And so a rock band walked into a sex party…

Text & Images by Obadiah Casperson

When frontman Matthew Orr texted me that his band, the Gnarcissists, booked an ‘unusual’ event, it piqued my interest. The idea of a sex party seemed like the setup to a dirty joke or a weird story unearthed from the archives of our fathers’ 20s—not a real thing. But a week later, I sat in the Brooklyn Monarch with the six musicians who were just as unsure of what they had signed up for as I was. The space looked like an average concert venue with a looooong bar and a few curtains. But when we took a smoke break outside, the first signal to the erotic theme was laid out in front of us. 

“Are those fucking mattresses?” one of the band members said. 

There were mattresses on the ground with tautly pulled pink satin sheets. No bed frame, no pillows; two sat in line with the third watching from across the green. To fill out the scene, a plastic pool sat near the middle, sandwiched between the mattresses, the chairs strategically fashioned to voyeur. Orr shared glances with the rest of the band. Nobody seemed exactly sure what to make of it. But with hours to kill, there was plenty of time to indulge in the mystery.

MUD FIGHT: Sure way to sex up the party is getting the girls a little wet.

At a ‘normal’ party, if you hit it off with a strapping individual, you take your flirts home. Here at a play party, you can act on impulse right on the floor. To some, it is a voyeuristic kick. To others, a new place to try a kink. The attendees of the night dressed in varieties beyond the leather daddy or gimp. To my surprise, many of the play audience members look like the average Joe or Jane. Some, even, are 5’2 brunette chicks with a notepad and camera (sorry, mom.) 

Moving between the open dance floor and the mattress den outside, the band picked into the psychology of an attendee, imagining who would show up. I play along, using my knowledge of “Eyes Wide Shut” to hypothesize the turnout. The Gnarcissists’ guitarist Matt Tillwick lies on the ground of the venue with me, sharing his suspicions. 

“I think it’s going to be a lot of young women,” he says. “And then there will be a group of 30-or 40-year-old men.” Personally, I had my own theory that included older men with frothing mouths swarming the rooms with dangling curtains. I was grateful to have been wrong. 

By 7 p.m., two hours had passed in the empty venue. People in stilettos had gathered in the corners of the Brooklyn Monarch, either assisting in set-up or stretching for their performances. Organizers occasionally walked through with badges dangling around their necks, giving a thumbs-up. However, by soundcheck, the band harbored doubts on whether the venue would be prepped in time for 9 p.m. doors. 

We lost half the band on the route to the pre-show bar. Though this was the Gnarcissist’s first play party, they weren’t strangers to the unorthodox gig. Orr, Twillick, and guitarist Ben Arauz swapped stories of their wildest performances and nights on the road, many with chunks of memory missing. One story followed a performance in a Catskill abandoned zoo. Another was a coke-filled misadventure in Berlin. Soon, it was an hour before the sex party. Time for another round. 

Raising a glass to Arauz’s 26th birthday, the band drinks to the youngest member’s final year. “I’m not 27 yet, but I’m definitely joining the 27 club,” Arauz says. The others tack on with their philosophies of the rockstar; a few in the midst of a bender themselves. But the show must go on. It’s a Saturday night sex party, after all. 

The Gnarcissists will perform later in the night; for now, it’s about getting acquainted with the community. The first community, of course, being the security guard at the front entry raising an eyebrow at the tote bag full of smuggled beer. 

“Get in the mood. Get in the headspace; it’ll be fun,” Twillick said. Orr cracked his neck, seemingly shaking off his own tension with the event. 

With the lights dimmed and draped decor straddling the interior, the venue doesn’t look like a warehouse. A DJ spins on the stage, with the enthusiastic early birds hugging the walls in the 9:30 inflow. A portion of the band’s nerves stemmed from the physical layout of the event. 

The focal point of the stage sat adjacent to the white-curtained VIP room, stage right. Though the drapes obscured the view from the audience, a window in the curtains provided a clear view through to the performers. So, while the performers entertained the audience, the VIP room could entertain the performers. I don’t think any of us fully understood what was sanctioned in the VIP lounge, but whenever handprints entangled themselves in the curtains pushed to the eyeline, I developed my own raunchy theories.

“I’ve walked into a room where there was a sex swing, and I was not as scared as I am for this show,” said Orr. 

Huddled near the bar, admiring the gentle influx of arrivals, I started to think about the event in a way that Twillick had mentioned earlier that night. At that time, it was a joke. We were just exchanging thoughts about the VIP room. 

PLAY IT, BABY: Gnarcissists’ bassist, Baby Delgado, takes center stage holding down the bassline. Whether he sees it or not, the VIP room is just to the corner of his eye…

“[I’d watch] but not in a sexual way, more in a sociological way. Like, I wanna see humans behave like that,” Twillick said, laughing.

“Like animals?” Arauz replied. Matter-of-factly, Twillick nodded. “Bro, if somebody’s banging, I’m going to be scared,” drummer Jerome Peel said. 

Pretending to be the sexologist evil twin of Jane Goodall, I put on my anthropology cap to watch the play-party-sponsored mud fight, which was the closest thing I witnessed to actual sex. Two men climbing in the plastic sludge pit were sprayed with a hose while they thrashed in the muck. They grasped at each other until the duress broke the barrier of the pool. Orr grabbed my shoulder, telling me they were going on soon. I slipped out while the crowd cheered. It was past 11 p.m., and nothing felt particularly erotic. 

In the back hallway of the greenroom, I watched the band prepare themselves for their set. Within any venue—sex-oriented or not—the greenroom is a breath of non-sticky air. It’s calmer, with open purses, full bottles, and a sense of trust between musicians and friends alike. The endless caravan of quick trips behind the bathroom door restored a sense of normalcy—a reminder that this is still a rock band playing at a venue. Whatever goes on outside, the greenroom is just musicians getting ready to play, with whatever form of courage they may indulge in. 

Before midnight, the Gnarcissists took the stage for their 30-minute set.

Orr told me his throat felt sore in the hours leading up to it, but nonetheless he yelled, sang, and writhed on stage. Though I had now seen the Gnarcissists twice in their practice room, it was rewarding to witness a live performance. Orr is an entertaining presence, unadulterated by a handheld instrument, making him free to move, march, and sit on stage. Twillick, for the beginning of the show, had the industrial fan to play in. Thankfully, his hair was long enough to have a B-plot to the band’s performance. My personal favorite eye-candy of the night was bassist Baby Delgado, who held down the back wall with a rainbow strap and black sunglasses. He seemed to be the least curious about the theme of the event; I think he just likes to party. 

Ripping through their songs, the crowd grew less muggy and more enthused. Performers from prior sets, like opener Valley Latini, danced in the front row. Men in hats moved side-to-side, and some participants with tails crawled into view. The folks who smoked and talked on the mattresses outside now walked into the concert. Rock n’ roll at a play party, sandwiched between DJs and more sultry performances, made for a more dynamic environment. 

By the time I left, I never saw penetration. There was a mud fight in a plastic pool, pasties on dancers, and a crowd of enthused participants. But when the Gnarcissists’ set played, it was just a concert. The mystery was somehow more dramatic in the hours leading up…

DANCING DIRTY: Two performers with Valley Latini open the night on the main stage.