I got lost on the way to the orgy.
Whoever wrote the directions was at fault. Or I had gotten off at the wrong stop. At any rate, I had circled around the same street twice now, and somehow always missed the turn that would allow me to arrive at the door to everything I wanted. Which is something I had been experiencing quite often of late, to speak metaphorically. I called them “oversights”, or “unseen circumstances”: some little detail that I had never thought to check, that somehow interfered with the whole operation.
Of course I didn’t have a cell number. That would have meant giving up my own.
I had ridden the subway for god knows how long, my swollen pussy attentive to every bump and vibration, my overactive imagination looking at every halfway attractive rider, wondering if they were “going my way”. If the boy oblivious to my gaze would “just happen” to get off at the same stop as myself. After a block we’d realize we were both on the same secret errand, and when we reached the apt. I could have sex with him. All of my subway crush dreams would come true in an instant.
He got off at the stop before mine. Instead, I was in a part of New York City I’d never been in before, and I was freezing.
I don’t do well with getting lost. At least in NYC, where you can get so far away from your starting point in so short a time. It plays on one of my irrational fears, this one being left alone, forever, in Greenland. As I traipsed about, trying not to trip over the broken sidewalks in the darkness, I reflected that by the time I got there everyone might have been fucked already. “You didn’t leave anyone for me!” I’d weep as I burst in three hours late, having circled endlessly around the same city block when the secret meeting place had been under my nose all the time. I felt the urge to giggle.
The crotch of my pantyhose became soaked. For the past fifteen minutes my pussy had been tingling as the blood flowed into it, and now with the thought of all that naked flesh so maddeningly close it had burst its wetness all at once. If I didn’t get help soon, I’d go insane with pent up lusts and the next morning they’d find me gibbering on the sidewalk.
An old woman (the most-non threatening individual I could find) suggested that I go to a nearby community center to ask for directions. The name of this fine establishment failed to make an impression on my memory, but the gentleman inside was very helpful, explaining that instead of a left, I should have taken a right. Within minutes, I was standing in front of a door that matched the description I had been given in all particulars. I pushed the button.
“It’s Molly Ren,” I said, shaking. “Can you let me in?”