First bar for orgies and gays in america

Last year, I was tasked with writing a list of the best sex resorts for Men's Health. I've been on more than a few such vacations myselfand included some of my faves on the list. But there was one I added, Island Housethat I hadn't been to, although I felt like I had, given how much my friends had gushed about the Key West destination over the years.

The place describes itself as a sex-positive, clothing-optional resort for men; my friends have described it as "much chiller than any Atlantis cruise. After the Men's Health story ran, Island House invited me to come down for a few days to get the full experience.

At first, I was excited to go. This was right before the Omicron explosion, FYI. But after I agreed to attend, I got a little anxious: namely, over what the crowd would be like. The venues tend to consist of identical-looking Ken Dolls—the kind of guys who put "no fats" and "masc only" in their Scruff bios.

Ironically, if anyone could have an easier time going out in these places, it would be me. I fit that idealized gay mold to a tee. Sir, you and your mean-girl clique could have saved money by drinking vodka sodas at home if all you wanted to do was talk to each other! But I digress. As I got ready, I mentally and physically braced myself for a Hell's Kitchen experience; I even squeezed in an extra trip to the gym beforehand, as if that would do anything!

Jeffrey, Island House's General Manager, picked up me and my boyfriend, Jonzu, at the airport, and drove us 15 minutes to the resort, which was tucked away in an otherwise residential area. From the outside, there was no indication that dozens of beefy dudes were letting their testicles hang low by the pool within. The guy working the front desk, Gordon, was a former drag queen with strong Harvey Fierstein vibes.

Within seconds of meeting him, I was nearly on the floor laughing. Needless to say, I've never had such a pleasant experience with any doorman in Hell's Kitchen.

After the Orgy

After a quick tour of the property, Jonzu and I changed into our swimming briefs and headed to the pool. There were some guys there: most wearing Speedos, but a few lounging and swimming in their birthday suit. At the pool, I was still too nervous to talk to anyone, but after a few drinks, we sauntered to the hot tub, dropped our Speedos, and plunged in.

I said hello, and I was not met with judgmental glances or curt dismissals—just equally enthusiastic hellos and getting-to-know-you questions. More men kept joining, and before we knew it, the tub was filled with 15 stranger talking to each other. Everyone was friendly—and while that should be the norm among gay and bi men, it hasn't been the case for me in Manhattan.

It was a novel experience. The hot tub hang wasn't sexual—at least, not at first. It was just some naked guys hanging out and getting to know each other.