To set the scene, I have just arrived at my first orgy. To my surprise, this early in the evening it looks like any other cocktail party, with fully dressed people standing around to sip drinks and mingle.
A woman I had never seen before said, “Molly Ren?” as if she knew me. “I read your Twitter!” she explained, hugging me. “I’m Tilda!”
”Oh,” I said.
She drew me into an eddy of the conversation, and soon I found myself standing in a circle made up of myself, Tilda, Nate, and Byron. Naturally, the topic was how’d we’d found out about this party, and Byron told the usual story about how he’d been reading Jefferson’s blog, sent him an email, and, for some reason, been invited!
Because you are pretty, I managed not to blurt out, staring unabashedly at his cheekbones.
It turned out that me and Byron were the newcomers: neither of us had ever been to a party like this before.
Nate said he had been in Europe once during some kind of riot. He’d also been to a concert with a mosh pit. If you struggle in a mosh pit, he said, you get hurt. But if you just go with the flow, everything will be fine. Tilda nodded in agreement: the movement of these things was just like a good orgy, where you let the collective body take over.
See, Byron, I teased, now you know: in twenty minutes these people will strip off their clothes and throw their drinks over their shoulder and it will be like a riot and a mosh pit all in one. Aren’t you glad you came?
"What would happen if I bit you on the nipples?" I asked, encircling them with my fingertips. They were a normal size, but in my mind they are bright red.
He winced a little. “I wouldn’t like that very much.”
It’s true! I thought, exultantly, but I decided to leave them alone for now. “Have you had sex yet?”
"Tonight?" he asked.
No, I thought, I mean in your whole fucking life. I caressed his thighs and the bulge between them. “Do you want to fuck me first?”
"All right," he said. Was there a little bit of hesitation there? He made the houseboy get him another bourbon and took me by the wrist. "Sometimes you have to ask for a drink even when you really don’t want one," he confided to me as he led the way to Tilda's bedroom. I have no idea what this meant.
There were people sitting on the mattress on the floor, talking. “We’re going to fuck now!” I told them happily. They laughed, but I couldn’t understand why: weren’t they just as happy to fuck? I got on the bed first, just lying there since I was already naked. I could hear someone in the other room calling, “Jefferson, Jefferson!”
"They’re calling my name when I have a naked girl in front of me," Jefferson said to me, the nerve, and then he pulled down his pants. And because I was on the bed, exactly level with his crotch, for what felt like a minute I had a very good view of Jefferson’s Cock.
I think for split second upon seeing it, realizing it WAS his cock, I was terrified. Because Jefferson’s Cock had to be the size of a baseball bat. And then I realized it was a perfectly lovely, normal, average sized cock. And then I realized a second thing: he wasn’t hard yet.
That surprises me most of all, that he was entirely eager and willing and he wasn’t hard yet. And then he was in bed with me and spreading my legs and I realized he was going to give me oral.
"Don’t you need…stuff?" I couldn’t remember the word: dental dam.
"I need my mouth on your pussy," Jefferson said, and went down on me.
Ah well, I thought, it’s not like I’ve done any different with the last three people I’ve slept with.
It was an odd technique. The B.H.M. had flicked his tongue in and out of my vagina (and sometimes my anus) while I sucked his dick in the 69 position. It had been wet and warm and very often pleasurable when he’d hit a particularly sensitive spot. Instead, Jefferson seemed to seal his mouth to my vaginal opening. There was nothing wet to it, only a kind of…pulling. Occasionally there’d be a tiny movement, a pinhead of sensation that seemed too delicate to be made by the tongue. I lay on the bed, shifted my hips, trying to accommodate this new technique, and looked at Jefferson’s skull between my thighs. Looked at the ceiling, tried not to think. Breathe.
A clothed man answered the door, as if I were making a normal house call. I wondered if I would be fucking him later, started to introduce myself. He started to ask me something, then stopped short. It was as if he had been forbidden to talk, but had forgotten the injunction.
“Jefferson?” I said, invoking the only name I knew.
Instead of answering, the boy motioned for me to follow him upstairs. Though I could conceive of no other place I could be where a boy who refused to speak would lead me upstairs to a party when he had never seen me before, I began to wonder if, somehow, I had gotten the directions entirely wrong and was about to stumble into a hipster party to which I had not been invited.
At the top of the stairs the boy pushed the door open. I found myself in a lovely, white painted apartment, lined with books, chic art—and what seemed like an inordinate number of typewriters. In the living room was a group of people who were fully clothed, holding drinks, and the oldest one—a man—was holding out his hand to me and smiling, saying, “It’s Jefferson…” I shook his hand feeling as if my eyes were bugging out—I hadn’t recognized him. Somehow he looked entirely different than I had expected, even when we had talked over webcam once before—present in the moment, and very pleased with himself.
Gee, I thought, he is good looking. And so was everyone else in the room—
“..Florida?” Jefferson was asking me things and I wasn’t paying attention. “Where are you from?” he went on, looking at my dress, which hardly reached my knees, “Florida? It’s cold out..”
The boy behind me was taking my coat, and I realized they were all looking at me while I was still getting over the fact that they all were hot and no one wanted to rape me and I had to say something clever—“I’m from the land of POOR!” I blurted. I believe they may even have been amused.
It was no wonder I was having trouble finding my wit—my mind was occupied with the sea changes that were happening to it. The nagging anxieties of the past few hours—the agonies of the past few months—were banished in the swell of confidence I felt. It no longer mattered what other people wrote, or thought: I could feel the ease and mutual trust in the room, currents that would gently but inexorably move me to what I most wanted.
In short, dear readers, I melted. I went over to the kitchen, to mingle. The houseboy asked me if I wanted a drink.
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?”
"Let me say goodbye to people," I said, trying to gain more time to decide what I really wanted. And I really did wanna talk to Sinclair and Diva and Natt Nightly one more time.
I found Natt on the dance floor peeling of his shirt to show us his new tattoo. He was wearing a wife beater underneath.
Might I mention that Natt and Sinclair are the first two butches I have met in real life?
I totally forgot what I had come there to do and stared. This was how it had always been: me staring bug-eyed, tongueless with the kind of full-body surprise that comes over me at seeing these things, and ashamed of myself because of it. Stop staring! I think, and I can’t. After an awkward second I came to myself enough to make my goodbyes and went back to the bar to find that the boy who had wanted to fuck me had disappeared.
I was both really pissed and kinda happy. Mostly embarrassed. But then it dawned on me: He might be waiting outside.
And he was.
He took me to Brooklyn. We cuddled up next to one another on the subway seat and I put my head on his shoulder. We looked at the Sugarbutch Star chapbook, read a few lines of The Diner on the Corner. At some point I started rubbing his thigh and he grinned at me like it was the best thing in the world.
We talked about Littletown, where I live now. I guess that’s why I felt safe enough to go home with him, we were both from the same place. He was struggling to pay the rent, doing work for non-profits. I told him I wanted to try and live in NYC, someday. He told me that eventually I would tire of it. I felt a part of myself relaxing, eased after the stress of the party. It was nice just to lean my head on his shoulder…
Brooklyn. We got off, still talking, and I stopped for a moment to look over the railing before going down the stairs to the street. “Why does all of Brooklyn look the same?” I wanted to know. Those “Unisex” hair salons. That awning in the colors of the Italian flag. The outdoor produce…
"You want to get anything?" he asked, winking. He meant to feed him with. I looked at the rainbow array of fruits and vegetables and realized the prospect hadn’t even dawned on me, the feeder. But then again, the kinds of things laid out weren’t usually what people stuffed with. "We use soda, usually," I had told him, trying to act cool, like this was something I did every day.
"Yes, or milk." This was all new to him.
"Do you like watermelon?" I asked. He said he did. Watermelon was good, but could he eat half a one…
I looked at him and suddenly I couldn’t imagine doing it to him, what I thought of as my fetish. He wasn’t a feedee, really. I had known that, when I picked him up, because of his confusion. This wasn’t a fantasy of his, he just wanted to get with me.
And I didn’t want to force it on him, all that excess and strangeness and physical stress. Forget about it, I told him, we don’t have to do that. Let’s just do it the usual way….
More to come.