If sex sells, fashion industry alum Daniel Saynt may be one of its finest contemporary salesmen, offering millennial media-savvy marketing and a plan for world domination with his private sex club, NSFW. His aim is to “revolutionize how the world fucks.” But even in 2019, it’s tough to make some people come.

In June of this year, a disturbing e-mail went out to the 2,000-strong membership of the New Society for Wellness, a.k.a. NSFW, a New York-based private pro-sex and cannabis club where a group of mostly 20- and 30-somethings regularly convene to smoke, fuck, and chill (or any of the above).

“This past May has been absolute shit,” Daniel Saynt, the organization’s 36-year-old founder—he calls himself the “chief conspirator”—began, continuing, “I hate to open a message like that, but it’s completely honest. Piles and piles of shit.” The shit, as it were: banning and censorship on various social media platforms as well as public discrimination faced ever since NSFW opened the doors of its very first Clubhouse in Manhattan in 2016. They were being evicted from their Highline Clubhouse, their third, due to allegedly immoral activities. They’d been kicked off their payment-processing systems, PayPal and Stripe, with nothing more than a blanket explanation why. NSFW doesn’t sell sex, instead merely providing the space and opportunity to have it for consenting members—but their accounts had been frozen, which meant that the membership system and processing of event passes was also down, and the money in the kitty (they did about $90,000 in revenue in April, Saynt says, and take in about $10,000 a month in membership fees) was inaccessible.

This was a blow, to say the least, and not just for the chief conspirator. Gabby, a 27-year-old member who found her way to NSFW after dating someone in the kink community, describes the news as “horrendous.” She didn’t go every week or even every month; even so, “this was a home away from home where I could be myself and do whatever my heart pleased for that day,” she says. “No consequences, no judgments.”

NSFW is a New York-based private pro-sex and cannabis club where members regularly convene to “play” with other members. Philip Friedman

But Saynt (pronounced saint), a cuddly, bearded guy who wears a kilt and bunny ears to parties, had a plan. Saynt has a lot of plans, and a lot of contingency plans. When you’re in an industry that faces censorship and shutdowns pretty regularly, you have to be able to operate on a variety of levels at all times—which is why the branding agency side of the business, NSFW Creative, which partners with brands like MotorBunny and PornHub to create events and experiences that provide an angle of funding beyond membership, accounts for about 40 percent of its total monthly revenue. Then there are the product extensions, like a new cannabis strain with Cherry Kola Farms. A TV show and a first book by Saynt (think “50 Shades meets The Joy of Sex”) are also in the works. As for the sex parties, along with “PlayDate,” where “open-minded members of our exclusive sex-positive society” engage in “an opulent bacchanal,” there are game nights, cannabis banquets called Dankquets, and informational series on kink, BDSM, and more. “Send Noobs” is a regular introductory event often held at a “vanilla space”—a public spot like a bar or club where kink isn’t generally openly accepted—to talk about sex education and consent. Pending Clubhouse availability, members can rent rooms there for a private party, or they can rent out the whole thing. So can TV and movie production crews.

“Daniel has a dedicated 10-year plan, like a tunnel vision,” his former club manager and talent director, Victor, tells me. That ultimately involves “automating” NSFW—akin to the SoulCycle model, across cities, or maybe even Tupperware, where people are empowered to start up their own business—to eventually open a NSFW in Paris, in L.A., and on and on. Saynt hopes to introduce the first NSFW Playhouse, an adult playground with kink and fantasy theme rooms, in Brooklyn next year. Pretty soon, they’ll launch an in-Clubhouse shop featuring branded NSFW products. Another plan is to travel the college circuit providing sex education talks for the new generation. Meanwhile, the team is at work on a kind of consultancy model; for instance, if someone wants to host a sex party, what do they need to buy? “We have an Amazon list of everything you need: paper towels, wipes, etc.,” says Melissa A. Vitale, NSFW’s 26-year-old communications director. It may seem too much and all over the place, but Saynt’s staffers, who seem as invested in the mission as he is, trust their leader. “I've witnessed him saying, ‘I'm going to do this,’ and the next month, he did it,” Victor says.

Daniel Saynt in the clubhouse, with his signature bunny ears and kilt. Philip Friedman

Multiplicity comes naturally to Saynt, who grew up as a third-generation Jehovah’s Witness in the Bronx, the son of Puerto Rican parents who wanted him to become a missionary. He changed his last name from Santiago to Saynt in 2003, in part because the New Testament’s book of James is “Santiago” in the Spanish Bible, but also because of the discrimination he faced in fashion spaces where, when hearing his last name, people would send him to the kitchen. (He spelled “Saynt” with a “y” so as not to offend his mom.)

“Sex before marriage was forbidden, as was masturbation and any form of impure thinking,” he says of his upbringing. “I knew I was bisexual at age 12. I remember hating myself for years, feeling like I must have been possessed by a demon for feeling the way I felt. I couldn’t talk to my parents about it.” Instead, Saynt embarked on a double life, sneaking away to group sex parties starting when he was 16. He married a woman in 2009, keeping his bisexuality a secret from her until their divorce in 2015. Along the way, he held prestigious roles in fashion and luxury lifestyle marketing, including as chief marketing officer for Rebecca Minkoff and chief innovation officer for Nylon Media, and then co-founded the marketing agency Socialyte, which focuses on digital influencers. In the background, he was throwing “naughty events” at his apartment to explore his sexuality, and by 2015, he'd decided to take steps to make that his official business. In 2016, the first Clubhouse was running out of his Bowery apartment. In January of 2017, he posted a piece on his website entitled “How Trump Inspired Me to Quit Fashion and Create New York City’s Most Elite Private Sex Club,” noting, in the first line, “Okay, so the title is total clickbait, but come on, would you expect any better from me?”

If sex sells, Saynt may be one of its finest contemporary salesmen, offering a blend of millennial media-savvy marketing (GIFs populate his e-mails and the NSFW Web site); an eye for a luxe, loungey style that’s both aspirational and accessible (lots of pink neon lights, sexy images reflected on walls, and plush textiles you can sink into); and a tell-it-like-it-is quality that is, at the same time, hyperaware of how he’s coming off. He’s intensely low-key, with goals that are very much the opposite: He “wants to revolutionize how the world fucks,” says Vitale, a lithe brunette who, with her braying laugh and penchant for double entendre, has a distinct appeal you can’t quite put your finger on. (She keeps calling me “my queen” in e-mails, and I start to like it.)

Rope artists regularly perform at NSFW events. Philip Friedman

But running a business is different than sparking a movement. Saynt hopes to do both. First, of course, you have to profit. It’s happening, or it would be, he says, if they didn’t keep getting the rug pulled out from underneath them. Each week, events mostly sell out, with the cheapest access pass being $40, “which brings in substantial monthly revenue.” Access passes are for single events and are sold via Eventbrite; you need a code (which you receive as a member) in order to buy them. “Each event has its own production, so the ticket covers that, and the membership fee is just to support being a part of the community,” says Vitale. It’s kind of like joining a museum but paying extra for special exhibits. “If NSFW were able to process payments,” Saynt says, “a monthly membership of 2,000 people would generate about $60,000 in monthly revenue.”

Okay, but how do you become a member in the first place? You have to submit a profile, which Saynt and his team (“the Council”) approve or deny based on whatever magical algorithm they see fit—after all, what makes people attractive isn’t always something you see in their profile picture right away. “Your answers on profile questions factor into your approval,” notes the website, while Vitale adds, “It's not anything related to your job or your picture or what you look like … but we want our members to be excited by everyone who comes in the door.”

Both membership and event pricing have fluctuated wildly over time; every time there’s an issue with a payment system, Vitale tells me, Saynt rejiggers things, which may be why it’s so hard to pin NSFW down on exactly what they’re making, or would be, if things were functioning properly. “It’s hard to have long-term goals when we could get booted off another system any day,” adds Vitale. Memberships originally started at $69 a year; the current system involves an upfront initiation fee of $200. Once you’re a member, you can upgrade your membership for $29 per month, Saynt tells me, which gives you first access to events, a featured account on NSFW’s private social network, and 50 percent off your access passes. For $2,690 per year—Soho House New York, comparatively, is $2,160 per person per year—you get unlimited access to events with a guest. For a $10,000 per year “key-holder membership,” you get unlimited access for you and three guests (“ideal for couples bringing couples”) as well as the chance to hold your own private event for “a curated experience,” at the Clubhouse annually. “But we never wanted to make it something where we’re just catering to rich people,” Saynt clarifies. Without all of the problems they’ve been facing, he estimates they’d be at a 50 percent profit margin for the clubhouse, money they’d be reinvesting in growth: “By now we should have a second Clubhouse, and be on our way to a third, in another city.” Instead, they’re basically breaking even.

Still, the goal has always been a lot loftier than simply making money. Along with franchising his clubs in cities around the world, Saynt wants to move the needle on a stalled conversation about sexual openness in today’s society, to educate people about consent, and to generally help people become a little bit happier about what they want and who they are, with the help of orgasms and weed. And why should a sex club be taboo anyway—except for, you know, all the vastly engrained concepts of Puritanism and patriarchy that run throughout American history? Saynt still doesn’t have much of a relationship with his parents, who view him “as an apostate—someone trying to turn people away from God,” he says.

White-clad “nymphs” are NSFW staffers who survey the scene for any trouble. Philip Friedman

It may seem that we’ve come a long way toward sex positivity, but if there’s a lesson from our time, it’s that for every group that gains acceptance in society, there’s another just waiting in the wings. Not only that, we’re always in danger of swinging right back in the other direction. “It’s a war on sex,” Saynt tells me when I first reach him by phone, soon after the news of the Highline Clubhouse and PayPal/Stripe fiascoes. He recounts the story of the eviction: As part of a safety initiative, the FDNY inspected the Highline space, a former Escape Room, while they were closed. “They came in unannounced, walked into our dungeon room, and the fire chief came out and called it my ‘rape room,’” Saynt says. “He said I needed to get Jesus in my life and immediately called the police department.” When a search turned up a few ounces of cannabis and a CBD vape pen, as well as a couple bottles of liquor, Saynt was arrested and held in jail for almost 18 hours. Ultimately, Saynt and his lawyer made a deal with the DA’s office to avoid a criminal conviction in exchange for a $120 fine and two days of community service. Add in his lawyer fees for the criminal charges and negotiating an exit with his landlord and he spent $8,000 on all this, he says.

Saynt acknowledges he’s in a privileged position—not only with his media connections and marketing experience, but in his simple ability to afford a lawyer. Even so, “I’m fucking going crazy by how much I have to fight to make this happen,” he says. “It seems like it should be so simple.” He notes that NSFW has been disabled by Instagram four times, leading them to protest in front of the social media site’s offices. And they won’t ever tell you exactly why, he bemoans.

It’s a similar story for the payment processors, like PayPal and Stripe. While they’ll send you a notice that your account is being shut down for violating their policies, getting a specific answer from them on what exactly you did wrong can be more difficult than, say, running a sex club in New York City. “They freeze the account for up to 180 days, and you wait,” he says. “There was zero warning, we just couldn’t log in. They never say why, just ‘PayPal chooses not to work with you.’ All our memberships built into PayPal are now gone.” When reached for comment, a representative of PayPal replied, “From time to time, we may close accounts that have violated our policy, which is outlined in our Acceptable Use Policy.” Per that policy, “certain sexually oriented materials or services” are prohibited. When pressed to clarify what that included, PayPal did not respond. A Stripe representative noted that “As a policy, we don’t comment on any individual users” and pointed me to a blog post for “general context.” NSFW, it seems, would fall under the category of a business like pornography or sex toy shops, which poses “a brand risk,” and though “Stripe doesn’t independently reject businesses based on brand risk … we’re at times obliged to enforce the restrictions of our partners. This category is highly subjective and therefore the one we like enforcing least.”

Erotic art and neon signs decorate the entrance of the clubhouse. Philip Friedman

It’s a seemingly endless battle. As this story was going to press, Saynt received a notice that his account on the mobile payment app Venmo, which is owned by PayPal, had been frozen “due to recent activity that triggered some security alerts.” As of November, NSFW was on a new system, but Saynt didn't want to say which one, for fear of getting flagged again. They’re also working on launching a crypto-based system, where premium members will be able to pay through Bitcoin and Ethereum. Sure, there’s a lot coming at him, but Saynt's not not giving up. After his time in the fashion and beauty world left him feeling “a little bit dead from marketing shoes and handbags to people who could afford them,” he says, this is his cause. “I needed to fight for sex, cannabis, things that bring real happiness; I needed to build something that will bring a community together. How do we get these conversations going?”

A whole lot of ways, actually. Along with NSFW, Saynt is working on a public initiative focused on non-vanilla lifestyles, dubbed PRo SEX, which recently held a rally—“a sexy night of discussing the policing of sex positivity”—as part of Sex Expo New York; and one of its goals is introducing anti-slut-shaming legislation in Congress. “What many people don’t realize is that if they are kinky, polyamorous, in open relationships, or even if they have taken nude photos, they are at risk for discrimination by housing companies, their jobs, and for common financial services used in business,” Saynt says, adding, “We’ve spent years fighting for the rights of the LGBT community and have largely ignored the rights of people looking to expand their sexual boundaries.” Despite all the shit, it helps to have a common public enemy. “The president has been accused of raping people. Why are you upset that we’re consenting to sex? Love speech is more banned than anything else. We’re realizing it’s a bigger fight ahead.”

Nymphs are tasked with looking out for “creepers” at each event. PHILIP FRIEDMAN

Turns out, in order to write about a sex club, you have to actually go to a sex club. Fortunately, despite NSFW’s Clubhouse eviction, they’re continuing to operate at various spaces in the city, helped along by members who, handily, have ready access to prime real estate. That’s how I end up at a pop-up PlayDate event held at a five-floor townhouse in the East Village, acquired through a “member connection” on a Saturday night in July. Beforehand, I meet Gabby at a nearby bar for some liquid courage—pregaming is part of the party, she assures me, as is not eating much that day; after all, if you’re going to get naked with strangers, you want to be feeling your most svelte. I’m just there to observe, but I have butterflies verging on nausea. There’s a certain kind of bravery it takes to walk into a sex club, even if you’re just walking into a sex club. Maybe, I reflect, this is part of the fun?

As a press person, I’m getting in for free, but Gabby has paid $39 for the opportunity (at the time she joined, there was no membership fee). Generally, those who identify as female pay less than men do for tickets, which Vitale says is to offset the pink tax, wage gap, and “how much more women have to pay to get ready and attend a party like this—usually a cab since their outfit is too salacious to wear on the subway.” Additionally, Saynt doesn’t want women to feel in any way obligated to male dates who pay their entry costs. Back when NSFW began, many events were free. Tickets later rose to a cheeky $6.90 per event; now they can run upwards of $500 for “premium experiences,” says Saynt, noting, “We try to keep our average ticket price around $40 to ensure our events are accessible for as many people as possible.”

There’s a doorman in a suit standing outside; we show him our phone passes and are ushered into the first floor of a dimly lit space with a couch and chairs and a bar area (it’s a BYOB situation where no booze is sold, but you can help yourself, or a bartender will mix you a drink). Black-and-white BDSM scenes flicker on walls. We’re some of the first people there. I’ve come early, wanting to get the talk about consent that I’ve heard precedes any event, but nothing official ever comes. Instead, we’re greeted by one of the white-clad “nymphs”—staffers who survey the scene for any trouble—who tells us to find her if we have any issues. I take out my phone, briefly, and am told to put it away by another staffer. While the no-phones rule seems ostensibly to protect the privacy of members, it strikes me that it’s a lot more likely people will start up conversations with strangers, and then, maybe more, when they don’t have the fallback plan of checking their Twitter account.

Pretty soon, there’s a parade of people entering the space, some in bondage wear, straps and chains and leather. Others are dressed simply (the dress code for PlayDate is generally “black” and “sexy”) in jeans and T-shirts, or more elegantly in cocktail dresses with lacy overlays, and a lot of women—“our audience is about 42 percent male, 55 percent female, and 3 percent non-binary,” Saynt says —have on straight-up lingerie. Many are white, most are in their 20s or 30s, and everyone is attractive, or at least interesting-looking. “There’s a taste of something for everybody,” says Gabby, “but it’s definitely pretty people.”

Melissa A. Vitale, NSFW’s 26-year-old communications director, pictured relaxing in one of the meticulously-designed rooms. Philip Friedman

As promised, people are also friendly, introducing themselves and asking what brought me there. Or maybe it’s that they suspect a reporter in their midst; when I acknowledge that to be true, some want to keep chatting while others immediately flee. “Are you here for a story or for yourself?” one asks, and I reply diplomatically, “I’m here to find out more.” Gabby and I venture upstairs, exploring each of the five floors of the space—one features several bedrooms with dorm-room decor, i.e., plain comforters and utilitarian lighting; another is a wide-open floor with low mattresses spread out, gym padding for exercise enthusiasts of a different sort. At the top, there’s a roof deck with patio furniture positioned in a way that seems strategic—lounge chairs clustered for small groups to gather on—and then, who knows what? We’re up there for a while when some people start to make use of the furniture for more than talking. Eventually, we head back downstairs, where I’m surprised to find a full-blown orgy—with maybe 20 participants; it’s hard to say in the dim lighting—has sprung up on the open floor.

Gabby excuses herself to take off her pants, and I wait, measuring where this singular experience lies on the spectrum between titillating and banal. There’s a floor of bodies writhing before me, kind of like a Hieronymous Bosch painting merged with one of those college fuck fest videos, and around us, there’s another layer of people just sitting around as they casually talk, sip drinks, and smoke joints. It’s both blasé and visceral, almost too intimate and animalistic, like peeking at gorillas doing it in the zoo. I think about how taboos benefit from being taboos. If whatever sex you wanted to have really was all out in the open, would it be as sexy? But then, sex is inherently sexy … isn’t it?

“It’s more about how it makes you feel being there, knowing that if you ever wanted to let loose, this is a safe space to do it,” says one member. Philip Friedman

Suddenly, we’ve both had enough. Gabby puts her pants back on, and we leave, heading again to a nearby bar to reflect on the evening. “I definitely had a good time,” she tells me. “I think it was a crowd that was excited to be back somewhere, just thrilled.” Though the space, with its multiple floors and smaller rooms, wasn’t as open, physically, as she would have liked. The event seemed couples-heavy (less appealing to her as a single), and she missed the Highline Clubhouse, which was “a bit like a playground; every room was a different scene from a movie, it was like every screwed-up wet dream you had from 12 to now. This was a little bit too normal,” she says, “but it’s a temporary fix for an overall problem, and everyone was excited to have a space where they could be weird, in their mind.”

Even if you’re not having sex, it’s empowering, she says. In fact, Gabby’s gone more times and not had sex than she has. “It’s more about how it makes you feel being there, knowing that if you ever wanted to let loose, this is a safe space to do it.” That safety and oversight was always part of the appeal of NSFW, she says, describing the alternative: “Sex parties in a seedy apartment in a basement in Brooklyn, where the [lack of] safety precautions were stressful.”

Not everyone, however, is such a believer in NSFW. At the party, I meet Brent (not his real name), a tall, dark-haired guy in his early 30s who’s attended a few PlayDate events. “There are some things I don’t like,” he admits when I connect with him afterward. “I think people are kinda pretentious. They like to appear like they’re so revolutionary in what they’re doing. Instead of making it about going against society’s norms, I wish they’d just admit they like going because they’re horny and they like the idea of having sex with a bunch of people.” We all have our own sexual proclivities, that’s kind of the point, and for Brent, the scene involved too many people having sex all in the same place. “The longer I stayed there, I realized, this does not really turn me on. I can’t really focus. I do like having another couple next to me, having sex. I can see all the details. But when there’s 15 couples … It’s a little too much.” Still, there can be unexpectedly traditional benefits to sex parties, he finds. Brent met someone at PlayDate, and though they didn’t have sex there, weeks later, they were still seeing each other. “That’s the last thing I expected to happen,” he admits, “but it happened!”

Members and NSFW staffers hang out in the middle room of the clubhouse; where a domme and sub (and others) would later perform. PHILIP FRIEDMAN

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of arousal, soon after I visit the pop-up, there’s a fourth Clubhouse in the works—right on Broadway in SoHo, Vitale tells me in semi-amazement, “but you can’t find it, if you don’t know where to find it.” This space too was sourced through a member connection—a member owns the entire building. “Members take care of us always,” says Vitale. “We have members who have spaces or restaurants or nightclubs; our members are well versed in New York City real estate. ‘I have this empty penthouse; do you want to take it over?’”

Once, Vitale reveals, during “a threesome or foursome or fivesome,” Saynt mentioned he was being evicted from the first Clubhouse, his Bowery apartment. One of the participants asked if he wanted to use his townhouse in Williamsburg for the next one. When that space started falling apart—“we fucked too much in the kitchen, we shouldn’t have done that,” says Vitale—they moved to the Highline, where they’ve had the most growth and space to date, and where Saynt started his “Send Noobs” event, in which he teaches enthusiastic consent and how to ask for it. Send Noobs is one of several precautions NSFW takes against unwanted advances. There are the nymphs, and “we also have a creeper report after events, so when someone acts out, we can get them out,” says Vitale, noting they’ve had very few instances of that.

“There’s a taste of something for everybody,” says one member, “but it’s definitely pretty people.” Philip Friedman

Thomas (also not his real name) is a member who joined in the beginning of 2018. He’d been accepted to other private sex clubs, including Chemistry, “very much about a straight-edge lifestyle, and usually an older crowd,” he says, and Wonderland, which describes itself as “The Technikolor Kink Party” and requires you to come with a “WonderBuddy” who can vouch for you (and vice versa). Thomas chose NSFW in part because of the education aspect. “Generally, except for NSFW, everyone does a pretty terrible job of advertising themselves for what they really are,” he adds. At NSFW, “I pretty much got what I expected: this appealing aesthetic, well-maintained, groomed space and crowd, education, and fun.” At other clubs, there’s some limited self-policing after a perfunctory talk on consent, he says, but “at NSFW, it’s very clear on the site what the policy is: drink water, don’t be a creeper—it’s clear in every e-mail, it’s clear in the messaging of anyone talking about the club. Participation is never required. You can come and see what it’s about and leave!” Thomas recalls just one uncomfortable experience, with a guy who was being too pushy. “I reported it to Daniel, he got back to me, and a couple of other people told me similar things: This was a guest of another member, and you will never see him or the member again.”

The bathroom boasts a quote from Dossie Easton. Philip Friedman

True to form, when I visit the new SoHo clubhouse in early September, a week after the opening, I notice hand sanitizer, lube, and condoms placed conveniently around the room, as well as that classic Ruth Orkin photo of a woman getting catcalled on the Italian streets, with “Don’t Be a Creeper” stickered over it in gold. “I call every Clubhouse Daniel's kinky dollhouse,” says Vitale, leading me around. “He’s like, ‘I want this to be a cuddle room, a fantasy room.’” The whole space has a neon pink glow; the bathroom boasts a quote from Dossie Easton that says “a slut is a person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you”; there are erotic books and art pieces stationed about; and texture reigns supreme—dark red curtains drape from the ceiling to break up various rooms, soft pillows and fur blankets cozy up beds and couches. Style doesn’t preclude functionality, though. I notice a pink plush bunny head, various paddles, gymnastics rings (for the other kind of gymnastics), and MotorBunny sex toys placed about on the floor.

I meet Amanda Rue, the director of partnerships, who got her job with NSFW after attending a party (she’s also a sensual reiki practitioner who sages before each event for the right energy, as well as the founder The Shift Workshop, a human resource consultancy that does sexual harassment prevention training in the workplace); Victor, the former Clubhouse manager, who initially bonded with Saynt over their shared love of the X-Men; and Vitale, whom I’ve been talking to over the phone for the last couple of weeks, and who’s wearing a sheer black skirt that shows off her butt cheeks, and has “like, four premium glitters on. They're four designer glitters” (she looks great). There are a couple of nymphs in lacy white robes, including the same bartender from the pop-up party. This is their job, but it’s also their community—they laugh and joke with each other, talking freely about their different kinks as well as the commonplace stuff of life, like Vitale’s recent breakup, or what they cooked for dinner the other night. Admittedly, I’m a reporter in their midst, but it all feels fairly authentic, and while they’re having fun, they’re also serious about the task at hand, and what it means to be promoting a sex-positive, cannabis-friendly message in everything they do. “It’s about the community and about having a safe space,” says Amanda. “We have a home again.”

After the workshop, members are usually so turned on that those watching on the beds start playing with each other. PHILIP FRIEDMAN

There are rope artists setting up in a corner, there to perform, and members are starting to trickle in early. These are the folks not only okay with but eager to talk to a reporter and be photographed: one guy wears assless chaps; a woman has glittery X’s over her breasts and not much else. “Typically the events begin with art, cocktails, and joints, with toys on display to help move the conversation along,” Vitale explains. “Then we have instructors perform in a way that is informative and sensual, where many couples group up and start undressing. After the workshop, members are usually so turned on from seeing a domme make her pet eat her out or whatever power dynamics are in play that those watching on the beds usually start playing with each other.”

After I talk to a few people about what brought them here and why—it’s a place where boundaries are respected; where there’s an open dialogue; where you can explore in a nonjudgmental arena, whatever your kink is; where there are no obligations and if you don’t like what’s happening, you can leave—Vitale grabs me and pulls me along with a few selected members to the back, where we talk about how they got involved with NSFW. Maybe 30 minutes into our conversation, I hear some moaning and realize that one of the women I’d spoken to earlier—a 20-something who talked about the kid she babysits—is having sex on the couch right next to me. I avert my eyes, even while realizing that might be the opposite of polite in this venue and try to focus on the interview at hand. “Welcome to NSFW, everybody!” says Vitale, laughing.

When we head up front again, the rope artists have been replaced by a couple of BDSM instructors. One of them, a tall, thin Asian woman clad in skintight latex, walks around a man on a leash, also in latex. She commands him to bark, and he does. I haven’t heard any overt consent talk here, but it’s clear that there’s an educational component at work, wrapped in a performative veneer that’s way more than you could ever get in a health class. People are entranced; they laugh, clap, and cheer. They’re here being exactly what they are—in this moment, anyway.

That so many people remain underground about their sexuality is what makes NSFW a movement as opposed to purely a sex club, says Thomas. “The reality is that most people in the world have a sex life and love sex, but there has been so much shaming and so much taboo around that for so many hundreds of years, that’s a huge obstacle to overcome.”

Vitale wearing “four designer glitters” and a sheer black skirt that shows off her butt cheeks. Philip Friedman

Gabby created a fake e-mail address to use when she joined, and, like many of the people I interview, doesn’t want to reveal her full name for fear of it impacting her career. (Many of the members and staffers I talk to keep their participation from their families, if not also their friends.) “There’s a stigma to it,” she says. “We’re just trying to have a good time, relax, orgasm a few times. Some communities think this is insane. So, we’re enjoying our lives in silence.” Talking about it is what will create change, she thinks. “In my experience with my friends, they thought I was crazy, but they thought it was crazy that I had a drawer of sex toys. If you keep talking, they start to ask more questions for themselves, and the more it’s like, ‘Okay, this sounds interesting.’”

And, in a time where there’s a lot of talk of being sex-positive, but not always a lot of actual follow-through, it’s something we need, according to a lot of members. “Like, if I’m holding my boyfriend’s hand in the subway station in Brooklyn, we’ll be called faggots one out of every three times, and harassed,” member Zachary Zane, a writer and sex activist, tells me. “Sex liberation, being able to have freedom in how you love, how you choose to connect in the world, unlocks joy and happiness,” adds Amanda. “It seems so taboo and so foreign, but it’s okay that you want to get tied up and see how that feels, that you want to have a safe space to do those things.”

“We are not people for whom sex and cannabis is an afterthought,” says Vitale. Philip Friedman

Saynt has many fingers in many pies, but his most marketing-savvy message of all may be this one of authenticity and freedom, an ability to craft your own (sex) life as you see fit. After all, when people are underground, they can’t help wanting to come back up for air. Several weeks after the PlayDate I attended in early September, I’m upstate in New York at my husband’s high school reunion, talking to one of his former schoolmates about what I do. “I’m working on a story about … Have you heard of NSFW?” I ask. “I bet my friend has,” he answers, and texts someone the question. Immediately, his friend writes back. Not only has he heard of it, I’ve probably seen him at an event. He can’t tell his work about what he does, but he sends a picture of himself in skintight latex, and I realize he’s the man who was being led around by the dominatrix, the guy who barked on command.

“I always thought to be successful I’d have to give up cannabis and my sex-positive lifestyle,” says Vitale. “Then I meet Daniel and these people who are prioritizing their orgies. We are not people for whom sex and cannabis is an afterthought. We have 2,000 kinky, queer New Yorkers who want regular events. We have to keep going.” That’s never been a question for Saynt, who tells me, “This is it. I will keep creating the life I want to make.”