when that internalized, shamey voice creeps in, I can hear them, acknowledge, and let them go.
“Reframing internal dialogue when body insecurities arise is a powerful practice rooted in self-awareness, compassion, and presence,” says Rachel Needle, a licensed psychologist and co-director of Modern Sex Therapy Institutes. “Instead of letting those thoughts define the experience, we can recognize them for what they are—habitual, conditioned responses—and gently choose a different path.”
But there’s a valley of difference between a perfectly poised mirror selfie and being naked...in motion. At a sex party, you are very much in motion—which can be intimidating, but ultimately a good thing. “A safe, consensual and well-facilitated sex-positive space creates a container where your pleasure can be enthusiastically centered,” Chester says. “The practice of exploring desire is also a practice of self-compassion and this is key in setting down internalized body shame.”
There might be flattering red lighting if you're lucky, and you'll most likely have a no-phone policy to contend with, which means no selfies. And there is already enough nervous energy—relaxing your body is more helpful than keeping it sucked in and stiff. Your body is just...doing stuff. It’s contorted and sweaty and jiggling. But somehow, that stops mattering. I wasn’t busy thinking about my thighs—I was thinking about connection, sensation, the sounds, how sexy the whole experience is if you let yourself relax.
"A key part of sexuality is body image and sensuality. How we see our bodies, how they work, how we find value and pleasure in our bodies shape our daily experiences, joys, pains, relationships, energy, and ability to build intimacy. So body image has a huge impact on intimacy," says Lexx Brown-James, a licensed marriage and family therapy therapist. In this context, I found that being watched felt less like judgment and more like permission to exist in this body.
It's really humanizing to be observed mid-thrust, doing an act normally reserved for behind closed doors. Because you realize when you walk in that no one is seeing your stretch marks or clocking where your outfit is from or caring if your belly is pressing into your body while in a particularly acrobatic move. Everyone is traversing their own desires and edges. The room is filled with a collective understanding: we are here for the same reasons. We're all soft and strong and navigating pleasure together. People are seeing you, and you seeing them, without curation—and that in itself is a gift.
For me, a sex party is way easier than a regular no-sex, just-hanging-out party. Intentions are never blurred. There isn't small talk; it's more like...sexy logistics. The sex party code of conduct takes away the guesswork about who wants what. And as I’ve learned, the logistics are extremely body-neutral.
Boundaries get spelled out plainly. What are you interested in? Can I touch you here? Do you like this? Do you want to keep going? These keep the rhythm of the room going. I have found that the more I communicate, the less I am thinking about how to hold my body in a flattering position. I'm more interested in whether my partner needs more lube. That’s real intimacy.
Vulnerability comes with the territory. You’ll be naked in more ways than one if you choose to do so. You might feel exposed. So get honest with yourself about what level of that you’re ready for and what kind of aftercare you might need. What’s the goal here? To hook up? To try something new? To have your body simply exist, sweaty and unapologetic, in a room full of other people? Great.
And as a big, flashing note: You don't have to participate. You don’t have to play, have sex, be part of a spanking scene, or do anything you’re not into. Some of my best moments are spent finding a spot to sip my water and just people-watch. No pressure! It’s really thrilling and such a turn-on. And it might even spark some ideas for things you want to try—either at the party or later.
At home, there are nights when I pose in the mirror, genuinely enamored by my own existence—skin glowing, hair perfectly coiffed, my body feeling so very body. I walk past a window and catch my reflection and think—damn. And then there are nights when I sit in my underwear, covered in acne patches, certain that I should be hidden from the world. Both versions are real. Both belong to me.
What I’ve learned is this: a sex party doesn’t give you confidence—it gives you a break from the performance. It lets you live in a fantasy, not to escape your body but to enjoy it as it is. And somehow, through all the sweat and sensation and consent, I’ve found peace. Not because I always love my body, but because I’ve stopped demanding that I do.
I just have to be in it. I have to give it grace. I have to listen to what it wants and, if I want, let someone else in on its existence.
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