Mouthpiece: The Great Sex Purge of George Square
Does the two-pronged release of Wuthering Heights and a new Peaches album mark a very sexy fresh era for mainstream culture? Our regular columnist Kevin Fullerton visits an orgy in George Square to find out
I emerged from the writhing mass of grasping flesh for a brief sit-down between thunderous orgasms, lank with sweat as the patrician glare of Walter Scott peered down at me. ‘What are you looking at?’ I sneered. ‘This is the most fun you can have without laughing.’ I was attending the inaugural Sex Purge, a new legally mandated day in which the crotch-centric hang-ups and restrictive nomenclature created by dating apps and an increasingly conservative media were flung aside for a 24-hour free-for-all of no-holds barred rutting.
This year, in place of Valentine’s cards, Keir Starmer (who announced the Purge while cupping himself and swigging mouthfuls of brandy from a diamante decanter) encouraged participants to delete their Hinge account, make lustful eye contact with all and sundry, and get down and dirty in the nearest layby with consenting strangers. Sex Purge orgies were established in city squares across the country, including this Glasgow one, with bashful individuals choosing to bear witness from the nearby Wetherspoon’s pub garden.
I put on my complimentary Sex Purge embroidered dressing gown and removed my Jason Statham face mask (which I had brought myself) to watch a few of the keynote speakers at the event. Emerald Fennell bounded on stage, forced to shout over the guttural groans of orgiastic Glaswegians. ‘Hi guys! It’s Emerald!’ she declared in her frankly incomprehensible southern English accent. ‘I’m here to talk about my new romance Wuthering Heights, which I’ve filled with as many knobs and naughty bits as possible. I can tell from the sounds of this crowd that you’re going to love it.’ Next up, Peaches promoted new album No Lube So Rude by serenading her somewhat distracted fans with moving renditions of ‘Fuck Your Face’, ‘Hanging Titties’ and ‘Fuck How You Wanna Fuck’. Her up-tempo electronica acted like an erotic metronome for the crowd, who timed their mangled thrusts accordingly.
I couldn’t help but wonder if, after more than a decade of sex in mainstream art acting as a toxic space, the transgressive eye of Fennell and Peaches marked a new era of viewing sexuality with puckish joy instead of suspicion. Maybe we’d finally made progress. Then I remembered I was at an orgy. So, with dutiful care, I removed my gown, replaced my Jason Statham mask, clenched a large rose between my buttocks and waded back into the filth-flinging chaos. After all, it was Valentine’s Day.
Disclaimer: the Sex Purge is an invented concept. The List bears no liability for any mass orgies which may occur in George Square on 14 February (although we’d be happy for an invite).