A college reunion is a useful prescription for nostalgia, but it has many side effects.
1. AMNESIA: On Friday night, my gay college friend Alec regaled our group with tales of yesteryear, such as the time he and I approached a frat house with the intention to partake in the cultural activities therein, and we were unceremoniously rejected. According to Alec, I sat down on the curb in front of the house. When a frat brother approached to shoo us away, I said, "Why do you assume I'm waiting for you to let us in? Maybe I'm just looking at the stars." Of course I was being snide. I don't remember this at all. Alec remembered incidents with startling detail, names and faces and conversations that had long ago disappeared into the bleak blankness of my confused youth. My other friends, though equally shocked at Alec's superhuman recall, still remembered far more than I did. "Oh my God! I have amnesia!" I announced. I remember more about my year abroad than my three years at Gettysburg. Maybe it's because I spent five years writing a book about that year abroad. Maybe it's because I remember what I don't want to forget.
2. NAUSEA: It wasn't just the Farnsworth Inn Civil War-Era Game Pie that tied my stomach in knots. It was the annoying couples with children who set up diaper stations wherever they pleased. (You look familiar, but I'm not acknowledging you because you have nothing to do with baby. Look at us though, just look at us! We showed up for the class photo just to prove that we came but we're skipping all the socials. No need for socials when you're a happy parent. Socials are for those sad people who don't have babies. Baby is everything! Nothing else matters! Who are you, and why don't you have a baby?) It was the young alumni who look exactly the same. They looked forty in college; ten years later, they still look forty. It was the class of 1983's unplugged version of Jimmy Buffet. It was the visual overdose of khaki pants and polo shirts. It was a middle-aged frat boy hitting on my married friend. It was the poster of Carson Kressley in the library (class of '91) juxtaposed with the LGBT reception of three: two plus me. It was feeling like I was the only one who had significantly evolved since college.
3. DISORIENTATION: I can't be fully self-expressed here. I haven't passed out a single "Lust Life" flyer. I didn't belong here then and I sure as hell don't belong here now. I belong with the other outcasts who never set foot on campus again since graduation, let alone consider attending a reunion. But if that were true, why am I here? I guess I belong in a bizarre sort of non-belonging way. My God, that was another lifetime.
4. EMBARRASSMENT: On Saturday afternoon, I attended the GALA (Gay and Lesbian Alumni) reception, naively hoping I would meet a young, sexy queer woman to invite back to the B&B. Sadly, only two other alums showed up - a gay man from the class of '58 and a lesbian from the class of '73. They talked about how challenging it was to be gay at Gettysburg when they were students. I told them I didn't even know I was bisexual at the time. I had attractions, but I repressed them. Even in the late nineties, queers were invisible at this predominantly straight, conservative college. Alec dated every gay guy on campus. I think he had three student lovers (wait, make that two; one was a college employee). Although the GALA event was embarrassing for the college, it was the highlight of my reunion. I met two fabulously fascinating people, including one former film critic for the LA Times. When I make my feature film, I'll send him a copy.
5. REGRET: Why did I go to this school? What on earth was I thinking? If I had to do it all over again, I would've transferred to...If I had to do it all over again, I would've applied to...If I had gone to a liberal university in an urban environment or a small women's college, I probably would've tasted pussy a lot sooner.
6. LUST: At the Saturday Night All-Campus Alumni Dance, a sorority chick flirted with me. She told me her husband thought I was hottest thing on the dance floor.
"Who is your husband?" I asked.
She pointed him out. I went right up to him and introduced myself.
"My wife's an asshole," he said.
I pretended not to know what he was talking about. "I think she's great," I said. "You married her."
I left him alone. A little later, she came up behind me and grinded against my ass. "That's for my husband," she said.
We bonded at one of the picnic table bars. "You know, if you're going to be with the same person for fifty years, you have to flirt," she said. "You can't just ignore that part...you know?"
"Oh, I know. I have a boyfriend, but we have an open relationship. We have certain agreements."
I almost told her I was bisexual. I decided to make a move instead. So I started dancing with her. I took her hands and she slipped right into the grinding thing again. I imagined she did more than grinding with her sorority sisters and she misses that now that she's married to a man.
"My husband's not here, so it doesn't matter," she said.
"Oh yeah?" I turned to face her. "You mean it doesn't matter because I'm a girl..."
"You're cute," she giggled.
"You like girls..." I said.
She smiled. I probed further, "Your husband would enjoy this, wouldn't he?"
"Oh yes, he would..."
That's as far as it went. I wasn't that into her. My flirtation was more for the novelty of seducing a sexually repressed straight woman. And to make a point about my sexuality. (Look at me! I like girls! I didn't admit it in college, but now I do!) And because I was missing my lust life at home where I'm not starving for lack of sexy queer women.
7. NOSTALGIA: On Saturday night, my friends and I sang our alma mater while watching fireworks rain shrapnel over Memorial Field. We all learned something that night. None of us ever knew that patch of grass behind the Bullet Hole snack bar was called Memorial Field. Isn't it wonderful? College education never ends. As softly the evening shadows are veiling the campus towers...ah, beloved Gettysburg! (Some side effects reflect the original symptom.)
8. RECONCILIATION: If I hadn't gone to Gettysburg, I wouldn't have met the fabulous friends who helped me survive my ten year reunion. If I had gone to NYU or Sarah Lawrence or Bryn Mawr, I probably would've conformed to the artsy open-minded norm and developed into a cliche feminist dyke. Or I would've felt lost and transferred to a more familiar school like Gettysburg. It doesn't really matter now, does it? One thing is certain: if I hadn't gone to Gettysburg, you wouldn't be reading this blog. A good story is always worth the price of regret.
Showing posts with label queer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label queer. Show all posts
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Oversexed?
I never thought I'd write this, but I think I'm oversexed. Perhaps this isn't news to you dear readers. I wouldn't be surprised if some of you have been thinking I'm oversexed ever since you first laid your eyes upon my column in the New York Press, or since you first came across this blog in your Google search for porn. To be honest, sometimes I forget that I have not only a lot more sex than the average person, but I have way more sex partners, more varieties of sex, and more kinky sex in a month than most people fantasize about in their lifetimes.
For example, this weekend alone, I had at least seven orgasms. Friday night Charlie and I went to a Weimar Berlin theme party in Williamsburg. In the wee hours of the morning, we danced and made out with a woman dressed like Liza Minnelli in the movie version of Cabaret while Nazi films screened above us (without a doubt, the most authentically Weimar-spirited performance of the night). Then Charlie and I went back to our friend D's apartment, and with her blessing fucked in her tiny bathroom while she and her boyfriend hung out with their bi Burner friend and a couple of glittery-eyed queer boy dancers she picked up at the party. (We invited Nellie Minnelli but she had to get back to Brooklyn, via Manhattan.) Charlie and I rolled into my bed at around half past five, woke up before twelve on Saturday morning and made love until the early afternoon. After brunch, I watched Charlie jerk himself off with some butter and shoot his sauce on the last bits of toast and egg on my plate. "Part of a complete breakfast," I said, in between mouthfuls of cum-dipped egg toast.
One Hitachi wand-induced orgasm, two paragraphs of writing and half a dozen emails later, my love and I set off again (although I was effete and could have just as well stayed home) to a spankfest benefit for this play I'm in. With my riding crop dangling from my belt-loop, we mingled among the kinky theatre people (note the overlap between the two worlds...kink is inherently theatrical) and watched the show unfold: old men spanking lumpy middle-aged women in thigh-highs, young men baring their bottoms to the seasoned strikes of weathered mistresses. We had no desire to partake in these fundraising efforts. Instead we flirted with a gorgeous pro domme, then slipped into the men's room where we threw our own little cock-raising benefit for the New York Society of Public Blow-Jobs. Charlie wanted to contribute to the Lust Life campaign right then and there, but I declined on account of saving myself for patrons at the Pussy Convention taking place later that night.
So Charlie and I parted ways. I took the train to Park Slope where the Pussy Convention (a monthly queer women's and trans play party) was being held. Although I already had three orgasms that day, I was hungry for the touch of a butch woman or perhaps a cute trannie boy.
As soon as I stepped away from the coat check, I was in dyke heaven...a basement jungle of wild women and bois leading with their breasts, asses, and eyes, hunting for pleasure or a thrill, slinking through the narrow paths from room to room. It is a dungeon and speakeasy and 1920s brothel all in one, two rooms on one end and three on the other bookending a black-painted wood labyrinth of booths, some containing beds, others displaying contraptions like swings or hooks. The walls that reach the floor have peepholes. Other booths are built like bathroom stalls, with the bottoms of the walls at least a foot off the floor, so feet and calves can be seen from either side. None of the walls reach the ceiling. These spaces are the most secluded of all the play spots in the place, but no one who enters them can escape the voyeuristic eye of a passerby.
In the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and giggled internally at the sight. It was not my intention, but I looked like a French dominatrix/spy with my black and white waist-cincher peeking out from my black fitted blazer, fishnet stockings, five inch patent leather heels, beret angled perfectly on my head, riding crop in hand. Everything was black, except the white lace garters, and the red stripes of my hipster panties matching my crimson lips. The effect was sophisticated, sexy and intriguing.
Who is she? I want to know her. She could turn the sluttiest outfit into a vision of class. No one else was dressed like her, not even me.
My exhibitionist self became titillated at the idea of turning heads. I wandered into a cozy square room with couches against the walls and a table of snacks in a corner. In another corner, near the ceiling, a fuzzy TV was showing lesbian porn. No sex was happening here; it was a social space. I noticed some women were holding pens and white cards. "What are those cards for?" I asked one femme in a purple corset. She vaguely explained that you fill them out and give them to people you like. I turned around and saw a poster with the word "Sexquest" at the top. I read the rules of the game, but I still wasn't sure how it worked. I was like a kid in a candy store, not knowing exactly what to do with those fireballs (suck, bite, chew?), but absolutely needing to have one if only to understand the mystery of the red tongue. So I asked the corseted femme, "Where can I get one of those?"
She directed me to a woman across the room. I got a card and she gave me a number on masking tape. I stuck it on my navel then moved into the next room to fill out my Sexquest ticket. The card had four headings followed by four columns of adjectives, phrases, acts, and things next to boxes to be checked according to your desires.
I Am:
# 28
Horny
Submissive
Dominant
Sex Slut
You Are:
Hot
Intriguing
Gorgeous
Sexy
A Goddess
(I filled this part out wrong, thinking reflexively, and so chose words describing the woman in the mirror, not that I wouldn't want someone who fits the same description).
I Want To:
Get To Know You
Kiss Your ______
Bite Your ______
Play Doctor With You
Be In A Dark Corner With You
Get/Give a Lapdance
A Few of My Favorite Things:
Massage
Watching You Pee
Puppies and Kitties
A Good Book
Learning New Things
Now I had to find someone worthy of my card and give it to her. No that's not how it works. The proper way to play Sexquest is to fold your card in half, write the number of the person you desire on the front and pin your card to the board. I wasn't ready for that. I had to choose carefully. And so I roamed, making mental notes of possibilities...petite, cute tomboy in skinny jeans...sexy androgynous bowling shirt loner...two adorable look-alike bois with irresistible male adolescent aura (are they a couple?). But I couldn't make up my mind. What if I chose a dud? I needed more time.
So I peered into some peepholes and stood in doorways. I saw a woman thrashing and screaming at each whipping of her breasts. I saw mounds of flesh jiggling to the punching penetrations of a glistening fist. I saw a woman naked upon an examination table, feet in stirrups, nipples erect, awaiting the next procedure. Observing these scenes felt like a dream in which the action is carried out by characters of my unconscious creation. I was all at once part of each act and on the outside, clearly visible yet unseen because the players were lost in their own kinky worlds.
I paused again by the bulletin board, which was now covered with cards. I thought I would just pick the petite tomboy, but hesitated. What if she isn't my type? What if she's not into it? What if someone more compatible is just around the corner? Why don't I just wait and see what happens? I slipped into a meditative state, cards and faces fading into the background of passivity. As I stood there, I heard someone calling out a number. It didn't occur to me to listen. My mind did not care to remind me I had a number on my navel.
Suddenly, it registered. Number 28. "Did she say 28?" I asked the person next to me. Yes, the woman had indeed called out 28. "Wait! I'm 28! Where is she?"
The woman who was calling out the numbers told me to stay in the room; the one who wanted me would be back. As I waited, anticipation pulsed through my breath. What if she's unattractive? I don't have to do anything, I could say no, but oh I should've just picked someone to avoid potentially unsavory circumstances...then again, she could be a dream...
A chubby boi with glasses, wearing a wife-beater and boy briefs, appeared in the doorway. She looked like the typical high school male dork, the cloying type who would fall in love with me if I asked him for the time. Oh no...not me, please. I was just starting to invent kind rejections in my head when the number announcer came in and said, "Number 28?" I stood up.
Then I saw her. She was gorgeous.
She was not any of the possibilities I had in my head. She was not a boi, nor butch, nor trans. She was not exactly what I was looking for that night. But she was just right. Although she was not butch, she was not overtly femme either. Short brown hair cropped close to her head, no make-up on her pretty face. Neither slim, nor fat--she had the full figure of a 1950's pin-up. She was wearing a black drapey blouse with tight skinny jeans and black leather boots that slid seductively over her knees. I remembered seeing her earlier. She had smiled at me. Our eyes had met more than once. Why didn't I count her as a potential? Every time I saw her, she disappeared, and I forgot about her because I was focused on other types. She wasn't a type. What would I do with a type anyway? I couldn't have been more delighted that she chose me: the girl in the mirror.
***
We found an empty booth with two chairs, sat side by side and smiled at each other. Despite the set-up, there was something oddly innocent about the situation. I had forgotten about the cards and had no idea what she wanted. She didn't know what I wanted either, nor did I. That's what was so delicious about sitting there next to her, in this almost secret space, like getting stuck in the closet with someone at a junior high make-out party. We laughed.
"This is strange," I said, referring to the chairs.
"It's like a waiting room," she said.
I was thinking that exactly. We were waiting for something to happen, without expecting anything to happen. So we eased into conversation like two strangers in a waiting room.
"Is this your first time here?" I asked.
It was. So we had one thing in common. She had been to a few play parties, but this was her first queer public sex event. I shared a bit about my experience...that I had been to private women's play parties before, but nothing like this. She asked me about my crop.
"Can I ask you a bold question?"
"Of course, this is the place for bold questions."
"Have you ever come just from that?"
"No, I never came from a spanking alone. But it can feel really good. I'm no expert, but one important guideline is to alternate hard whacks with light touches...after a hard slap, a light touch can turn the pain into pleasure...do you want to try it?"
She got up and faced the wall.
"It's better if you put your hands on the wall," I said, trying to straddle the chairs to get a good angle.
I whacked her a few times with the crop, demonstrating what I had just explained about the alternating pressure. "It would be more effective, of course, with your jeans off."
I put the crop down and stood up. We faced each other in the middle of the booth, waiting. I wondered if she would look as seductive in daylight. The red glow cast sex on everything, even those awful chairs.
We looked at each other with half-closed eyes. Then, the slow move in for a kiss.
"But, I didn't look at your card!" I said suddenly, pulling away at the last second.
"It doesn't say much," she said, amused at my sudden interest in the card.
Her card had fallen to the floor. I used the crop to slide it toward me. "A very useful tool," I quipped.
I Am:
# 40
Curious
Hungry
You Are:
Gorgeous
I Want To:
Be In A Dark Corner With You
A Few Of My Favorite Things:
You Hat (written in the blank space at the end of the list)
"Well, this is a dark corner," I said.
"Yes," she purred.
We moved toward each other, accelerated this time. When our lips melted together, time slowed into the softness of her skin. As we kissed, she slipped her hands beneath my jacket and traced her fingertips around the small of my back, sending visible shivers through me. This is what I needed. I didn't need to play doctor, or watch someone pee, or get all SM with the crop. I had enough kinky sex that weekend.
Not all women are sensual, but when I find one who is, it's almost enough to make me want to give up cock. Because no matter how sensual a man is, he can never match the sweet softness of a woman. This is what I craved that night. And how strange to find it here, in this peep-show porn palace dungeon, where the last thing you expect is an innocent kiss.
We kissed for several minutes, our lips like petals barely pressing, our arms draped loosely around each other, our fingers dancing across rose-tinted skin of nape, belly, back. All the contrasting elements around us, the hard beats of the music, the black walls, the slapping sounds of paddles and screams of pained pleasure, all this retreated. These things had nothing and everything to do with us.
"Did you come here with any particular fantasy in mind?" I asked.
"No," she said. "You?"
"No, I have no agenda."
Perfect. We couldn't have been more aligned.
"Would you like a massage?" I asked.
"Yeah."
We left our booth to find an empty bed. None were available, so we returned to the booth, and it was still empty, the two chairs just how we left them, side by side.
"Well, I guess we could use the chairs," I suggested.
I moved one chair to the middle of the space. She straddled it while I sat in the other chair directly behind her. I started to rub her shoulders. In a few moments her shirt was off and I was massaging her back, neck, and arms.
"Can I take off your bra?" I asked. (Better to ask than assume in these situations.)
Her bra fell to the floor. I slipped my arms around her and gently cupped her breasts--pendulous, soft, and warm, they melted in my hands when she uttered a quiet moan. I kissed her shoulders and massaged her closer, my breath skimming her ear. I removed my black vinyl bra and pressed my chest against her back, rolling my flesh up and down, remembering one of my first sex parties where I received a full body massage from a naked masseuse and how delicious it felt when she rubbed her breasts on me, dipping them in every curve.
Now we were facing each other, #40 and I, kissing and fondling. Even when she squeezed my nipples, she was sensual. Through my peripheral vision, I noticed that our walls had no peepholes. Occasionally someone pulled back the curtain, but quickly closed it again. I noticed when people passed; a pair of converse sneakers here, hiking boots there, stilettos and fishnets pausing, pivoting, then moving on.
She had her fingers on my cunt now, and the chair was getting damp. She slipped one, then two fingers inside me while her thumb made circles on my clit. For a straight girl leaning toward bi, she sure knew what she was doing. She played with my pussy for a long time, but I didn't come, so I played with myself, and I still didn't come, then her pants were around her knees and she leaned back in her chair and with one finger, moved aside her panties, touched herself and said, "I'm wet."
She held up her finger to my mouth. Her taste was sweet and tangy. God, it was so hot, with her feet on the floor and my legs stretched out on her thighs, as she rubbed herself with one finger while the other hand held her panties aside. I imagined her alone in her room, so overtaken with horniness that she couldn't even take off her underwear. She was so horny all she could do was pull it aside.
I followed her rhythm, feeling her sensations mounting through her breath. I tried to match her rhythm with my own, to imbibe her ascent through osmosis, wanting to come so badly. I had been going far longer than her. I should have come already, or at least be close. My legs were buzzing, but I was stuck on a plateau. Damn, I shouldn't have used the Hitachi wand today. Don't think, don't think, just focus on the sensation...focus on her.
At the beginning of this masturbate-a-thon, we periodically leaned forward to engage mouth to mouth and tongue to breast, but it was crunch time now, so we leaned back and resigned ourselves to our own bodies, our own sensations, our own live porn. Her breath was changing more frequently, I could tell she was getting close, and when she closed her eyes and panted rapidly, I knew she was experiencing tiny peaks. A few times, I thought she came, but she kept going.
And I kept going...nowhere. So what if I don't come with her? She could help me come afterward. But how could I not come with her? It was just too hot not to come while this gorgeous stranger was making love to herself before me, especially as there was no guarantee I would ever see her again. In relationships, there is plenty of opportunity to make up for missed orgasms. But in a situation like this, not coming is like feasting your eyes on a delicious meal, smelling it, tasting it, taking a few bites and rolling it around in your mouth, then having it taken away from you. It feels cruel and pointless.
But that wasn't going to happen to me here. Not with her.
I tried to forget about not coming and put all my energy into the sensations between my legs. Fantasies flitted about in my brain; at this point I didn't care so much about focusing on her. All that mattered was making myself come.
But I couldn't ignore her. She was too beautiful. Lost in her sensations, she slapped her free arm against the wall, mashed her head into her shoulder, and bit her own flesh. A few moments later, she gasped in high pitches and exhaled this refrain: "Oh fuck...oh fuck...oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!"
Her body jerked up as she made little gasping screams, and I could feel her climax. I was there for her. If only I could make her orgasm my own.
She slumped against the wall. I continued touching myself, but it felt absurd, so I stopped.
"I didn't come," I said. "Maybe..." I picked up the crop. "Would you?"
I pushed her chair against the wall and knelt on it, supporting myself with one hand on the wall, while the other got busy with my pussy. She spanked me well, using the technique I had demonstrated earlier. But she hit me so hard a few times, I wanted to cry. Maybe it was because my ass hurt. Maybe it was because I didn't come and I was annoyed that it bothered me so much. Maybe it was because SM tends to bring up deep psychological shit. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Maybe it was all of the above. Maybe it was more.
The pain reverberated into burning pleasure, but still I didn't come. How long would she put up with this? She had her fun. She didn't know me. It was time to let go.
I stopped and thanked her. "I've been having trouble coming lately."
"It's okay...sometimes I get overstimulated."
"I think I'm oversexed. I used the Hitachi Wand today...have you ever used it?"
"Yes...I used to own one."
She said it was great for a while, but it was so focused, so concentrated, so mechanical, that although it did the job, it often made her numb, and almost made it impossible for her to come without it. So she got rid of it.
"Maybe that's what I need to do," I said.
"I have other vibrators that are less strong, but they work," she said. "Mostly I use my hands."
"Yes, sometimes less is more. Shall we?"
She followed me out of the booth, and we went to the bathroom. Then we wandered back to the social space, and I grabbed some pretzels, and as I was munching, she said, "Nice to meet you."
"Yes."
I got some more pretzels. When I turned around, she was gone. I didn't think anything of it, assuming she had gone to the bathroom, or went for a walk. But when she didn't come back, I decided to look for her. I went into every room and walked all through the black labyrinth and looked in every peephole, but she was nowhere. Bathroom? Not there either. So I went to the coat check and asked if they had seen a woman with short brown hair wearing a black shirt, tight skinny jeans and black boots. "Did you see her leave?" No, they hadn't. I returned to the pretzel room, lingering. Idle conversation did nothing for my deflated mood.
She was gone. Disappeared as she did in the beginning, before I even considered her. I thought we would exchange numbers. From the very first kiss, I wanted to see her again. Why did she leave like that, without even saying goodbye?
Maybe because she was not quite bi, she just wanted to get off. Maybe I need to enjoy the journey more, whether or not there's an end. Maybe I need to get rid of my Hitachi magic wand.
***
When I got home, I was too stimulated to sleep. I needed to give myself a quick release. So I used my hands. I turned back the clock in my head and saw her fingers sliding her panties aside all over again. I imagined myself coming with her, but coming did not come. So I tried one of my other vibrators. Ten minutes turned to fifteen, and still I did not come. Maybe I'll just use the wand and get it over with.
So I did. It did the job. I came twice, but it took thirty minutes.
The following morning I used the wand again. It worked, but it took forty-five minutes and nearly killed my clit.
Damn the wand! If I'm going to masturbate for forty-five minutes, I should be floating on Tantric waves from the feather-light touch of a finger-tip so that forty-five minutes means nothing in the perpetual orgasm of transcending time!
This is progress. I no longer think I am oversexed. Dear readers, I am.
For example, this weekend alone, I had at least seven orgasms. Friday night Charlie and I went to a Weimar Berlin theme party in Williamsburg. In the wee hours of the morning, we danced and made out with a woman dressed like Liza Minnelli in the movie version of Cabaret while Nazi films screened above us (without a doubt, the most authentically Weimar-spirited performance of the night). Then Charlie and I went back to our friend D's apartment, and with her blessing fucked in her tiny bathroom while she and her boyfriend hung out with their bi Burner friend and a couple of glittery-eyed queer boy dancers she picked up at the party. (We invited Nellie Minnelli but she had to get back to Brooklyn, via Manhattan.) Charlie and I rolled into my bed at around half past five, woke up before twelve on Saturday morning and made love until the early afternoon. After brunch, I watched Charlie jerk himself off with some butter and shoot his sauce on the last bits of toast and egg on my plate. "Part of a complete breakfast," I said, in between mouthfuls of cum-dipped egg toast.
One Hitachi wand-induced orgasm, two paragraphs of writing and half a dozen emails later, my love and I set off again (although I was effete and could have just as well stayed home) to a spankfest benefit for this play I'm in. With my riding crop dangling from my belt-loop, we mingled among the kinky theatre people (note the overlap between the two worlds...kink is inherently theatrical) and watched the show unfold: old men spanking lumpy middle-aged women in thigh-highs, young men baring their bottoms to the seasoned strikes of weathered mistresses. We had no desire to partake in these fundraising efforts. Instead we flirted with a gorgeous pro domme, then slipped into the men's room where we threw our own little cock-raising benefit for the New York Society of Public Blow-Jobs. Charlie wanted to contribute to the Lust Life campaign right then and there, but I declined on account of saving myself for patrons at the Pussy Convention taking place later that night.
So Charlie and I parted ways. I took the train to Park Slope where the Pussy Convention (a monthly queer women's and trans play party) was being held. Although I already had three orgasms that day, I was hungry for the touch of a butch woman or perhaps a cute trannie boy.
As soon as I stepped away from the coat check, I was in dyke heaven...a basement jungle of wild women and bois leading with their breasts, asses, and eyes, hunting for pleasure or a thrill, slinking through the narrow paths from room to room. It is a dungeon and speakeasy and 1920s brothel all in one, two rooms on one end and three on the other bookending a black-painted wood labyrinth of booths, some containing beds, others displaying contraptions like swings or hooks. The walls that reach the floor have peepholes. Other booths are built like bathroom stalls, with the bottoms of the walls at least a foot off the floor, so feet and calves can be seen from either side. None of the walls reach the ceiling. These spaces are the most secluded of all the play spots in the place, but no one who enters them can escape the voyeuristic eye of a passerby.
In the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and giggled internally at the sight. It was not my intention, but I looked like a French dominatrix/spy with my black and white waist-cincher peeking out from my black fitted blazer, fishnet stockings, five inch patent leather heels, beret angled perfectly on my head, riding crop in hand. Everything was black, except the white lace garters, and the red stripes of my hipster panties matching my crimson lips. The effect was sophisticated, sexy and intriguing.
Who is she? I want to know her. She could turn the sluttiest outfit into a vision of class. No one else was dressed like her, not even me.
My exhibitionist self became titillated at the idea of turning heads. I wandered into a cozy square room with couches against the walls and a table of snacks in a corner. In another corner, near the ceiling, a fuzzy TV was showing lesbian porn. No sex was happening here; it was a social space. I noticed some women were holding pens and white cards. "What are those cards for?" I asked one femme in a purple corset. She vaguely explained that you fill them out and give them to people you like. I turned around and saw a poster with the word "Sexquest" at the top. I read the rules of the game, but I still wasn't sure how it worked. I was like a kid in a candy store, not knowing exactly what to do with those fireballs (suck, bite, chew?), but absolutely needing to have one if only to understand the mystery of the red tongue. So I asked the corseted femme, "Where can I get one of those?"
She directed me to a woman across the room. I got a card and she gave me a number on masking tape. I stuck it on my navel then moved into the next room to fill out my Sexquest ticket. The card had four headings followed by four columns of adjectives, phrases, acts, and things next to boxes to be checked according to your desires.
I Am:
# 28
Horny
Submissive
Dominant
Sex Slut
You Are:
Hot
Intriguing
Gorgeous
Sexy
A Goddess
(I filled this part out wrong, thinking reflexively, and so chose words describing the woman in the mirror, not that I wouldn't want someone who fits the same description).
I Want To:
Get To Know You
Kiss Your ______
Bite Your ______
Play Doctor With You
Be In A Dark Corner With You
Get/Give a Lapdance
A Few of My Favorite Things:
Massage
Watching You Pee
Puppies and Kitties
A Good Book
Learning New Things
Now I had to find someone worthy of my card and give it to her. No that's not how it works. The proper way to play Sexquest is to fold your card in half, write the number of the person you desire on the front and pin your card to the board. I wasn't ready for that. I had to choose carefully. And so I roamed, making mental notes of possibilities...petite, cute tomboy in skinny jeans...sexy androgynous bowling shirt loner...two adorable look-alike bois with irresistible male adolescent aura (are they a couple?). But I couldn't make up my mind. What if I chose a dud? I needed more time.
So I peered into some peepholes and stood in doorways. I saw a woman thrashing and screaming at each whipping of her breasts. I saw mounds of flesh jiggling to the punching penetrations of a glistening fist. I saw a woman naked upon an examination table, feet in stirrups, nipples erect, awaiting the next procedure. Observing these scenes felt like a dream in which the action is carried out by characters of my unconscious creation. I was all at once part of each act and on the outside, clearly visible yet unseen because the players were lost in their own kinky worlds.
I paused again by the bulletin board, which was now covered with cards. I thought I would just pick the petite tomboy, but hesitated. What if she isn't my type? What if she's not into it? What if someone more compatible is just around the corner? Why don't I just wait and see what happens? I slipped into a meditative state, cards and faces fading into the background of passivity. As I stood there, I heard someone calling out a number. It didn't occur to me to listen. My mind did not care to remind me I had a number on my navel.
Suddenly, it registered. Number 28. "Did she say 28?" I asked the person next to me. Yes, the woman had indeed called out 28. "Wait! I'm 28! Where is she?"
The woman who was calling out the numbers told me to stay in the room; the one who wanted me would be back. As I waited, anticipation pulsed through my breath. What if she's unattractive? I don't have to do anything, I could say no, but oh I should've just picked someone to avoid potentially unsavory circumstances...then again, she could be a dream...
A chubby boi with glasses, wearing a wife-beater and boy briefs, appeared in the doorway. She looked like the typical high school male dork, the cloying type who would fall in love with me if I asked him for the time. Oh no...not me, please. I was just starting to invent kind rejections in my head when the number announcer came in and said, "Number 28?" I stood up.
Then I saw her. She was gorgeous.
She was not any of the possibilities I had in my head. She was not a boi, nor butch, nor trans. She was not exactly what I was looking for that night. But she was just right. Although she was not butch, she was not overtly femme either. Short brown hair cropped close to her head, no make-up on her pretty face. Neither slim, nor fat--she had the full figure of a 1950's pin-up. She was wearing a black drapey blouse with tight skinny jeans and black leather boots that slid seductively over her knees. I remembered seeing her earlier. She had smiled at me. Our eyes had met more than once. Why didn't I count her as a potential? Every time I saw her, she disappeared, and I forgot about her because I was focused on other types. She wasn't a type. What would I do with a type anyway? I couldn't have been more delighted that she chose me: the girl in the mirror.
***
We found an empty booth with two chairs, sat side by side and smiled at each other. Despite the set-up, there was something oddly innocent about the situation. I had forgotten about the cards and had no idea what she wanted. She didn't know what I wanted either, nor did I. That's what was so delicious about sitting there next to her, in this almost secret space, like getting stuck in the closet with someone at a junior high make-out party. We laughed.
"This is strange," I said, referring to the chairs.
"It's like a waiting room," she said.
I was thinking that exactly. We were waiting for something to happen, without expecting anything to happen. So we eased into conversation like two strangers in a waiting room.
"Is this your first time here?" I asked.
It was. So we had one thing in common. She had been to a few play parties, but this was her first queer public sex event. I shared a bit about my experience...that I had been to private women's play parties before, but nothing like this. She asked me about my crop.
"Can I ask you a bold question?"
"Of course, this is the place for bold questions."
"Have you ever come just from that?"
"No, I never came from a spanking alone. But it can feel really good. I'm no expert, but one important guideline is to alternate hard whacks with light touches...after a hard slap, a light touch can turn the pain into pleasure...do you want to try it?"
She got up and faced the wall.
"It's better if you put your hands on the wall," I said, trying to straddle the chairs to get a good angle.
I whacked her a few times with the crop, demonstrating what I had just explained about the alternating pressure. "It would be more effective, of course, with your jeans off."
I put the crop down and stood up. We faced each other in the middle of the booth, waiting. I wondered if she would look as seductive in daylight. The red glow cast sex on everything, even those awful chairs.
We looked at each other with half-closed eyes. Then, the slow move in for a kiss.
"But, I didn't look at your card!" I said suddenly, pulling away at the last second.
"It doesn't say much," she said, amused at my sudden interest in the card.
Her card had fallen to the floor. I used the crop to slide it toward me. "A very useful tool," I quipped.
I Am:
# 40
Curious
Hungry
You Are:
Gorgeous
I Want To:
Be In A Dark Corner With You
A Few Of My Favorite Things:
You Hat (written in the blank space at the end of the list)
"Well, this is a dark corner," I said.
"Yes," she purred.
We moved toward each other, accelerated this time. When our lips melted together, time slowed into the softness of her skin. As we kissed, she slipped her hands beneath my jacket and traced her fingertips around the small of my back, sending visible shivers through me. This is what I needed. I didn't need to play doctor, or watch someone pee, or get all SM with the crop. I had enough kinky sex that weekend.
Not all women are sensual, but when I find one who is, it's almost enough to make me want to give up cock. Because no matter how sensual a man is, he can never match the sweet softness of a woman. This is what I craved that night. And how strange to find it here, in this peep-show porn palace dungeon, where the last thing you expect is an innocent kiss.
We kissed for several minutes, our lips like petals barely pressing, our arms draped loosely around each other, our fingers dancing across rose-tinted skin of nape, belly, back. All the contrasting elements around us, the hard beats of the music, the black walls, the slapping sounds of paddles and screams of pained pleasure, all this retreated. These things had nothing and everything to do with us.
"Did you come here with any particular fantasy in mind?" I asked.
"No," she said. "You?"
"No, I have no agenda."
Perfect. We couldn't have been more aligned.
"Would you like a massage?" I asked.
"Yeah."
We left our booth to find an empty bed. None were available, so we returned to the booth, and it was still empty, the two chairs just how we left them, side by side.
"Well, I guess we could use the chairs," I suggested.
I moved one chair to the middle of the space. She straddled it while I sat in the other chair directly behind her. I started to rub her shoulders. In a few moments her shirt was off and I was massaging her back, neck, and arms.
"Can I take off your bra?" I asked. (Better to ask than assume in these situations.)
Her bra fell to the floor. I slipped my arms around her and gently cupped her breasts--pendulous, soft, and warm, they melted in my hands when she uttered a quiet moan. I kissed her shoulders and massaged her closer, my breath skimming her ear. I removed my black vinyl bra and pressed my chest against her back, rolling my flesh up and down, remembering one of my first sex parties where I received a full body massage from a naked masseuse and how delicious it felt when she rubbed her breasts on me, dipping them in every curve.
Now we were facing each other, #40 and I, kissing and fondling. Even when she squeezed my nipples, she was sensual. Through my peripheral vision, I noticed that our walls had no peepholes. Occasionally someone pulled back the curtain, but quickly closed it again. I noticed when people passed; a pair of converse sneakers here, hiking boots there, stilettos and fishnets pausing, pivoting, then moving on.
She had her fingers on my cunt now, and the chair was getting damp. She slipped one, then two fingers inside me while her thumb made circles on my clit. For a straight girl leaning toward bi, she sure knew what she was doing. She played with my pussy for a long time, but I didn't come, so I played with myself, and I still didn't come, then her pants were around her knees and she leaned back in her chair and with one finger, moved aside her panties, touched herself and said, "I'm wet."
She held up her finger to my mouth. Her taste was sweet and tangy. God, it was so hot, with her feet on the floor and my legs stretched out on her thighs, as she rubbed herself with one finger while the other hand held her panties aside. I imagined her alone in her room, so overtaken with horniness that she couldn't even take off her underwear. She was so horny all she could do was pull it aside.
I followed her rhythm, feeling her sensations mounting through her breath. I tried to match her rhythm with my own, to imbibe her ascent through osmosis, wanting to come so badly. I had been going far longer than her. I should have come already, or at least be close. My legs were buzzing, but I was stuck on a plateau. Damn, I shouldn't have used the Hitachi wand today. Don't think, don't think, just focus on the sensation...focus on her.
At the beginning of this masturbate-a-thon, we periodically leaned forward to engage mouth to mouth and tongue to breast, but it was crunch time now, so we leaned back and resigned ourselves to our own bodies, our own sensations, our own live porn. Her breath was changing more frequently, I could tell she was getting close, and when she closed her eyes and panted rapidly, I knew she was experiencing tiny peaks. A few times, I thought she came, but she kept going.
And I kept going...nowhere. So what if I don't come with her? She could help me come afterward. But how could I not come with her? It was just too hot not to come while this gorgeous stranger was making love to herself before me, especially as there was no guarantee I would ever see her again. In relationships, there is plenty of opportunity to make up for missed orgasms. But in a situation like this, not coming is like feasting your eyes on a delicious meal, smelling it, tasting it, taking a few bites and rolling it around in your mouth, then having it taken away from you. It feels cruel and pointless.
But that wasn't going to happen to me here. Not with her.
I tried to forget about not coming and put all my energy into the sensations between my legs. Fantasies flitted about in my brain; at this point I didn't care so much about focusing on her. All that mattered was making myself come.
But I couldn't ignore her. She was too beautiful. Lost in her sensations, she slapped her free arm against the wall, mashed her head into her shoulder, and bit her own flesh. A few moments later, she gasped in high pitches and exhaled this refrain: "Oh fuck...oh fuck...oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!"
Her body jerked up as she made little gasping screams, and I could feel her climax. I was there for her. If only I could make her orgasm my own.
She slumped against the wall. I continued touching myself, but it felt absurd, so I stopped.
"I didn't come," I said. "Maybe..." I picked up the crop. "Would you?"
I pushed her chair against the wall and knelt on it, supporting myself with one hand on the wall, while the other got busy with my pussy. She spanked me well, using the technique I had demonstrated earlier. But she hit me so hard a few times, I wanted to cry. Maybe it was because my ass hurt. Maybe it was because I didn't come and I was annoyed that it bothered me so much. Maybe it was because SM tends to bring up deep psychological shit. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Maybe it was all of the above. Maybe it was more.
The pain reverberated into burning pleasure, but still I didn't come. How long would she put up with this? She had her fun. She didn't know me. It was time to let go.
I stopped and thanked her. "I've been having trouble coming lately."
"It's okay...sometimes I get overstimulated."
"I think I'm oversexed. I used the Hitachi Wand today...have you ever used it?"
"Yes...I used to own one."
She said it was great for a while, but it was so focused, so concentrated, so mechanical, that although it did the job, it often made her numb, and almost made it impossible for her to come without it. So she got rid of it.
"Maybe that's what I need to do," I said.
"I have other vibrators that are less strong, but they work," she said. "Mostly I use my hands."
"Yes, sometimes less is more. Shall we?"
She followed me out of the booth, and we went to the bathroom. Then we wandered back to the social space, and I grabbed some pretzels, and as I was munching, she said, "Nice to meet you."
"Yes."
I got some more pretzels. When I turned around, she was gone. I didn't think anything of it, assuming she had gone to the bathroom, or went for a walk. But when she didn't come back, I decided to look for her. I went into every room and walked all through the black labyrinth and looked in every peephole, but she was nowhere. Bathroom? Not there either. So I went to the coat check and asked if they had seen a woman with short brown hair wearing a black shirt, tight skinny jeans and black boots. "Did you see her leave?" No, they hadn't. I returned to the pretzel room, lingering. Idle conversation did nothing for my deflated mood.
She was gone. Disappeared as she did in the beginning, before I even considered her. I thought we would exchange numbers. From the very first kiss, I wanted to see her again. Why did she leave like that, without even saying goodbye?
Maybe because she was not quite bi, she just wanted to get off. Maybe I need to enjoy the journey more, whether or not there's an end. Maybe I need to get rid of my Hitachi magic wand.
***
When I got home, I was too stimulated to sleep. I needed to give myself a quick release. So I used my hands. I turned back the clock in my head and saw her fingers sliding her panties aside all over again. I imagined myself coming with her, but coming did not come. So I tried one of my other vibrators. Ten minutes turned to fifteen, and still I did not come. Maybe I'll just use the wand and get it over with.
So I did. It did the job. I came twice, but it took thirty minutes.
The following morning I used the wand again. It worked, but it took forty-five minutes and nearly killed my clit.
Damn the wand! If I'm going to masturbate for forty-five minutes, I should be floating on Tantric waves from the feather-light touch of a finger-tip so that forty-five minutes means nothing in the perpetual orgasm of transcending time!
This is progress. I no longer think I am oversexed. Dear readers, I am.
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