What prepped me to be the boyfriend of a whore happened at my second orgy in late May of 1971, nine years before I met Laura.
But first, let’s visit my first orgy.
It’s May 1, 1971. In Washington, DC, 500,000 march in protest against the Vietnam War and 7,000 are arrested. Charles Manson and the Manson Family are sentenced to the gas chamber. The Ed Sullivan Show goes off the air. Movies cost $1.50. Miniskirts are everywhere.
I’m living in New York City. I’ve been divorced from my English wife Tisha for about a year. I’m dating, but there is no one special. No girl I ever get to put my penis in do I ever consider higher than a six out of ten, and most are fives and that’s being generous to both them and me. None of them look good in a miniskirt. I am one of the horniest men I’ve ever met, heard of, or read about. I am getting laid on occasion, but the frequency is best described by the fact that I am probably jerking off twenty times for every fuck.
It might even be fifty.
My luck is about to change. I finally wrangle my first invitation to an orgy from an acquaintance, George Kaye, “The Party King.” George goes to parties every night of the week: gallery openings, discos, press parties for the music and movie biz, book launches, private parties, and corporate shindigs. In his nightly travels he finds his way into a crowd who were the pioneers of the middle class New York Orgy.
Before that, most orgies were thrown by outsiders: flappers, beboppers, beatniks, hippies, artists and musicians, and they hadn’t really caught on much with 1950s Ozzie-and-Harriet types. In earlier times, orgies were sprinkled throughout history, usually among the privileged. To me orgies were just a wonderful promise in history books, a perq of the rulers of the Roman Empire. As soon as George tells me about his first orgy, I want in. It’s the first one I ever hear about first-hand.
The problem is to get in, I need a girl partner. I call every girl I’ve ever dated and endure hang-ups, and worse, name-calling, like “pervert” and “sicko” and “depraved animal,” that I know are all true. After dozens of dead-end phone calls I start visiting girls I know on the Lower East Side who do not have telephones. Five addresses later I talk one of my more adventurous semi-occasional fucks into going. I’ve got my ticket to the circus!
Saturday night and my date—very sweet, somewhat pretty, and a little plump—whose name I no longer remember, takes forever to get ready, gets cold feet and backs out while putting on her make-up. I am destroyed.
I sell it to her like I’ve never sold before. I tell her that if she doesn’t like the party we’ll leave immediately. I beg, I plead, I offer her $20. She says it’s not about money, she just doesn’t feel right about it. I offer her fifty. That makes her feel right about it. We are an hour late.
We catch a cab, go uptown and arrive at a doorman building on Riverside Drive. Now we are an hour and a half late and I worry if we’ll be let in. The doorman calls to announce us. I am relieved we are to be admitted.
We take the elevator up to a high floor and stand in front of 22B. I smell sex seeping out the crack under the door. We knock and I say, “George sent me.” The door opens and I see sex.
George stands there wearing just a tie and a naked girl on each arm like a heaven-on-earth vision of an aptly named Saint Peter.
We enter a room full of naked people; maybe thirty of them. Some of them are having sex right there in the open in clusters, some in twos, some in threes, and some in larger piles on mattresses on the floor. We walk around silent and peer into other rooms also filled with naked people talking and fucking and laughing and sucking. In one corner there are four couples all sixty-nining, like sardines. Mouths and cocks and tits and pussies are everywhere! Holy Shit! I’m scared. I’m thrilled.
Red alert—lights on the screens in my hormone control room flash. Valves open. Potent molecules stored inside me for just such an occasion rush into my bloodstream. My adrenal gland operators pump catecholamines to raise epinephrine, norepinephrine, dopamine, phenylalanine, and tyrosine to battle-ready levels. My parasympathetic nervous system shuts off my entire digestive tract so more blood can flow to my penis. All systems are go. It’s T-minus sixty seconds.
My date is led off into another room by two guys. “Good luck” I wish her. I never see her again. Not just that night. Never. I’m standing there talking to George and watching the best-ever porn movie “live” when a stark-naked skinny little blonde takes my hand and says, “I’m Barb, George tells me this is your first party. Let me be your initiation.” Far fucking out, free sex!
I follow her to one of three mattresses on the floor in an otherwise normal French Provincial style middle-class living room. Barb unbuttons and unzips me. I am still my mother’s son, even at my first orgy and although there are clothes strewn everywhere, I neatly fold mine on top of my shoes in a corner so they won’t be disturbed. What about my wallet? Where could I hide it? Fuck it.
I inhale a symphony of healthy young bodies. Their soaps, shampoos, perfumes, baby powders, and aftershaves blend together with harmony. I kiss Barbara, because I guess I start the same way here as in real life.
After a few minutes of hot kissing and touching, this willing lovely creature guides me to lie down on my back. She kneels between my legs and gives me great head with unprecedented eagerness. Then she eases me into sixty-nine by straddling me and facing away from me and squatting down on my face.
She tastes sweet and salty. She’s very wet, and I hope she’s the kind of girl who needs to wash and douche after every fuck but it doesn’t matter because she has my cock bouncing off her tonsils. I think, “Fuck it. Some other guy’s jism won’t kill me. Girls swallow come all the time and never get sick.” Besides I’ve tasted my own.
I’m making Barb moan and squirm and I must pass muster because she rewards me by pausing to talk to an attractive brunette with major boobs sitting at the edge of the mattress smoking a cigarette and talking to guys about the Mets. “Gina,” she says, “this is Jeffrey and it’s his first party. Come join in.”
“Wow. Two at once! Now that’s something I’ve always dreamed of,” I blurt.
“You never had two at once?” says my tour guide.
“No,” I say, “I’ve only seen it in porn films. I never thought it would happen to me.”
“Well, lie back and enjoy this,” says Gina who puts out her cigarette. She’s got great jugs, not too big, round and firm, original equipment, for this was 1971 and several years before every third girl had store-bought tits. Gina gets down with Barb as each of them straddles one of my legs. I’ve got four tits in front of me!
I lean up on my elbows. I’ve got to watch these two lovely faces giving me head so I can record the image to jerk off to when I’m alone and horny. Probably tomorrow.
It’s my first Major League sexual stimulus overload. It’s a masturbation fantasy I’ve wanked off to hundreds of times. I’d always hoped that someday before I died I’d have enough money to hire two hookers at the same time so I could have this. And here it is. For real. And for free!
Right then and there I have a revelation, my “First Theorem of Sexual Relativity.” It is only anecdotal but equal to that apple falling on Isaac Newton’s head: Two mouths and four hands are three times better than one mouth and two hands.
After ten minutes of Barb and Gina, the dual-action pleasure pump, I want to fuck. I enter Barb as Gina plays with my balls. It strikes me that having a harem must be as good as I always suspected.
Barb kisses great with a large searching tongue, and she purrs. Gina is making me totally nuts by playing with my balls and I explode with my first of that gifted species of orgasm that can only occur with two or more people.
One wonderful new experience leads to another. After two more orgasms with a variety (can you imagine?) of skins and nipples and vaginas and aromas and firm tushies, I take a break and go to the kitchen for a drink and a snack, wondering how many orgasms I’ve got left.
At a table with chips, dips, candies and pastry, I am
eating a carrot stick when this naked slinky girl with slightly almond eyes and long, light brown straight hair says hello. She’s wearing glasses and also munching a carrot stick.
“I’m George’s,” she opens.
“I’m George’s too. Or at least I’m in his debt.”
“I know. He told me to make sure I fucked you. I’m Andrea.”
How come other men don’t send me women to fuck? George, who was already high up on my list of favorite people, just moved up another notch.
“This is a fantasy to me,” I say, finishing my carrot. “I’ve always wanted to go to an orgy. Speaking of fantasies, if you could be any woman in the world about to get fucked, who would you be?”
“Lady Brett.”
Far out. She likes Hemingway and The Sun Also Rises, one of my favorite books. I go for the coup de grace—and pray that she gets it. I quote the last line of the book: “Isn’t it pretty to think so.”
She laughs. She gets it! We smile a secret handshake. Just then, “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” comes on the stereo and at the exact same time we both say, “Great! I love the Stones!”
We laugh more. She walks in front of me and I love the shape of her shoulders. Her ass is cute. We lie down. We kiss. Without a prompt, she sucks my cock. She gives World-class Head. She’s got soft skin and squeals like a trapped rabbit when she fucks. It takes me a while to come because it’s an uphill climb after a fourth orgasm.
I’m into new territory here. I don’t think I ever did five before, but then I never had this much stimulus. This is Chinese Emperor, Arab Sheik concubines and harem land.
Hemingway, The Stones, our natural chemistry and our mutual love of sex makes Andrea and me instant friends. And we’re already lovers. This is so much better than dating.
I’d gone out with women I liked and fucked for two months and hadn’t gotten this close. Andrea tells me she is not really George’s girlfriend, they don’t fuck much, she’s just his ticket to orgies. She gives me her number, which, because I am naked, I have to memorize.
We part and I continue on my pilgrimage. I have no belief that I might ever be so lucky again. I save nothing. Whatever energy I have gets spent that night. I swear this is true: I have my penis inside twelve different women and come eight times. It is the first time in my life that I ever had more than enough.
I call Andrea few days later and we start dating. The sex is terrific. Better yet, she is the first girl I ever met who never says “No.”
My ex-wife Tisha had said “No” maybe twenty times for every “Yes.” Even girls who liked me a lot said “No” sometimes and often said, “That’s enough” or “I’m too tired to do it again.” Andrea’s anytime attitude is unknown to me and very much appreciated.
Andrea is more than just a pretty fuck. We have a lot in common: movies, art, music and books. And she’s smart. She works for the New York Public Library as a reference assistant, answering people’s questions about anything. She’s proto-Google.
She stops seeing George, who begrudgingly gives us his blessing. My friends like her and are extra interested in her when I tell them how we met. Two weeks later we are a true couple. With six shopping bags, four boxes of books and a sewing machine she moves into my $135 a month West Village studio.
We don’t fight at all and it’s not just because we are in the honeymoon period. We just get along. It’s my first relationship that doesn’t take lots of work. Every night we make love and I tell her that as long as I can get into bed with her every night and make love to her whatever happened during that day doesn’t matter even if I have to dig ditches.
We sleep tight and comfortable on a twin mattress on the floor because it’s all I have at the time, which is emblematic of how little sex I was previously getting. We spend every free moment we have together and it never seems enough.
Andrea, like me, falls in love with the West Village. In the early ’70s it feels like the most socially and intellectually liberated neighborhood on earth. Many inhabitants are artists, writers, musicians, photographers, actors, gays, producers, directors, dancers, dope dealers, carpenters, loonies, crazies, yippies, hippies, and bartenders and our collective liberal vibe rules.
Sometimes Dylan passes us on the street. We give a tiny nod. Sometimes, the ultimate reward, he nods back. We spend hours pondering, arguing and drinking at the Limelight or the Buffalo Road House with an informal salon of writers, artists, and the occasional rock star.
Three weeks after my first orgy George calls and invites us to another. I suspect it’s because he wants to fuck Andrea again and also to show us he’s a good sport. I’m perplexed. I want to go to another orgy, but Andrea isn’t just a ticket. She is now my girlfriend! What do I do?
I decide to go and risk a psychotic episode.
22
My second orgy
Three weeks later in May 1971
My second orgy happens in late May 1971. Andrea and I arrive at an East Side walk-up in the lower 80s. The apartment is smaller and more intimate than my first orgy and there are fewer people. This time we are on time and everybody is still dressed and lighting up joints and kibitzing like any group of dope-smoking New York City couples in their early twenties.
I’m blind-sided and hugged by Barb, the treat from my first orgy, and we start talking. Having been that intimate doesn’t make us lovers or good friends, but it certainly makes us more than mere acquaintances. I notice that Andrea is missing. People are losing their clothes and filtering toward what I guess is a bedroom. Barb takes my arm and I walk around the corner and there in the tiny hall is Andrea, naked, on her knees, busy with another man’s cock. I stop dead in my tracks. My heart stops.
I am not programmed to look at my woman with another man’s machinery in her mouth as a good thing. I am enraged. Fifty thousand years of possessive hormonal programming take over. I am flushing with fight or flight. I want to kill him. I want to kill her.
Barb, still on my arm, senses all is not well.
“Are you all right?”
I say nothing, but think, “NO! I AM NOT ALL RIGHT.”
Barb starts rubbing my back and a cosmic wave flows over me leaving me an epiphany. First, it would definitely be wrong to kill him. It also would probably be wrong to kill her. And if I kill either of them, I will have to spend at least that night in jail, so I won’t get to fuck Barb, whom I definitely want to fuck again. Plus even if I don’t kill them—and I have pretty much decided I won’t—if I don’t psycho-cybernetically reprogram myself right then and there, and change my head, I won’t get a hard-on, I won’t be able to fuck Barb and I won’t be able to go to more orgies with Andrea.
I hear the guy Andrea’s blowing making noises as he starts to come in her mouth. Fuck it! I definitely want to kill him and I take a baby step forward to do just that. Then one of those miracle moments occurs.
Well, maybe it’s not a miracle. Maybe it’s some kind of Hormonal Big Bang or maybe it’s on a much more pragmatic level, like a “sit down” between the Young Turk Capos Who Run The Orgasm Machine, and just love this whole new orgy thing I’m into—and the Old Bosses Who Run The Progeny Protection Racket, the original crew I inherited from both The Bible and Darwin.
The Young Turks must have won because all of a sudden instead of wanting to kill that unfaithful bitch and the cuckolding stranger, I’m now enjoying what I’m seeing! I never switched sides so fast in my whole life before or since but right there inside me a sea change happens. Infidelity is the new sacrament. Watching the woman I love having sex with another guy goes from being the worst thing in the world to the hottest porn ever. Maybe some of it is just rationalization to allow my access to all that sweet pussy that goes to orgies, or maybe there is a tectonic shift, a cosmic warp, a subspace power transformation, but whatever it is, it’s now a new ball game and I could watch my lover/girlfriend/wife get gang-banged and it’s horny, not horrible.
At that moment I see Andrea differently. She is no longer a cheating girlfriend who
needs to be strangled; now she is my teammate! And if she’s doing great so am I. She is “Superpussy,” and I am “Supercock.” Instead of anger I’m filled with pride. “That’s my girl taking that load. Atta girl Andrea!! Way to go!”
I’m proud she gives such great head. Like a Jewish grandmother watching her granddaughter graduate from college, I’m filled with naches. I’m kvelling.
I continue to enjoy, more and more, watching Andrea fuck and suck her way, and the men she pleasures, to ecstasy. Andrea and I spend the next three years going to maybe 300 orgies without jealousy.
The seismic change I experienced with Andrea at my second orgy was the exact moment of change that allowed me to love Laura fucking and sucking and coming with three, four, five, or more men every working day. I did not just tolerate or become inured to this seeming perversity, I relished it.
I knew other guys who went through this so I didn’t feel completely peculiar. When Andrea and I were knee deep in orgies, it wasn’t uncommon for some respectable middle class wives and girlfriends to become high-class call girls or work in posh brothels. It just made sense. They were going to several orgies a week, loved fucking strangers, most could make more money fucking than at their day job, and their husbands and boyfriends were already guys who enjoyed that other men pounded their lady.
I do not expect everyone to accept this behavior and morality as normal. However, really horny guys and most swingers can empathize. As a really horny guy who became a swinger that’s the way it happened to me. It was only a short jump from enjoying watching other men pound my lady to being the whore’s boyfriend.
23
A history of the New York orgy
Laura Meets Jeffrey Page 13