The very first thing you must understand about gay group sex, three-ways, orgies, four-gies, gang bangs, and alleged "circle jerks" is SHUT THE GODDAMN HELL UP! I've never engaged in group sex! Jesus Christ! The idea! I'm not even sure what you mean by the term! Or that such things even really exist!

The second thing you must understand about group sex is that everyone lies about having group sex—or about not having it, more precisely, especially when they do. Or have. Or plan to. Or desperately hope to! Except for me, of course. I have absolutely no idea what group sex, three-ways, orgies, four-gies, gang bangs, or sex clubs are even like. And you don't, either. ARE WE CLEAR?

Every fag goes through a slut phase. Sometimes this slut phase happens all at once. Sometimes it happens in short, intense bursts slung over a remarkable blanket of time. (Sometimes it happens way too late in life, when a wife and kids and years of lies have been burned up, and desperate hunting for lost youth and dreams in the sweaty corners of some bathhouse is all that's left. But that's what you get, you sad, sorry, geriatric, Republican, hypothetical bastard—quit pawing my ass.)

A certain streak of cavalier kinkiness tends to run through the veins of most any healthy, "adjusted" gay male—fags are curious beasts; our penises are not to be denied. (It's what makes us so fucking awesome. Plus, we're nice to old people!) My long litany of exes includes those who made me do things like always pork them with our Sambas on and then pork the Sambas (some guys really get off on Sambas), or those who preferred I strap them spread-eagle to my bed with neckties for a day and molest them with whatever happened to be handy—including friends and neighbors. Really, it's not all that unusual for a gay man to wake up in a pile. The point is, FORGET EVERYTHING I JUST SAID, MOM!

It's always been like this.

Millions of years ago, ancient cave-fags discovered that there are precisely 41 flavors of cock, and they are best enjoyed all at once. Also, that cooking breakfast for 30 is a pain in the ass. And, most importantly, that anonymous group sex is best with a whole bunch of people you don't know. And so they gathered in and/or created shadowy places to wander around drunk and pretend they didn't know each other so they could suck each other off en masse without the deep shame of having to discuss it later. Gym showers. Backyard hot tubs. Sex clubs. Volunteer Park. Craigslist.com. Gay .com. Whatthehellever.com. The entire internet, of course, was invented by fags to facilitate group sex. Everyone knows that.

Please don't interrupt.

The best thing about group sex is that you get to have sex with lots of guys at the same time. When you get right down and blow on it, group sex is really about maximizing one's options. It's about working the numbers. The LARGE numbers, if you get my drift. You can't pork somebody and get porked by somebody while felating somebody else with just two people. That's just physics.

But it's a gamble, of course. Sometimes you go looking for group sex and run into your cousin. Or your boss. Or the Mill Creek Geriatric Man-Diaper Society Social Convention. Or John Wayne Gacy. Or a scabie big enough to drive a cab. Sometimes an anonymous group-sex visit scars you a little. Sometimes it scars you A LOT.

Which brings us to the thirdest most important thing to know about sex clubs: They will murder you ugly if they can. Don't give them that chance! (Condoms! CONDOMS! Blah, blah, BLAH!)

Plus, if one marches around gaily admitting that one thoroughly enjoys group sex, often, and with relish, also mustard, sometimes mayo even, one comes to be considered rather revolting at large and will die alone, un-gay-married, and quite wasted. It's a conundrum.

But sometimes—enough times—you turn the corner, or poke your head through the shrubberies, or turn on the shower, and holy SHIT! There he is! That guy from the bus! The guy you see every day! The guy you'd sell your grandma's ashes for to get one peek at his penis! (We'd have to cremate grandma first, of course. KINKY!) And suddenly your dick is in his mouth! And then that other guy shows up—the hot guy from the bank or whatever—with the dreamy smile and the monster bulge... the one you've been crushing on for months... and suddenly his penis is in your mouth! And suddenly everybody's penis is in everybody's mouth! And there really IS a God! And you're doing shit that would make His mustache curl! And it's the best night ever! Or so the legends go...

The next best thing about group sex (the anonymous, happens-only-in-a-certain-sort-of-business sort) is that it is almost entirely homo-exclusive. For all practical purposes (and barring Burning Man), no-names, no-strings group-sexing opportunities do not exist for breeder types. THEY DO NOT EXIST! Mostly what masquerades as "group sex" in Straight America are just the sporadic wrestlings of porky Star-Trek Wiccans trying to merge like horny water beds. And that's not what we're talking about at all. Or at least, I hope it's not. Eat your breedy little hearts out, suckers!

For one thing, fags have real sex clubs and breeders don't. Let's talk about sex clubs. First of all, you can bet your sweet Aunt Pearl that the pearly squirts of wisdom herein regarding such matters were definitely not in any way whatsoever gleaned from roughly zillions of secret personal experiences had circa the mid-'90s when I drank Zima and had a blond wedge in my hair. And absolutely none of this information was maybe refreshed/revisited in an equally secret experience that I didn't have roughly three weeks ago. Thank you.

All urban fags go to a sex club sooner or later. (If a young, urban fag tells you that he's never been to a sex club, he's on first-name terms with the doorman.) And orgies run on-tap in a sex club! It's the raison d'être of the beast! Accidental group sex is inevitable, even if you aren't really looking for it. (Whoops! How did all this DNA get all over me?!) And if you are looking for it—if group sex is your thing or whatever (or you and your boyfriend's thing, which happens; after all, when someone else puts a penis in the man you love, that green-eyed monster Jealousy merges with that wicked bitch Lust and sends a sick and delicious thrill up, um, some people's spines that would knock most people's hair out. Not that I'd know personally. It's just a well-documented scientific fact)—well, then. Welcome to heaven.

The sex club, for all its faults, is gay group-sex central. Nude people? Hanging from the rafters. Glory holes? In rows. Circle jerks? One's starting right now! Private rooms for four, secret nooks, peepholes, public spaces, slings, rings, slimy things, somersaults, toe-sucking pinkie fuckers, knuckle-backing rim shooters, shy little vanilla fags searching vainly for lord knows what, Potbellied Sneeches, sneech-bellied potheads, pill-popping Potentates, Wrinkly Buzz-Killing Fanny Gropers, Republicans, face-picking bug chasers, bobbing blow-bobbers, jolly S&M-ers, butt-plugging butt pirates, acres of ass eaters, and Mark Finley. Anything and everything can happen—with relatively small risk of arrest or suspension of one's gym membership. And surely has happened. And will happen again! That's the damn point. Anything's yours—all you need is roughly $19, a penis, and the exclusive homosexual ability to bear Joan Osborne singing "What if God Was One of Us" on a techno-remix loop.

So why do we fags risk the risk—the diseases, the trolls? (Wear a condom!) Why face the face-picking meth zombies? Why wrestle the jealousy, the insecurity, the "you are totally a disgraceful whore" stigma? Why, why, WHY?

Because it's what God secretly wants of us, that's why. Because the voices command it. Because yo' mama.

Because we fucking want to. Because we fucking must. Because we fucking can.

But you didn't hear any of this from me.