I’m in a warehouse loft in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a couple of evenings before Halloween, sitting uncomfortably between my pal Erica to my right and a couple that is naked to own intercourse from the eight ins of available ottoman to my left. Erica and I also are performing an extremely heroic task of moving our look to just about anyplace into the room but at our legs, in which a brunette that is pretty what’s left of a Dorothy costume (ruby slippers) services a grinning, half-naked cowboy in a Stetson and never much else. I think) beyond them, a few dozen beds lined up like some kind of Hieronymus Bosch version of a Sleepy’s showroom play host to sexual situations of varying size and gender combinations: girl-boy; girl-girl-boy; boy-girl-boy; girl-girl; girl-girl-girl; and, on the large, sweat-drenched mattresses at the center of the room, girl-boy-girl-girl girl-girl-girl-boy-boy-girl-boy (. A low-grade funk moves through the spot just like a increasing climate system.
“I’m gonna get some good atmosphere, ” I say, standing abruptly. Erica appears, too, as soon as she does the ottoman seesaws, dumping the bare-assed conjoined few onto the ground.
“Oh, oh! ” the lady cries, her big, Kardashian-like mane spilling over her face. […]