Sure, there are soundsthe squish of hand on flesh, mediated with lube, is the most common. The reason I heard nothing at the door is that no one utters a word at the Men’s Parties.
My eyes adjust to perceive a tight hallway where several men are standing in various stages of nakedness. Guzzling my beer, I head downstairspast a washer-dryer combo that is actually running (cleaning dirty towels, I assume)and find darkness. Another man follows, sits on the floor in front of the leather man, and begins an earnest blowjob. A large, hairy man wearing a leather cap and a towel enters and plops down on the couch. Two others are wearing only towels, and the remaining two are fully clothed, though one has opened his plaid flannel shirt to reveal a pair of doughy pecs. One is naked save a baseball cap, and he’s wanly fingering his semihard dick. Only five men are upstairs, and all are silently watching the pornos. I take a beer from the fridge (Keystonethey don’t splurge here, at least not on beer) and look around. The only light comes from the flicker of two big televisions, both showing men either preparing to fuck, in the process of fucking, or having just fucked. A padded matperhaps 20 feet by 20 feetcovers part of the floor. But there’s no dining table, just a few mismatched chairs and a couch. Upstairs, there’s a small kitchen and what would be a large den/dining room combo. Here’s the layout: The Men’s Parties are held in a split-level home that, in a parallel universe, would make a nice place for a young couple with kids or a group of friends just out of college. He draws the curtain for me, gives me a lock and key for the downstairs lockers, and offers a worn white towel, which I decline. I suppose I could lie and tell him I have a financial hardshipor a “hang-up” about money, whatever that meansbut I simply hand over the eight bucks. The curtain creates a 2-foot-wide cubby where he crouches with a checklist. I hear nothing but faint music inside, and I can see nothing because just behind Don is a curtain covering the doorway. “Uh, no.” I feel as though I’ve made a grave mistake. He smiles a lot, and for some reason I am reminded of Don Knotts. He’s about 45, has salt-and-pepper hair and a beard, and wears a blue Oxford shirt. It’s locked, but a man sitting on the other side opens the door for me. With some reliefI’m feeling a little shyI decide that there will be no partying tonight. In the middle are double doors marked only with the address.Īround 10, I walk up to the doors and see no lights. On one side is a barber shop, on the other, an architecture firm. It’s a two-story brick edifice with large windows. Indeed, the bland building at 1718 1/2 Florida betrays nothing of the activity inside. All in all, it’s a strange place for a sex party. In March, the Washington Post published a sunny article about what a friendly, integrated neighborhood this is. An elementary school slouches across Champlain Street nearby, and the 3rd District police station looms a stone’s throw away, down V Street. Kilimanjaro, the old reggae club, sits dormant on one side of the battered street, next to a car-repair garage. The stretch of Florida Avenue between 17th and 18th streets isn’t inviting. “I have told city about it more than one time,” Arrington says, “but no one will go there.” I decided to see what his fuss was about.
(The parties are held only on weekend nights plus Wednesdays until 1 a.m.) City officials could recall no visits to the parties, although a group of inspectors apparently went one night when no one was home. But the Men’s Parties have been virtually ignored. Some far less bawdy-sounding establishments than the Men’s Parties have been hitthe city fined the Green Lantern bar $10,000 in March because some of its patrons were simply groping each other. Recently, city officials supposedly cracking down on violent clubs have targeted certain gay bars, which aren’t violent but which do commit occasional sex violations. I got a couple of friends to admit that they had attended, and one of them described the parties this way: “It’s sort of like a bathhouse without the baths.” I had always assumed (and, admittedly, hoped) that while one of the activities might well be massage, other activities were even more…well, hands-on.