I wasn't wearing anything particularly sexy—just a black bikini top and bottoms. Before I left home, I pulled on a pair of wide-leg leggings, a basic black tee, and a faux-leather trench—an outfit meant to blend in with both the sea of city commuters and the crowd I was heading toward. I took the subway to lower Manhattan, double-checked the address, then hopped into an elevator with about a dozen strangers. At the coat check, we all disrobed. And then, I stepped into my 10th sex party.

My body and I are in a long-term negotiation; currently in a peaceful era, stable at a solid size 18/20. I've done so much work on not hating my body—on actually being buddy-buddy with it, enjoying Pilates, yoga, and acupuncture with the vigor of someone who really wants their body to function at its best. So while I'm not about to scrutinize my naked frame under dressing room fluorescents (and I refuse to slide back into that kind of self-deprecating thinking), I have full capacity for internalized harm, equipped with the mental lexicon of a mean girl from my self-hating past.

As I grew into myself—my interests, my art, my writing—my sexuality has also developed. In my late 20s, I started going to queer-specific parties and events and surrounding myself with queer people—an identity that felt more and more right as I leaned into adulthood. I loved a queer space's ability to see beyond the external. There is a tangible release from perfection, from the rigor of beauty standards, from insecurity. All the things I felt like were flaws on my body were suddenly given a marker of attractiveness.

At the same time, I was letting go of some damaging disordered eating patterns and actively seeking out people who looked like me and didn’t hate themselves. I found plus-size boutiques and art spaces, which eventually led me to sex toy shops—and that opened up a new door: sex parties. So. Hot.

My foray into queer sex parties came bit-by-bit, shaped by my own maturity and exploration of body acceptance and queer identity. At the beginning of this ride, I’d go, take a timid lap, feel too nervous to speak to anyone, and leave before midnight—curious, but not ready. But over time, as I started to embrace myself—not just sexually, but as a person—I saw my body differently. Not as something to fix or perform with, but as a vessel that brings me real pleasure.

I found parties through Instagram, mutuals, exes, hookups—each leading me to a new space. I remember standing in a shadowy corner at one of them, eye-fucking someone I’d never met until one of us finally said hi. That moment felt huge. Monumental—not just for me, but for every plus-size girl who dreams of a cinematic kind of experience that, I find, we’re so rarely afforded.