Fucking Day: Open House (Patreon)

Note: Nothing crazy, but your boss won’t dig the screenshots.

Do open relationships work? Yes. Do televised relationships work? Fuck no. That shit will stomp your bond to death every time. Unless, of course, you both stay and become human power batteries for Channel 4.

Well, that’s a Season One graphic. Open House hadn’t found itself yet. I prefer later promo shots, after reality cracked.

That’s today’s show. I’m still cackling. We’ve jammed wedding rings into logo text before. Clutching a spellbook called “How to Fuck Different” feels fresher. Not smarter, a ship that’s left Alpha Centauri to explore new realms. But fresher.

Should I get my visa results before shitting on UK TV? Yes. Do I put survival before deadlines? Fuck no. I’m writing jokes until a colony drop hits Queens. And the Open House cast will still be fucking.

Or rather, the staff. There’s one contestant for every twelve FanHouse plants. Giving the orgies a small authenticity problem. More on that later.

She was on The Circle.

See, Open House: The Great Sex Experiment has three seasons and no brakes. It farmed ratings the same way you farm retweets, karma, or votes: asking if sex exists and leering at the answers. Each episode, doomed couples take their first tilt at nonmonogamy. Mostly unicorn hunting, but sometimes unicorn hunting. Usually to fix an unrelated, larger issue. It’s best to start slow, so they jump into group sex on a fuck compound.

One catch—I lied about the brakes. Open House makes Physical 100 look fast. Physical 100. A show I suspect never ended, but entered a reaction shot time loop. Instead of cutting between forty bored athletes, Open House cuts between two sad faces.

The subtitle lied as well: the show’s an experiment the way sack-wacking strangers for likes is an experiment. The outcome’s clear before palm brushes testicle.

These couples can’t survive Candyland. Adding more players is an afterthought.

Maybe it’s my fault. I’ve harassed C4 for moral posturing before. “Experiment” is an escape clause on monkey torture. “Putting serial cheaters in a more complicated dynamic? Who can predict the results? We’re demigods, not gods.”

Slow demigods. Seriously, the show limps across an hour. Given the pace, you might hope for something like a poly Terrace House. C4’s not buying that many cameras. Open House tracks two doomed couples at a time, as they argue next to naked influencers. Ve.ry. Slow.ly.

I, on the other hand, am going too fast. Again. For once, let’s slow it down.

The setup’s simple. Less experienced contestants show up for an idyllic retreat. There, sex therapists coach them through games, banter, and sex with veteran fuckers. Conflict explodes when…past insecurities….hold on.

Is this fucking Virgin Island? For orgies?

It’s Virgin Island for orgies. Move the goalpost of sexual experience from holding hands to restaurant teambuilding, and you have Open House. Though I guess this started first? So Virgin Island is Open House for virgins? My head hurts.

Almost genius, really. You can turn that dial forever. Have ten virgins? Virgin Island. Vanilla couples? Open House. Swingers? Pornstar Dojo. Pornstars? First Lady Training. Somehow, someway, this escalation ends in space.

Exhibit A: Jasmine and Al, a pair of married deer in blacklights from season one. They’re useful for a later point. Sometimes I have those.

Granted, Open House bets more on Liam and Stacey. Liam wants to delegate thrusting to another man. Meh. Car-crash TV’s like shock rap–trying too hard exposes weak fundamentals. Skipping racial baggage makes Liam the blandest man in this lane.

Open House also frontloads Maddy and Nathan, junior unicorn hunters. Nathan breaks down when the girls make eye contact with each other. The do-over’s all about patting his head and saying “Good dog.” A fine reminder that bad guests can ruin any party. Fitting: he’s a bouncer.

But I’m recapping these two. Jasmine and Al visited a fetish tourist trap, and caught a swinging bug. Well, Al did. Jasmine wants to sleep in, and doesn’t know what show she’s on.

They arrive at Undisclosed Resort with big dreams and no plan. Resident fuck-concierge Dr. Lori Beth gives them big dreams and a bad plan.

Or at least a tired plan. Lori enters Open House like she forgot they were shooting today. Whether you have a dead bedroom or a tumor, Lori suggests a bondage mixer. Where past Channel 4 Doctors were Faust’s interns, Lori’s more…there. You’d be better off searching group sex on Wikipedia. The disambiguation page is hot.

But I’m turning everyone into hilarious, Twain-worthy strawmen. Maybe they’re on the same page. Here’s the situation in their words:

Now a picture’s emerging. Al’s a full-grown “Game Over” t-shirt, Jasmine’s dissociated into her next life, and Dr. Beth has one idea. They’ve all been set up to succeed. In ratings.

At Jasmine’s party, she’s immediately flanked by headshots eager for hot, passionate fame. However things normally flow at this undisclosed location (a mansion in the West Midlands, if you trust reality TV reporters), the flow’s thrown off by lust for followers. Unless there’s another reason they’d siege a six foot blonde exploring casual sex. You know what, I’m too cynical. Let’s call it vanilla thirst. This swarm appears in every nightclub at 8:59.

The least awkward triceps stick around for hot small talk. In a catered yurt. There are bang tents on the retreat, rock with it.

Her suitor tries, but Jasmine’s out of mana and calls it early. Sometimes there’s a gap between your sense of humor and her wanting to be there even a little. Jasmine’s first night of swinging ends like mine on a cruise: zoning in bed, wondering when the fun starts.

Al takes it easy too.

He’s a slow burn kind of guy.

In the yurt, tied to the bed by the Powerpuff Camgirls, Al has the most human moment I’ve seen in the Channel 4 Semenverse. Or any reality show, for that matter.

He chokes.

Okay, I’m nudging the truth for reality. Al just decides not to push it without checking in. You know, the old pre-orgy text. It’s like two gigs of emotional intelligence downloaded at once. This clown show is the token functional couple.

The next night, Al and Jasmine have a normal Spring Break three-way. Which Jasmine both enjoys and hints will never recur as long as she draws untelevised breath. Fair play.

For all the lazy artifice, that’s pretty nice, isn’t it? That’s why I plucked this couple out. Season one has plenty of covertly broken, overtly broken, and fansite-promoting couples. These two tourists got a fun story for Al to retell forever.

That’s my only Open House recap. You know, like that old comic, Gallant & Gallant.

Nothing escalates.

Later, madness.

Season 3 opens with a long crawl through the FuckWyld. Where the Fuck Folk, free from mankind’s cares, sunbathe with backs arched toward the camera drone. Some frolic with tonight’s lover, others practice kegels beside tomorrow’s.

The montage leaks golden nonsense, and earned this article. While both season openers lean into theatrics, the third gets jellicle about it. The setting—we’re camped further from reality this round—melds the plastic sheen of a pharma ad and the priorities of Sex House.

After the overhead tour of Makeout Point, Makeout Pool, and Makeout Patio, we hear from the fuckers. Every demographic appears: blonde, dreadlock, polo, and tattoo. They’ve gained fresh confidence in their message:

Perfectly curated for hate mail. If imageboards weren’t a demon’s side project, today’s title would be “This is Bait.” Extra points to Marie, who can see the resentful Anglican boners in the Daily Mail comments. May her vertical thrive with paypigs.

To be clear: Open House sucks bad. I don’t cosign touching an episode. But this montage gets points. The tone blends a Carnival Cruise ad and a sex ed video from Ocho Rios. If every film has a lesson, Open House taught me to leave reason on read and fuck beyond the impossible.

Perfect for half of our feature couple. Meet Mark and Tanith.

Per kayfabe, Mark’s cheated six or twenty times. On Tanith, and every prior relationship. Tanith has, in an inventive stroke, opted to make cheating impossible. Shame that path has even more rules, unless you have a PhD in decision theory. Lesson one: “You probably don’t need a Ph.D in this.” Lesson two: “dump Mark.”

Remember how Dr. Beth sort of fought for couples? In her own bumbling, “the nice prison guard” way? Chuck that shit. Our new coach Effy Blue’s a DM that writes your lines. She’s 100% fame-powered, and radiates all the insight and restraint that implies. If Lori saw key parties as a universal cure, Effy sees a universal purpose.

For example, During Lori’s reign, most couples talked about boundaries first. To fill time, if nothing else. Effy has shit to do. Instead, Mark and Tanith learn how little can go wrong, priming them for deluxe success.

The Open Tenants head to high school-esque events (think truth or dare, or kissing through a playing card), to test their limits. For her part, Tanith (quality band, by the way) tries to party. She’s a living ball of nerves, concerned that Mark might do what he’s done all his life at every opportunity. Sounds paranoid, really. Her cocktail mixer’s full of sweaty potential. But Tanith’s not that into doing things without Mark. Like smiling, or escaping compounds.

Meanwhile, with Mark, the influencers smell their own.

Like I hinted, Mark and Al have a little in common. This bit goes differently.

Again, it’s the season premiere. Open House wants a statement rival warlords can’t ignore. The old robot-hosted dating shows are weak, and a new kingdom rises. Open House is as beyond Love Island as Love Island is beyond good taste.

Does this series of events seem organic? Or instructive? Open House is two seasons past giving a shit. The repilot needs an orgy with more blondes than cameras, and it’s not the last.

And if mixing these two scenes seems cold: Open House did it first. The editors love Mark’s five-way almost half as much as Tanith’s slow-motion implosion. Five butts are nice, but one breakdown is money.

Then Tanith summarizes the show. And reality TV. And modernity:

Oof. I’d take wacky caption credit, but C4 owns this bit of human darkness. And curated it for your entertainment. For all the voiceovers gesturing toward progress, Season 3 stars open divorces. Without the narrator, Open House flows like a Baptist sermon on “the culture.”

But it’s okay, because Tanith wants Mark to stay. So she changes her boring hopes and dreams. With her brand-new soul, she gets unicorn hunting and connects with Marie, the neighborhood French lingerie model. And champion of the opening fuck-montage.

Her real line’s funnier: “Sex is healthy, so I do a lot of healthy stuff.” Fantastic. Straight from a Buddha’s Raya profile. I suspect Marie could write this column.

Still, the game’s a little too obvious. You only get Open House screentime if you fuck the couple or fail in style. Maybe it’s hard for runway models to find crust punks with heart. But everyone that bones down has a job where exposure saves your mortgage. Dancer. Reality TV lifer. Lingerie model. Including some contestants: Season One had a pair of mom & pop pornstars, testing if they should open up or learn C#.

Anyway, they fuck.

And everything’s fine! At least that’s what the voiceover and closing still say. Every word from Tanith adapts r/dating threads titled “Betrayal.” But the closing title card says it's irie. C4 torments their cake and celebrates it too.

At this rate of escalation, Open House will end in space. I don’t know if they’ll find Namekians or Anti-spirals up there. But I’m certain they’ll fuck them.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Russell Bauman, who fucked around the world in 40 days, only to return home to an open house with nobody in it. Tragic!

You can read this article and every other one on the much better in every way 1900HOTDOG.COM