The Porn And Pasta Party

This summer I spent four months living in Rogers Park, Chicago because I was lucky enough to land a paid internship. When I first arrived, it was difficult for me to make friends but eventually I got over my fear of approaching people and acquired a few really amazing ones. Chicago was a beautiful, dark, twisted fantasy and there isn’t a day I don’t miss living there. Weird shit happens in large cities. Theme parties are a constant and here is one of my favorites that I was able to attend:

My friend had flown into Florida to visit me for my birthday. It just so happened that Pride was occurring the same weekend he came, which is essentially the ultimate pilgrimage for gay men. Excited and armed with our most nip-slip-prone tank tops, we were ready for all the weekend had to offer us.

We eventually got wind of a house party that was happening right on the edge of Boystown (if you have never been to Chicago, Boystown is basically an entire section of the city that is extremely LGBTQ friendly). This part was said to be unlike other house parties, because it was going to be a “porn and pasta party.” Seeing naked men and eating carbs are two of my favorite activities, so immediately I was eager to attend.

Arriving to the party a little late, there was already a group of strangers surrounding the television in the apartment’s living room. The apartment was fairly large and in the kitchen, pan upon pan of rolls, fried chicken, and pastas were laid out. Opening up a beer, we uncomfortably sat down and watched in silence. The porn playing on the TV was a grainy one from the early 90s in which the mechanic was not only fixing a man’s ignition, but helping him with his boner. The lighting was atrocious and the soundtrack was an ambient beat that could only have been concocted by someone on a Casio keyboard while they were robo-tripping.

In case you were wondering if I was a little nervous or freaked out? A little bit at first. About five minutes after the mechanic blew his wad and the scene changed, someone broke the silence with, “wait, now they’re fucking on top of a washing machine? That makes no sense.” After that, it was a porn-critique free for all. You see, porn is actually ridiculous when you take your hand away from your pants and really look at it. It is two people making ridiculous noises in impossible positions and the dialogue is on par with some of the worst episodes of The Hills. Once you strip away all the faux sexiness of it all, it honestly becomes one of the most hilarious things you could watch.

In that moment, I felt lucky that I lived in a time where my peers were so comfortable with the idea that porn isn’t always sexy, that it is staged and awkward and distanced from reality. We live in a time where those around us wonder if all the cyber sex is destroying our grasp of reality- from what I saw that night- maybe there is hope for us after all. We all seemed to understand that there is no laughing in porn. There are no fumbling hands or insecurities.

Eventually we all got bored with the porn (as all people eventually do) and ended up spending the night talking and eating delicious food. The next day we all reconvened and went to the Chicago Pride parade together and I wound up making some great friends. I can’t say definitively whether or not being able to watch porn and comment on it with a group of almost strangers is progression or regression for my generation. All I can tell you is I’ve never had more fun watching someone get plowed and it sure as hell felt more poignant than an orgasm.