In an undisclosed cabin in the California Redwoods, a dubious smile plays across John R.’s firm but forgiving lips as he lays a large, plastic tarp over the furniture and floor. We are at the site of the Fuckfest 2017, and the host is worried. On the condition of anonymity for himself and his guests, he has allowed me access to the largest annual gathering of the sexiest motherfuckers going, and I intend to participate. The liquor cabinet is stocked, the “toy chest” is full of erotic gadgets, the likes of which I have never imagined, and the attendees have been vetted by the most discriminating minds in the industry. So, why is John concerned?
“For as long as I can remember,” John R. waxes sentimental, “Fuckfest was revered as the highest attainable calling in this country. Generations of men and women have bent over the alter of Fuckfest, but, for most of the last decade, interest has waned, and Fuckfest has just been the same few people banging away against each other over and over again.”
Moisture gathers, but does not coalesce, at the corner of John’s stoic eye as he runs a finger nostalgically against the contours of a much loved fleshlight.
“We’ve had some good times for sure. God, I’ll never forget Fuckfest 2001. A couple of the guys we had in here just threw caution to the wind and fucked everyone. I thought their towers would never go down.”
Demonized of late by the mainstream media, Fuckfest seems, by the latter half of the 2010s, to have become a cruel parody of itself. Critics argue that a national Fuckfest is no longer feasible, and that it should be supplanted by smaller, grassroots fuckfests at the state level. However, John remains cautiously optimistic about this year’s gathering as guests begin to arrive.
“We may never again reach the dizzying highs of those first Fuckfests, but this guest, at least, isn’t afraid to take a ‘bird in the hand’,” indicating Betsy D., the first to show, “and you know what that’s worth in the bush, if you know what I mean.” John finally cracks a grin. Despite everything that’s happened, he clearly still enjoys his job.
As fresh faces begin to file in, John breathes a bemused sigh of relief and explains to me their specific functions in this year’s Fuckfest.
“This is Rex. He’s the sensual massage guy. He gets oil everywhere,” Johns sweeps his arm, illustrating the concept of ‘everywhere’.
“There’s Rick. He’s a real treat on the dance floor,” John pauses, “That’s about all he’s good for.”
“That little cherub on the fuck swing is Jeff. We call him ‘the gerbil’. You can imagine why.”
Like a patient school counselor, John guides my hand firmly into that of the next arrival. “This is Ben. He’s very good at sex.” After a full thirty seconds of handshaking, Ben becomes distracted by a blow-up doll in the jacuzzi and walks over to introduce himself. “Ben likes to role-play scenes from his favorite video game ToeJam & Earl. That’s what he thinks sex is,” John confides in me.
Watching the next participant step out of his car, John is barely able to contain his enthusiasm, “No shit! I never expected to see Steve here! Looks like everyone’s getting some tickles down below tonight!”
Tickles Down Below
Fuckfest 2017 seemed to be exceeding expectations already. One guest, when asked which orifices would be made available for penetration, replied, “Oh Jesus, all of them,” before pointing to the faces and waists of every partygoer. Another invited me to “donkey-punch [her] on the spot”, claiming she “just [doesn’t] want to be conscious for any of this”.
By my third glass of chablis, I’m starting to feel pretty comfortable in my place at Fuckfest 2017, and I’m just removing my jean jacket when it happens. If the Zune Media Player plugged into the portable speakers on the chifforobe had a “record scratch” function, it would surely be going off as the presumptive final guest emerges triumphantly from his limousine. Everyone in attendance stops mid-coitus, removing whosever sex organ from their lips to silently mouth “Oh. My. God.”
The Fuckfest, already thrusting at a fever pitch, escalates to a state of religious ecstasy that would make Caligula blush. John R., his face smeared with the fluids of countless genitals, grips me by my hips, shouting directly at my pelvis, “Fuck yeah! The Pee Guy is here!” Any zipper heretofore fastened is hastily unzipped as towels and buckets are arranged strategically on the plastic fuck mat. A rank of engorged bladders lines up expectantly along the makeshift urine trough.
The guest of honor kicks through the screen door and, slithering through the gash, announces victoriously, “I’m the Pee Guy!” A cheer erupts from the throngs of reveling fuck-pigs as the proud, human fire hydrant unlaces his elegant necktie and lies face-up on the improvised sex toilet. “This is what I’m into. I am a tremendous and powerful and very smart urinal.” With this proclamation, dozens of waste geysers discharge from dozens of excretory organs, drenching the Pee Guy in seconds. Smacking his lips in erotic bliss, the Pee Guy yells to the dribbling members above him, “I declare Fuckfest 2017 to be delicious!”
As the party rages on, I make a diplomatic exit, surveying and then quickly fleeing the snack table. I wave goodbye to my gracious host as he judiciously removes a Ben Wa ball from himself. From his parting wink, I gather that Fuckfest 2017 will be one to rival any other Fuckfest this nation has seen. Twosomes and threesomes join forces to become nebulous, moshing clusterfucks. Moans of rapture and anguish echo through the air vents, and, in the middle of it all, the Pee Guy drips radiantly, his arms raised as if to say “the whole planet is my Fuckfest”. Fuck yes. The world is yours, Pee Guy, and we will all be fucked.