“Nothing below the waist from the front. Men or women. Buttocks are fine. Breasts are fine.”

Twenty of them, nervous, excited, cheerful, awkward. Ten men, ten women. Over the last ten weeks they have been poked, prodded, quizzed, scraped, tested, retested.

“How… I mean… what about the sex?”

They are all bisexual–better TV, keep people guessing who’ll end up with whom.  They have taken psychological evaluation after psychological evaluation.

“Sex is fine, so long as you don’t show anything below the waist. No genitalia. You gotta be creative. Drop some dutch angles in there, use that film school degree.”

 They have been asked exhaustive questions about their sex lives. How many partners have they had? When did they lose their virginity? Top or bottom? Be specific. Cite examples. A purity test with a reference check.

“Everybody gets their own room, but each room’s got cameras in it. Don’t forget that. Y’got no privacy while you’re here. Anything you do, we see. They see.”

No one is prudish. No one has had fewer than twenty partners over the last five years. None of them are over 40, or under 25. No one has a bad reference, at least as far as conduct goes. Bad sex is fine, if there’s demonstrated improvement, but meanness is out.

“All right. We’ve got five months, and things are gonna get stressful, and most of you aren’t gonna make it. Before we get going, though, I want everyone to hug. Yeah, yeah, come in close, hug it out. Group hug. Remember this feeling. Remember you are all good people, but that only two of you can win.”

They hug, only half-cynically, and the first season of Orgy Fuckhouse Supreme gets underway.