It was, at the Very Posh Sex Party, as it ever was.
There will be cheese cubes. There will also be a plate of desultory fruit, and another with careful loops of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. At the end of the night, as the columnist from [redacted] rides the young bro journalist from [redacted], her red g-string pulled to the side, her breasts plumped out of her corselet, mouth smeary-drunk with nuzzling and champagne, the cookies will be undisturbed.
But the cheese, orange as a kindergartner’s sun, gets eaten. I can think of few foods less conducive to sex than cheese cubes——chili, I suppose——yet there I am, at a sex party, and there are cheese cubes.