Laura Meets Jeffrey (16 page)

There were lots of black tough guys, a smattering of some wise guy business associates with a taste for “melanzane” (for some reason Italians either love blacks or hate them; I don't think they can be neutral) and those like Andrea and I, the invited.

I got invited to my first orgy with this group because a female friend of mine, a doe-eyed vixen of a Jewish girl, a bit pushy but quite sexy, was the girlfriend and top call girl of Bob—pimp, dealer, and party-giver. Bob liked fucking Andrea who especially liked fucking him, so we were always re-invited.

Black outlaw parties, and I went to at least seventy-five, mostly in Brooklyn's Park Slope, featured the wildest sex, including a little bondage and mild PG13 S&M. Most of the girls at these parties liked bad boys and girls that like bad boys are usually submissive.

More intense than the joy of hippie innocence, stronger than the erotic edge derived from shame and guilt, more powerful than the power of class privilege, is the gusto of pure, knowing, shove-it-in-your-face hedonism of those who live outside the law.

These bacchanals were incredible feasts. Not the gourmand-inspired huge deli trays of the middle-class, but spectacular gastronomic festivals of lobster, shrimp, crudités, homemade fried chicken Southern-style cooked in bacon grease, prime rib, expensive nouvelle cuisine every bit as good as the nouveau riche served, plus take-out Northern and Southern Italian from the best restaurants in Little Italy when wise guys dropped by. We were routinely indulged with delicate sauces, gorgeous presentations, the finest china, crystal, silver, and even goldware.

Not one piece of goldware was ever missing I'm sure. There's a sign in a martial arts store in Soho, London, that says, “We Dare You To Shoplift.” No such unsubtle reminder was needed here.

Sometimes, if fewer than the normal thirty people were invited and there was enough room around the dining table, we ate together before the orgy and had a chance to show off our clothes and wit. More often we ate in shifts. Couples and groups would gravitate between fuckings toward the dining room and the food.

The conversations, clothed or unclothed, were no different from any group of hip twenty-somethings having a private dinner in the back room of a restaurant; sports, movies, books, TV, or something that you read about in the papers. Rarely something sexual. Lots of laughing and lightness.

Naturally, drug-dealer orgies always featured vast supplies of the best-quality pot and occasionally small amounts of cocaine. Cocaine didn't hit the big time till the late '70s and too much of it, even a smidgeon too much, can make men lose their erections so it was never that popular with orgy crowds.

Marijuana is a homeopathic dose of schizophrenia. It complements an overabundance of sex with strangers. It also enhances all your senses and appetites, which is why it has medical applications. It's the perfect orgy drug.

Bob often peppered his parties with delightfully sleazy, swinging Eurotrash he and his Jewish girlfriend would meet during their frequent two-week binges blowing money in Europe. I'd get to fuck fast-talking, dark-haired, skinny Italian girls who would shout in melodic Italian when they came, and tall Scandinavians, the kind that darker Jewish boys are genetically encoded to lust after, the girls of Aryan propaganda, the kind Hitler wanted for breeding stock. At one of Bob's parties I once fucked a ravishing Czechoslovakian TV star who was so wild that while coming she bit the foot of the girl next to her, who just happened to be Andrea.

Blacks, as they liked to be called then, who were into orgies always had the right music. At that time I loved the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, the Kinks, Jeff Beck and ZZ Top, and you can fuck to these white boys, especially if you are into quickies, but they just don't work at an all-night orgy when slow and long is the name of the game.

Black-sponsored orgies always had the right groove for sex. No music befits humping sweaty carnality like Isaac Hayes, Sly and the Family Stone, James Brown, Otis Redding, Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, Curtis Mayfield, Barry White, Brook Benton, The Spinners, Lou Rawls, Eddie Kendricks, David Ruffin, and the Godfather of Orgy Music—Marvin Gaye, whose “What's Going On,” “Mercy Mercy Me,” and “Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler),” so permeated my brain after hearing them during several hundred fucks with a hundred different women that even today, decades later, every time I hear these Marvin Gaye songs, they set off an electro-biochemical chain reaction way back in my dorsal cerebellum where an entire wing of retired neurons and worn-out dendrites line up to create synapses and I feel the ghost of hard-ons past.

GATHERING OF THE TRIBES

Tribes would sometimes meet for interdenominational councils. I attended a huge multiple clan swing night at a Holiday Inn in New Jersey. The banquet hall had a hundred mattresses on the floor, private security and live bands. You entered blindfolded through a gauntlet of mouths and hands and feathers and whipped cream.

Andrea and I went to non-stop weekend bashes at resorts where I learned, at twenty-four, that a sixty-three-year-old woman can be a hot babe. We went to dude ranches with 300 couples of every color, age, and perversion. I was summoned into a room to service a woman, who was on her knees blindfolded, begging for another “gangbang mystery fuck,” who called me “Number 31.” By Sunday afternoon I ran out of sperm and then the blood pressure necessary to raise the beast.

ORGYMETRICS

The equalizer at orgies is stamina, which was my strong suit. Toward the end of the evening there were always more willing women than men. It's a simple physical reality that men need to be willing and able and women merely need to be willing. Late night is when guys like me who could get it up over and over and over and over earn their stripes.

For example: It's the tail end of an orgy that started at 9:00 p.m. with fourteen couples and it's now 2:30 a.m. and only five couples are left. Three of the guys are sleeping or at least have a sleeping penis which leaves five active women and two guys, and I am usually one of them. All of a sudden my stock goes up five points.

There are at least two women playing with each willing man and maybe I am the lucky guy with three. Plus, think about it. What kind of woman is still hungry for sex at the end of an orgy after getting fucked maybe six, seven, eight, nine times already? A very horny, highly sexed animalistic fucky one that would be pumping out the super-pheromones that a penis needs at that hour when a man's reputation is made. I was the Reggie Jackson, the Mr. October, of Orgies.

Another measurable attribute of orgies was the access it gave to certain kinds of women, high-class very beautiful ones, particularly, that I could not score on my own.

One anecdote explains it all. It is a Friday afternoon on Fifth Avenue near Central Park and I want to call Andrea to make plans for dinner. I notice that my watch has stopped. This absolutely gorgeous tall lady with Fur Coat And Lots Of Diamonds walks by and I ask her for the time. She doesn't acknowledge me and keeps on walking.

The very next night, Saturday, Andrea and I are at an orgy in a very posh apartment on Gramercy Park North done in stucco and stone, the entrance of which was made to look like the inside of an old English castle. Shortly after my first orgasm, I am aware, astounded, that next to me is the very same Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty, with the most beautiful God-given B-cup tits I've ever seen. She is beyond luscious. Not sexy looking but just plain gorgeous. She must have been a model. If you wanted the young executive look, the girl at the country club, or the right patrician trophy wife to show off an elegant fur coat or diamond necklace, you'd hire her.

She's on top of a dude parallel to me, riding up and down and screaming. They finish and she slides off the penis she's just wilted, and into my arms. We kiss; we feel each other all over. I hope she's more versatile and doesn't need to ride me cowgirl style, which is one of my least favorite positions because it's too passive for me.

I maneuver on top and hold each of her delicate thin wrists against the mattress to see if she responds. She does with a pleased whimper, a vain cartoon struggle and a smile in her eyes that signals it's her kind of fuck. We make long, hot, sweaty love.

She kisses great. Her skin is silky. Her eyes are light blue. She is just a few inches shorter than me. She is the single most perfect woman I ever fucked. Nothing about her hair, nails, face, hands, body, bum, legs, teeth and feet could be any better.

After fifteen minutes she suggests we 69 and as we start, before she puts my cock in her mouth, she bends around and starts sucking my asshole. I have to be really in love, or inspired, to suck an asshole, and knowing this is the same Lady from Fifth Avenue is suitably inspirational. She has one of those little hairless doll anuses nestled in a cute round firm tushy. When I stick my tongue in her bum she wiggles and squeals with delight. I add a finger into the mix and can tell this is one Very Anal Lady.

She relaxes and opens rather than tightens and closes. She then asks me ever so politely to put my cock up her ass. Actually her words are “Put yours there please.” She refuses to mention any of the parts by name. I slide in and I am under siege by a battalion of different emotions, perceptions and sensations, all of them terrific. I am conquering the unconquerable, and adoring the most perfect female physical form I have ever felt. Everything about her says dainty and lady and refined, and my cock is up “there.” I have one of those memorable orgasms that I hope will run a bit slower than most events when my whole life passes in front of me at the moment of death.

I never mention our outside world encounter. I hold her for a few minutes afterwards and secretly say a prayer of thanks to the Magic God and/or Goddess Of Orgy who sometimes makes the unattainable fuckable. On the way out The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty comes over to me wearing the same fur coat from the day before, kisses me slow and tender, and whispers in my ear that she hopes to run into me at another party.

Sadly, I never see her again.

The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty was the date of a funny looking Jewish gynecologist who was one of several funny looking Jewish OB-GYNs I met on the orgy circuit. They always showed up with the most gorgeous dates. Not only were these men doctors, which is a financial and social advantage, I suspected there must have been some benefit to introducing yourself to a fashion model while you are already between her legs.

MISCELLANEOUS ORGY QUESTIONS

Laura asks many questions, like,
“What about falling in love with someone other than the wife or girlfriend you came with?”

It happened, but it was a rare event. I met and fell in love with Andrea at an orgy—but I was with some orgy-ticket girl whose name I can't remember and Andrea wasn't George's girlfriend. People who came with “just friends” would sometimes meet other “just friends” and fall in love.

I never worried about losing Andrea to someone else, and I never fell in love with anybody else no matter how beautiful or good a fuck. My confidence came from being twenty-four and feeling invulnerable and immortal every day. My commitment came from my trust and joy in the ease and intensity of being with Andrea. We just clicked. Both of us were avid readers, enjoyed cooking, loved walking the city streets, had lots of stamina, and loved animals, trivia, music, dancing and being silly, We both had a soft spot for Dada, Surrealism and absurdist theatre and literature. We were both always horny. We were both dedicated to sexual honesty. For the first time in my life I was in a relationship where we not only loved each other, we indulged the other's desires, we were whores for each other.

I was happy to have found Andrea and didn't want to replace her. I just wanted to also be able to fuck other females. I do not remember having even a passing thought about going home with someone beside Andrea. Love was a relationship, orgies were for sport, and I never forgot who was on the home team.

From years of seeing the same couples come to orgies, it appeared that healthy relationships were not dissolved because of swinging. In fact, I think it held many otherwise insolvent marriages together. It was something else to stay together for besides the kids.

If you wanted to fuck another woman you met at an orgy, you could meet her at another party and have her. Twice or three times in a row if you wanted to. Or if you were a female and your date/boyfriend/husband liked your fuckee's date/girlfriend/wife, you could get together with them at other orgies, or the four of you could get together anytime. Andrea and I had many mini-nookie festivals with a selection of couples.

Orgies made emotional fidelity easier. That might seem oxymoronic but think about it. Being able to fuck another girl or guy you fancied took the need “to cheat” out of your life. I mean, why bother?

Also, swinging couples were more likely to be sharing hot sex with each other so they were less likely to be unhappy with their sex lives. They were having the kind of sex at home that people who would worry about losing their mate at an orgy didn't have.

There was the switch here and there and one real life divorce/remarry inter-couple swap, but these were rare. Being able to fuck nearly anyone you wanted made whatever relationship you were in more tolerable and made this small risk worth it. Relationships were more fun with the threat of monogamy removed.

Example: I met an adorable petite smart girl named Amy at an orgy who liked Andrea and loved fucking me. She asked Andrea if she could come over in the mornings to fuck me on her days off. Amy would arrive with coffee and breakfast and jump under the covers with us. Then Andrea would get dressed, kiss us both goodbye and go to work.