Laura Meets Jeffrey (17 page)

Sometimes we took Amy with us to orgies. An extra female was always welcome, and a guy who showed up with two girls was treated like the living Buddha. None of us ever thought of ruining the situation, and if Amy was lonely and wanted to be with me/us she just called and came over or I would go over to her tiny apartment nearby in the West Village. It's amazing what can be accomplished with the lack of jealousy. (Note to Amy: Please call!)

These new ethics made Baby Boomer Orgiests think we were creating a new society and changing the world.

Laura asks me,
“Can a girl turn you down?”

Of course. But remember the odd circumstances you are in: a room filled with people who have chosen to fuck many strangers one after another. Being discriminating, selective, is not the operative mood. Private parties were by invitation and the hosts/hostesses performed triage before you got through their door.

This was less true for on-premise swingatoriums like Plato's Retreat (I must ask why they named that place after one of history's least sexy people) where I believe the rejection rate would be higher since it was an “open” rather than an “invitational.”

These public places to fuck had a very low bar of admission—usually the door money and something that vaguely reminded the doorman of a woman—so one didn't benefit from prequalification. I went to Plato's and Trapeze and a few other on-premise public swing clubs, but they were like finding too much bok choy in the moo goo gai pan.

At the 300 or so private orgies I attended, with an average of five to seven couplings at each one—and roughly 1,400 chances to be rejected—I must have experienced just over a dozen rejections, which is just over one half of one percent, the standard minimum necessary for statistical significance.

While there was a statistically significant 0.8 percent chance of being rejected, that meant for the twelve times I got rejected there were 1,388 acceptances. That's an acceptance rate of 99.2 percent. Who can't live with that? Plus my first refusal didn't happen until at least the fortieth orgy and by then it was emotionally a non-event.

Probably six of the twelve were outright rejections from females who, erroneously in my opinion, found me repulsive and would rather spend the time cleaning urinals than have sex with me. Another six were just from exhaustion. Some of these women I would conjugate with at a later date, some never. Only one I ever remember saying, “Oh No! Not you!” which did sting momentarily.

I have left out the three dozen “Oh, no, not again's,” and “Oh, no, not now's” I got from females that I had had before and would have again but were either ready to go home, had their momentary fill, were just beginning a rest period, or were too hungry to be thinking about sex—logistical differences, not rejections.

This is not to say that the selection process was all one-sided. There were always some females who aggressively pursued males and sometimes other females. I was asked occasionally by ladies and only twice did I beg off. One was aesthetically challenged and one, more aggressive and masculine than me, scared me.

Another question Laura asks is,
“What about guys being so close to other naked guys and do they ever touch sexually?”

Nearly every orgy I went to was run by average Hard-core Masturbator Guys. These orgies were the living manifestations of our (The Hard-core Masturbator's) dream world and were almost as homophobic as a gang of tough Italians. Bisexuality, not just tolerated but encouraged for women, was a tacit taboo for men. Nearly every straight guy likes to watch two women have sex with each other, but guy/guy sex is a definite no-no.

I don't know the psychobabble reasons why girl/girl is okay and guy/guy stuff isn't, but since most Hard-core Masturbator Guys feel the same way, I guess it must come bundled with our original operating system. Touching a guy happened all the time and was as accepted as it would be when playing basketball or football or even when wrestling. It was impossible not to touch each other as you crawled over a clusterfuck. If you were part of a threesome or moresome, guys would balance themselves, without even an awkward grimace, by holding onto each other. But we were all butch about it.

Occasionally, some guy would be playing near or around some female orifice you were already involved with, like a husband putting a finger up the ass of a wife you were screwing, or maybe some guy eating the pussy connected to the anus you had entered and your Johnson or cahones might be sideswiped or even fondled. I never minded it as long as it felt good and didn't impede my motion or pleasure. I only ever heard a very few true homophobes complain of these Class-C Misdemeanor Bisexual Encounters.

Once or twice in the middle of a cluster I looked down to see who was sucking me and it was a guy and a girl or just a guy and I just let it continue, especially if it was a guy and girl.

At the huge orgython at the Holiday Inn in New Jersey I was fucking this lovely lady and felt my balls being sucked and played with and I thought it was my friend Tina who often did that for me. I turned around and saw a tiny Japanese man down there and it felt so good I just kept pumping. It got a bit strange, however, because he followed me to provide the same ancillary benefit to my next copulation. This time I told him, “Thank you, but no more please.” I don't think he spoke English, but he understood the International Body Language for “Go away or I'll kill you.”

Laura also wants to know,
“What about VD?”

This is what we worried about before we knew enough to worry about—“
You'll Never Get Rid of It
!”—herpes and ––“
You'll Die Of It!
”—AIDS.

I have no idea why, but I swear in over 300 orgies I have no memory of anyone ever getting anything and I never saw one condom. The answer must be that we were a healthy disease-free group and stayed in our own circle. Or, as I like to think, we were doing God's work and were protected by Guardian Angels.

The last question Laura asks is,
“What about anal sex at orgies?”

At orgies where you really did have license to fuck, anal sex was a privilege. Most women didn't want it. Some women only shared it with their mates. Some liked it selectively. A few liked it equally to fucking and a very few, God bless them, preferred it.

I would say that anal sex was available from less than ten percent of the women and only once in a blue moon with a blue ribbon anus like The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty. A gentleman never pushed the issue past a little cajoling. In retrospect, the vast majority of the sex I had and saw at the hundreds of orgies I went to in the early '70s was vanilla or at the most cherry vanilla. Lots of fucking and sucking, a sprinkling of rimming and a smidgen of anal sex. I never saw a whip or even handcuffs.

We were a randy bunch, but not really eccentric, once you got past the part about having sex with strangers in groups.

24

Laura's first orgy

Early 1981

The prospect of taking Laura to an orgy raises my anxiety level. Would there be a price to pay? There already is one, just me wondering if there
would
be one. Dread pokes me in the kidneys. Here I am, about to risk my most precious love gladiator in the modern-day Roman Sex Circus. What if, even if it's an outside chance, she finds a man/dick at this orgy who jazzes her toenails more than I do?

What if? What the fuck if?

I make a few calls to people I know from the old days who might still be travelling the orgy circuit. I am only half surprised that after an absence of seven years it takes me only twenty minutes to find a party that is about to start in two hours.

Laura is excited. She's got more questions: “Can I really fuck anyone I want, Jeffrey? Is that really okay with you? Can I say ‘no' to anyone? Can I ask a girl? Do you want me to ask you if it's okay with you before I fuck someone?”

I spend the cab ride to Larry's explaining Orgy Etiquette. The eavesdropping cabby nods each time I make a point—“Do what you want.” (Nod.) “Don't do what you don't want to do.” (Nod.) “Respect other people's wants as well as their not-wants.” (Nod.)

Laura wears lots of makeup, big sexy dangly earrings, high-heel red slut pumps, a slinky, short, tight, fire-engine red leather mini-dress, sheer stockings and garter belt, and white cotton bra and panties. She's a dichotomy, a sexual ice cream sandwich, whore on the outside and virgin inside.

We arrive a bit late. Larry, tall and GQ handsome as ever, greets me. “Hello, Jeffrey, it's been so long everybody thought you were dead.” After making eye contact with me for 15/16th of a second, he oogles Laura.

“My God, you're lovely!” he slimes, stifling a drool. “Jeffrey, you always do come up with great-looking women, but Laura is the top of your game.”

Larry, who has not looked at me since the first 15/16th of a second, holds Laura's hand and coos, “Please come in and join the party. I can't wait to get to you later, Laura.”

Laura whispers, “I don't have to fuck that creep, do I?”

“Only if I tell you that you have to,” I whisper back.

Larry's apartment, filled with about two dozen nouveau riche perverts, is an overdone, flashy, big two-bedroom on Sutton Place, with formal dining room and a very large living room. The second bedroom, the main “orgy room,” is done like so many others I had seen, in expensive ugly New Orleans whorehouse-style red flocked wallpaper and obligatory wall-to-wall mattresses. Naked people mill and mix with clothed people, the late arrivals or late bloomers.

Orgies were almost always couples. If you didn't take a wife, you took a girlfriend or had the decency to hire a call girl (not a street hooker) and pass her off as a friend. But if you counted heads at Larry's, you'd always come up with extra guys. Larry, a lawyer, would always sneak in a horny client/partner/friend or two. It never bothered me because Larry always had lots of very high quality pot, terrific purple sensimilla, and the women at his parties were always equal to the drugs.

Larry's crowd is flash, moneyed men, mostly youngish, well groomed and fit, and the beautiful horny women attracted to them and/or their money. Most of the men are in banking or law or Wall Street. “Suits,” Laura calls them. This is before the term goes cliché. “You can smell they are Republicans, but that's okay,” she adds. “Most of my clients are Republicans and most can fuck good.”

These are “straight” hypocritical motherfuckers who do drugs and fuck each other's wives on Saturday night, then vote for people who want to give drug dealers the electric chair and would like to see personal freedom redefined with great limitations. Going to orgies and stealing money from the IRS, and anyone else they can screw, are the ways these “suits” rebel against society. My pre-orgy anxiety vanishes. Laura can't possibly love any one of these dudes enough to run off with him, even if he has more money and a bigger dick than me.

But… but... but I adore fucking their women. Their women are generally the kind who think shopping should be an Olympic sport. A bit superficial for my tastes, but not for my dick's. As I've stated for the record, I love banging straight wives and girlfriends with hairdos, especially good-looking horny gold-digging sluts. They are alien creatures to me and I find them erotic the way some guys can have a “thing” for black girls, or the way some men fancy Asians.

The evening starts off with a nookie explosion. I come back from the bathroom and find Laura wearing only her white garter belt and stockings on Larry's leather sofa in the alcove study with her head bent back sucking a nice-size cock while Larry—who I guess in the mania of a group is acceptable to Laura, or she doesn't know it's him—is eating her pussy. Two other men, each with one hand fondling their dick, are groping some part of her anatomy with the other hand.

I stand there and observe. Laura's delicate olive frame is the center of energy. I feel my blood pressure rising fast, kicking in the turbine on my hormones, shifting my libido to the red line. The one-woman, many-man configuration continually changes shape. I concentrate, listening to the slurps and ahhhss, wet squishes, slippery slides, an occasional “Beautiful,” “Yeah, just like that,” and, “Oh my God what an ass!” The syncopated clanging of her long earrings sounds better than Larry's lame background disco music.

A cock pulls out of her lips and shoots its first squirt of come on her face and in her open mouth and then slides back into her mouth to finish. The cock pulls out and Laura makes a big deal of swallowing. Some ejaculate drips down her cheek. Laura sweeps it onto her finger and passes it to her tongue while looking right into the penis-owner's eyes. What a pro.

Laura's face is a three-act play when she's having sex. Big-eyed anticipation is Act One. Act Two is the striving lust, the intense athletic woman pushing her physical limits. Act Three is the droopy-eyed tongue-hanging slut. Her face relaxes, loses all musculature and is half begging dog, half exhausted victorious prizefighter.

Larry stops eating her and Laura turns around and elevates herself into doggy position. Larry fucks her pussy and another man takes over her mouth. In a few minutes Larry climaxes inside her, rests for a moment, pulls out, gives her ass a playful slap, which he follows with kisses to her buttocks, left cheek, then right. Now another man is fucking her. A black dude is fingering her ass while waiting for the pussyfucker to complete his mission. New cocks wait on deck for the opportunity to go to bat. Laura is in constant movement, a perpetual-motion sex machine.

When we are alone at home and I fuck her, I am aware when Laura crosses from making love to me, her man, Jeffrey—to a place where names, personalities and love evaporate. I know after she's crossed over I could pull out of her, insert just about any cock in the world, and she wouldn't miss a beat. I envy that.

I never get that mindless. I never get that uncerebral. I adore sex but never go into ecstatic coma, never achieve the perfect oneness of Zen Nookie. Laura goes blank, has dervish fits, and is One With The Orgasm. I have orgasms. She is orgasm. I am getting horny. I walk around the flat looking for a pussy to fuck. I hit on the first leggy naked blonde I see. At Larry's there are always a few.

She's smoking a cigarette, snorting cocaine, and sitting on the couch in the living room. Her body is wet with her last fuck's sweat. I sit next to her fully dressed, full of myself, look straight into her bleary hazel eyes and giant pupils and with my best Humphrey Bogart say, “I'm Jeffrey and I'm ready take you on a ride.”

She welcomes my invitation with bent-lipped smile and crushes out her cigarette in the ashtray. I grab her and kiss her half tenderly, exploring her mouth with my lips. She undoes my zipper. I taste the cocaine dripping from her nose into her mouth. We stand up to go find someplace to fuck.

She is about 5
'
10
"
and since the drapes match the carpet she is a natural golden blonde. Her skin says she can't yet be twenty-one. She is model thin with small tits, not much of a waist but a lovely protruding mons pubis, the kind that feels great to bang against but leaves your own pubic bone sore after a few hours of hard fucking. But then I'm not going to fuck her for a few hours.

She has a firm ass, on the smallish side, one size down from the rest of her. She is a nice choice, a fine vacation from my olive-skinned brunette Laura. We go into the orgy room and fuck ourselves silly. She never opens her mouth to speak one word the entire time but she does moan.

Blondie is only a semi-interesting lover compared to the passionate meltdown level lunacy I share with Laura, but she has a vagina and I have a good time. Post-coitally, Blondie speaks and tells me her name is Michelle and she's come from Indianapolis to model in NYC and is having some success.

Laura rushes over, falls into my arms, smiles at Michelle and gushes, “Jeffrey, I need you to fuck me right now.” We fuck while Michelle watches without joining in. Laura tells me about the line of guys who fucked her and how she lost count of them. She speaks as I fuck her, replaying the scene. I explode in her. We come in unison as usual and hug for a long, long while.

Two men lying nearby start pawing Laura and I tell her to service them in front of me. I watch as the primal sex animal inside her is unleashed, the amoral hormone-driven epicenter that knows no name, no loyalty, only faceless erotic fire. The evening continues.

It's way past 2:00 and the grinding is grinding to a halt. I fuck two other unremarkable women and Laura fucks just about every man in the room, some twice. In a room full of sexy women Laura reigns supreme, in looks, libido and physical stamina. I'm watching Laura. The guy standing next to me says, “She's amazing. How do you get a girl like that? Are you rich?”

“No,” I say. “Not financially. I'm rich because I have her.”

“If that's rich, what's poverty?” he asks.

“Poverty is not having a woman you love who adores your penis and takes care of you exactly how you want everyday. And it doesn't matter how much money you have.”

“You might be right,” he says with a smile that makes me think he's already begun to reprioritize his life.

I do have one pang of jealousy, over the smallest detail. I watch Laura fuck a pretty, fit blond boy named Steve. After they fuck she fluffs up the pillow under his head to make him more comfortable, just as she does for me, and I am more than jealous, I am injured.

Something I think is entirely mine isn't. I watch one man after another stick their private parts in her and make her shiver and scream in orgasm and I am not in the slightest green-eyed. The next moment she fluffs up a pillow and I'm emotionally raped. In the land of hard-core sex, an act of tenderness is betrayal. I wonder whether that pang will return the next time she fluffs up my pillow. (It did a few times and then it went away.)

It's around 3:00 a.m. and I'm sleeping on a mattress with my arm around a girl I may or may not have had sex with. Laura wakes me up and asks to go home. She's naked, sweaty and wearing a variety of men's colognes.

“Everything all right?” I ask. “Have you had your fill already?”

“Fucking these guys is great but it's all so vanilla. Nothing really,
really
exciting. Everybody is gentle with me. I want to go home so you can whip me and use me.” The coke in her takes over and she motor-mouths, “Aren't there any orgies where I can get tied down and whipped? That would be exciting, to have you whip me in public or watch me get whipped by a strange man. Or more than one. These guys are all so regular. Do some coke and take me home. I'll do anything you want.”

“I wanted fucking, sucking and whipping,” Laura exclaims, “especially the whipping—definitely as far as getting pleasure from the pain, it was just a new sensation and it definitely took the fucking to a different height, because it brought all my sensations to a new level.

“So when Jeffrey was whipping and fucking me, those orgasms would be at a different level—a higher level than if he was just fucking me. Whipping elevated the sensation. Absolutely. It got my entire body, that's definitely it. It had to do with the extreme, the tingling, and the heightened intensity of feeling. It magnified everything—but that's an understatement; it brought my whole body to this incredibly intense feeling place. It was so incredibly filled with sensation. Then fucking was just some icing, but the whipping made my orgasms bigger and better. It made them beyond what I ever imagined an orgasm could be. It's like orgasm times orgasm.”

I go into the dining room and snort two fat lines. We hunt for our clothing. As we leave Larry begs us to come back again and thanks me personally, as if I'd just loaned him a lot of desperately needed money. We get home and I beg Laura to stop doing coke but she doesn't. She begs me to whip her and I do. I fall asleep somewhere in the middle of whipping and before we fuck.