Le Journal

Air Tahiti Nui et Air Tahiti ont officialisé la signature d'un accord de partage de code (codeshare) afin de fluidifier les déplacements au sein du Pacifique Sud. Ce partenariat devrait faciliter l...

Royal Caribbean a confirmé la prolongation de la suspension de toutes ses escales à Labadee, sa destination privée en Haïti, jusqu’en décembre 2026. Une décision liée au contexte sécuritaire du pays...

Hier soir, dans le sud de l'Espagne, deux trains à grande vitesse sont entrés en collision. Le ministre espagnol des Transports explique que le "choc a été terrible", projetant des wagons en dehor...

Séminaires corporate, lancements de produits, événements privés confidentiels… Avec Croisières Secrètes, une toute nouvelle structure lancée par une agent de voyages de métier, la croisière devien...

Everyone who has attended Oxford University knows about the sex parties. Many who haven’t been anywhere near the place do too. Oxford is the subject of endless fascination — the setting for movies like Saltburn and books like Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. And even before the image of David Cameron doing unspeakable things to a pig’s head was branded into the nation’s imagination a decade ago, the idea of posh boys and girls doing debauched things in rarefied surroundings made compelling tabloid fodder. The alleged porcine transgression is supposed to have taken place at the invite-only Piers Gaveston society ball, which since the Seventies has enjoyed a reputation as a highly exclusive party, complete with sex, a litany of class-A drugs, and a fortune teller. It has hosted the likes of Hugh Grant, as well as political elites-to-be — and takes place in a forest where groups can take shelter in yurts, away from the photographers known to stalk outside the event, hoping for a glimpse of someone famous’s son or daughter. But less well-known and storied than Piers Gaveston, however, are the houseshares. One such example is a 12-room townhouse, initially christened the House of Delphi, which has hosted fortnightly sex parties for the past ten years. These parties were smaller, more frequent, and styled as queerer and more progressive than Piers Gav — an alternative to the elite debauchery of the Bullingdon Club types. Oxford’s ceremonial and self-important bent lends itself to the more formalised sex party. Delphi has variously been described as a polyamorous community, an “art commune”, a “polyamorous commune”, a space for queer youth to explore their sexuality — and a cult. The house members have actively engaged in their own mythologisation, envisioning themselves as the spiritual descendants of Oscar Wilde or Lord Byron, and their orgies as bacchanals; cataleptic trance, epicurean excess. Oxford could never resist the arcane, the sense of ritual, history, and tradition being handed down from one generation to another. In this case, the “house of” prefix is a nod to the trans/drag ballroom culture of the Seventies and Eighties, and the Delphi part derives from the Ancient Greek oracle. (As a Greek, I always found Oxford’s obsession with ancient history amusing). The invitations arrive with little pomp and intrigue; usually in the form of a message on Facebook or WhatsApp. I never attended any Piers Gav or House of Delphi events, and the sources I spoke to were initially reluctant to share their experiences. Some feared reputational damage, some had signed NDAs, and others retained close networks with current members of the scene. Many described the parties as being “kind of weird”. Another dismissed Piers Gav as “really lame Oxford shit”. But it was also clear that these events were hugely important to people in finding their identity. Delphi, for one, was an experiment; how can a house, existing largely for the purposes of hosting group sex parties, actually work? Delphi operated as a houseshare; in signing the lease, you agreed to turn over both rent money and your room for events. The houseshare structure allowed members to share the cost of the parties, and provided a private and intimate space. The houses were run by a sort of Board of Directors, with some alumni staying on in an advisory capacity. As for the parties themselves, the various floors and rooms in Delphi were designated for different purposes. Much as a nightclub might have an R’n’B room, a cheese floor, and so on, Delphi had rooms for shibari demonstrations, pole dancing workshops, drag shows, dancing, and, of course, sex. It was next door to a houseshare of older nudists, so there was no risk of offending the neighbours. Everyone I spoke to had developed an esoteric philosophy around these parties and their purpose. It was not merely a soirée, but something more deeply-penetrating than that: a mode of living. “What Delphi is like at its wankiest… is…