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 t
hese 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.
25
Hot babe gone wrong
Flashback to 1972
Now that Laura and I have enjoyed her first orgy, let me explain my pre-carnal carnival jitters. Most of the women you meet at an orgy are sevens or above. What you don’t find often is a nine point five like Laura.
If you’re the man who brings a prime, hot, rare, magnificent woman, you are The Ego King. Every man nods to you. It’s like being rich, handsome, and a famous quarterback all in one. You are The Sex Elvis. There are two downsides to being The Sex Elvis. One is that you will not find a woman as hot as the one you brought. The second is that you risk, as small a possibility as it is, losing The Spectacular One.
I’d brought The Über Babe to a few orgies before. She was a drop dead luscious stripper and the first girl I ever met who called herself Tiffany. (This was before people actually named their daughters Tiffany, Brittany and Ashley, and when the only girls with these names were hookers and strippers.) I didn’t lose Tif to someone else and it wouldn’t have been terrible if I had. Tif and I were just fuck buddies.
Taking someone visually charismatic, whom I love, like Laura, comes with an acrid whiff of fear because I had seen “The Guy Who Brings The Spectacular One” go wrong. It happened in 1972, right in the middle of my Orgy Period with Andrea. It was at Bill Lester’s regular Friday night ten-to-twelve-couple soirée on the Upper East Side. Bill’s orgies were unsubtle. His apartment had a short hall leading into one large room which was carpeted with mattresses that I suppose got piled up in one corner when it wasn’t Friday night. It was a no-foreplay kind of swing. You knocked on the door, walked into the apartment, quickly stripped and started fucking.
A slick but likable Jew in the electronics business arrived with his new girlfriend. Slick always came with hot babes but this time he’d outdone himself. She was a redbone light-skinned black girl with unexpected blue eyes. They were the color of a clear sky, azure but with a touch of robin’s egg. The music from her Jamaican accent was a charming accessory.
She was of average height, about 5'5", with perfectly proportioned C-cup melons. (Again, remember, this was the early ’70s before every other girl had an augmented rack.) She took off her red silk short-shorts worn with no panties and her tight white T-shirt worn without a bra. She was phenomenal with skin a lustrous buff color between mocha and light sepia and long straight black hair. Her pubic hair was short, trimmed for a tiny bikini.
She had a delicate yet chiseled face. Her nose and her lips were midway between black and white, and celebrated racial diversity. Her smile revealed perfect teeth that spoke of genetic luck or expensive orthodontia. Her thighs and legs were shapely and just a bit muscular. Her rosettes were only a quarter shade darker than her skin tone and her nipples already had hard-ons from her excitement—or the air conditioning—or both.
She had one of the ten best asses I ever saw live. Round, and a half-size larger than need be. And on top of all this she had those blue eyes. She was the healthiest woman I ever saw. She triggered The Prime Objective: I wanted to make a baby with her. But I would happily settle for simple non-reproductive carnality. She was the desired erotic icon, and Slick was the envy of every dick in the room. But envy is a devil vibe and has to be regulated the way a matador manipulates the bull.
The evening started off well although several of us did make fools of ourselves fawning over The Spectacular One. Me included. She said her name was Annabella and this was her first orgy. She was a bit timid and stood with her arms folded in front of her. The boldest among us, not me, led her off to a corner and in a few minutes she was screaming like an unselfconscious seasoned pro.
I was the fourth man to fuck her. At first, I thought that she was being a bit theatrical, that she was playing it too big for a small room, but being inside her and feeling her noise suspended my disbelief. She was no act. She was just that loud and wild. She was one of those demure women whom sex morphs into rational derangement. She left little nail marks on all our backs. Right after my solo, three guys started in on her together. She welcomed them all. She had stamina to match her physique.
Slick was trying to enjoy the other women in the room but never quite got into it. This was a shame because “The Guy Who Brings The Spectacular One” is regaled, feted and spoiled by the other women. They figure he must be something special. But Slick could not take his eyes off Annabella.
He didn’t seem to like what was going on. He never came over to join her and the other men. He never kissed her and showered her with light jocular compliments the way “The Guy Who Brings The Spectacular One” usually does. Two hours later Slick had already wanted to leave for fifteen minutes. He asked her several times, but she didn’t respond. He got dressed by the door so she’d get the hint. She was still fucking wildly. I’d seen it happen before: The timid wife or girlfriend who finally succumbs to her man’s request to go to an orgy becomes the lustful sex glutton who won’t go home. Usually the man is delighted by this irony, but Slick lost his cool. I think he’d been too quick to want to show Annabella off in public. Their bond was too fragile.
First he cajoled, then he politely demanded, then he begged, then he got real mad and crossed the line of abuse and called her names like “Slut” and “Tramp.”
These were names we held in holy regard and bestowed only as compliments and he was using them in vain!
Blasphemy!!
She told him to “back off mon,” and that she would leave when she was “bloody ready!” He wouldn’t back off and repeated his demands, slow and deliberate, with only a partially veiled physical threat. For the first time that evening she slammed on the sex brakes. She got rigid. Then she dropped the atom bomb.
“You can’t treat me like that, and two of these guys here fuck better than you, mon. So go fuck yourself. I don’t want to ever see you again!” Slick left in a huff without Buff.
I thought her “two guys” was brilliant because it left room for each of us who had been with her to feel included. No one asked who the two guys were; it was just too easy to assume you were one of them. As soon as Slick left, she was back in the groove. After most of the guys were limp, I had another go with Annabella. She was worth the wait.
While the party was breaking up The Spectacular One answered questions about her ethnic mix. She told us she came f
rom Calabash Bay in the South of Jamaica. Her father was descended from a blue-eyed Scotsman who married a descendant of a slave and her mother was part Swedish and part Cherokee. Annabella got dressed, thanked everyone and left. Andrea and I offered to share a cab with her downtown but she was going uptown.
Andrea was only the slightest notch jealous. One notch of jealousy wasn’t rare with Swingers. I’d get one notch jealous every so often myself if a Spectacular Guy with a major league penis spent a lot of time porking Andrea. Andrea may have sulked a bit but she knew that after we got home and I had recouped some of my energy that she would be the beneficiary of my recent adventure. It was the same for me when the jealousy was reversed. I would be the beneficiary of Andrea’s heightened erotic self-image. The gift to swingers and the salve that comforts the sting of small jealousies is that the orgy doesn’t end when you leave.
I never saw Annabella again, which is a shame. I saw Slick again with respectable-looking women, but never such a prize as The Spectacular One.
26
The lyrics and music of sex
One of the lesser-publicized virtues of sex, especially group sex, is the audio track. I’ve reflected often—right in the middle of an orgy—how infrequently the various vocalizations are out of tune. Something makes the moans, groans, pouty weeps, gasps, high-pitched exhales, sighs, and even the shriekiest wails and squeals harmonize. They are never cacophonous. And the happy slaps of flesh on flesh, and the thump thump thump of furniture and mattresses, and the creaky squeek of beds are a solid rhythm section for the players to do solos over.
Laura Meets Jeffrey Page 16