This was an intense year and honestly, I’m exhausted. I know New Year’s Eve is about releasing every inhibition at some lavish party, but what I’d really enjoy this year is a quiet night at home. Just you, me, a $20 bottle of pinot noir, and 5-8 professional sex associates that we host for a no-holes-barred 12-hour touchfest.
That’s it. Nothing fancy. No crowded, elitist NYE party like last year where we have to get all dressed up and head to a Long Island mansion wearing matching plague doctor masks to participate in a decadent billionaire’s orgy and resulting blood ritual after an interloper is discovered in our midst, blah blah blah…
No thank you.
I’d be perfectly fine watching Andy Cohen drunkenly slag off Bill de Blasio during hour six of CNN’s Times Square coverage as a homegrown fleshy ball of tangled nudes drops in our den. You and I warming ourselves by the fire between 10-15 hardbodies instead of sweating against wall-to-wall 1%er randos thrusting in unison to the metronomic beat of 100 blindfolded drummers.
Maybe we get takeout. Maybe we make do with a Costco variety pack of salami and various hard and soft cheeses. It’s not that I’m against cooking, but the kitchen will most certainly be occupied by the two dozen or so glistening nudes taking advantage of our fully stocked vegetable crisper as they freakin’ go to town on every open orifice in sight.
Will I miss last year’s swanky orgy crudités and goat heart fritters? Obviously. There are plenty of perks we’ll have to learn to do without this year; the endangered species finger foods and elitist party favors prime among them—I mean, AirPod butt plugs? Genius. But that’s to be expected for the requisite $5,000 “entry” fee.
Saving money isn’t the main reason why I’m more than happy to host a smaller, simpler affair, but it doesn’t hurt! We all know modern Illuminati-esque NYE orgies have become far too gauche. Would it be so wrong to bring back the simple, holesome group sex fun of yesteryear? Because nothing ruins an orgy more than a bunch of hoity-toity types too busy mingling with professional assholes to pay attention to the literal ones.
Not my tempo.
And I’d really, really like to start the new year without a massive hangover. Lord knows I don’t need to be downing a constantly refilled flute of expensive champagne in my one free hand. The other hand, more often than not, holding a still-beating human heart from the blood ritual. No thanks! Once you’ve held one beating human heart, you’ve held them all.
Most of all, I’d much prefer waking up to a bright January 1 morning next to you, my love. Rising out of bed refreshed, tiptoeing over 70-130 slumbering nudes strewn across the floor as I make my way to the Nespresso machine. A frothy cup of joe cradled around my palms, looking out of the bay windows as I take my first restorative breath of the New Year.
Watching our quaint snow-covered street as a Honda Odyssey filled with my wife and three children pulls into the driveway. Home from my mother-in-law’s NYE sleepover party that I didn’t attend because I said I wasn’t feeling well.
Panicking as I check the time and holy shit it’s 10 AM? Oh Fuck! Oh no no no.
Yelling at you and all the orgy participants to wake the hell up. Pushing everyone out of the back door because I’m a good decent Christian and am due at mass in an hour.
It’s the simpler things that I’m after this year. And that starts with our quaint, down-home orgy that will certainly not result in my immediate divorce. Happy holidays, babe. I love you.
