Revelations
See the happy moron, He doesn’t give a damn. I wish I were a moron, My God! Perhaps I am!
Dorothy Parker
I fucked a lesbian Friday night and I didn’t, like, know it at the time. More on this in a moment.
The world of boozing has suffered a setback this month. We met a nice couple for drinks over at Ciel Rouge, which is unfortunately shutting down after August 15th. This is truly a great loss, as the bartenders there mix a potent cocktail, and the dark red interior puts me in a conspiratorial mood. As if to pile insult atop injury, my favorite bartender down the street, who has heard so many of my debaucherous tales and witnessed a great number of my pointless shenanigans, put in his two weeks. But the noisy, ugly Portuguese-spewing bitches upstairs are moving out, so I suppose it’s all a wash.
The lady was a svelte brunette with sharp, elegant features, and the gentleman was amiable enough. I always feel a bit awkward on these couples dates, unsure of where to direct my attention at any given moment and unable to simultaneously read three other people’s body language. These dates always go in reverse, starting with the sex talk and working back to the usual getting-to-know-you chatter. We shared harrowing tales of past experiences, which is always half the fun. And hell, they even picked up the tab as we scooted off to meet Anya and her boyfriend.
Upon entering the boyfriend’s studio apartment, I was much surprised to find two cute girls snuggling on the couch, one a diminutive, short-haired brunette who stood at a hair beneath five feet tall, the other a light-skinned Hispanic girl with a soft, serious face. They would be coming with us to the underwear party in Greenpoint. And so, a merry band of unpredictable lunatics, we set out to inflict our bodies upon the world, commandeering the bulk of the sidewalk space as we made our way to the L stop. On the train, Belinda, the tiny girl who I later discovered is a fellow blogger, kept making eyes at me from the opposite row of seats. Cindy, the Latina, sat next to me and talked about how she likes to pose nude for photographs.
The gallery hosting the party was cavernous, pulling off a pomo aesthetic with sleek colored lights projecting from the ceilings and a sparse collection of montages pasted to pure white walls. The floors smelled of fresh finish. Men generally sported boxers (though a few older gentlemen were wandering around in tight briefs) and women cruised about in all manner of lingerie—thongs, bustiers, cotton panties, boy shorts—dangling cocktails in their delicate hands. We paid the cover and stripped down to our undergarments, me in black lycra briefs that accentuated my package, along with a black mesh top, and Leslie in her bra and lacy red briefs. Anya sported furry red pasties over her nipples. I was a little self conscious as I ascended the stairs into the bar area, a nice set of thonged ass cheeks staring me in the face on my way up, but soon enough I settled rather comfortably in my garb for the night. Cindy straddled one of the large white lounge chairs, anchoring a large piece of sketching paper between her spread thighs as she charcoaled the temping lines of Leslie’s ass. In that position Cindy’s pubic bone strained against her striped blue panties. Everywhere there posted little signs which said things like “NO NUDITY! NO GROPING! NO SEX! NO CAMERAS!” Of course, this did not stop Leslie and she was scolded a couple times for gratuitous grabbing of my package. There was, actually, a cameraman there from the NY Post, and I wondered aloud whether we might end up on Page Six. Eventually The Cock and Schoolgirl arrived, both looking sleek and trim. As we smoked together out on the patio and traded stories of our clubbing adventures, I began to realize I get along pretty well with the guy.
A couple of models were brought up to pose for us and in lieu of making pretty pictures I scribbled the following notes (I felt rather confused, like Hunter S. Thompson covering that race in the desert):
This is a live report from the Museum of Sex underwear party. We are all arrayed on the floor before our master of ceremonies, the self-styled ‘curator of sex’. I am buzzed. The curator explains that no patron may be within six feet of an exposed breast (cf. NY law), a distance said curator duly marks with measuring tape, displacing any guests who are too close to the model. Genitals may be exposed under no circumstances whatsoever, however the curator gets around this by fashioning a thong out of saran wrap and applying it to the model. Someone spilled a drink somewhere. I gotta pee. My overwhelming obsession is avoiding busting wood while sitting here in my underwear. A black guy in women’s lingerie answers the curator’s question as to what the hell contrapposto is. I didn’t expect this to be an academic exercise. The model rolls stockings over her legs and the appreciative crowd sketches away. It’s bright in here. Our humble curator touches the model’s ass. He comments on her form and gives her shoes to wear. Whose fucking drink is this? ‘Contrapposto to your left. To your right. Now, left again.’ She’s got a feather boa now, and she drapes it over her nice tight ass. I’m sitting here thinking about which one of Anya’s girls I’m gonna fuck tonight. Perhaps both. The A/C’s making me shiver. Leslie is hungry. Why are we all sitting here in our underwear? I gently prod Anya and Belinda’s little asses with my index finger. Belinda is wearing a tempting red thong. Why are people here? I wonder.
Interest in the proceedings dropped precipitously when the male model appeared. We moved to the dance floor, where I was accosted by a girl with a big round ass, who proceeded to jiggle said buttocks against my penis. “I’m wearing my sister’s training bra,” she bubbled. That’s nice, I thought. Then somehow I found myself in front of Belinda, towering over her as we danced, my leg grinding into her crotch. Leslie might have been making out with Cindy, but it was all a bit of a blur at that point. Schoolgirl wasn’t feeling well, and The Cock decided to take her home. Anya informed us she had a limo waiting outside for our little crew, and two more couples who had decided to join our after party. She said something about wanting to jump one particular guy’s bones. It began raining as we stepped inside the limo and soon the dark, hazy streets of Brooklyn slipped dizzily by in the dreamworld beyond the car’s windows. The driver slammed the brakes a couple of times, nearly sending my glass of champagne flying. We spilled out of the limo in front of our door and everyone packed into our apartment. A few people plopped onto the sofa in the living room, Anya’s boyfriend and Cindy lounged in Leslie’s bedroom, and the rest of us stood milling about in the kitchen. Anya, Belinda and I went down the street to buy a bottle of cranberry juice for drinks which ended up never being mixed. We stood outside and smoked as Anya reached under my shirt and played with my chest.
Upon returning to the kitchen I found myself once again towering over Belinda. She looked up at me and smiled. I rested my hands on her tiny shoulders. No longer interested in what was going on around me, I pushed my body into hers and then filled her mouth with my tongue. I pulled down the front of her blouse to suck at her nipples. I pawed at Belinda’s leather belt and she removed it. I then led her into my bedroom where we sat on the futon and removed the rest of each other’s clothing. It’s true what they say about tiny girls. She had a tight cunt, which contracted snugly around my index finger as I probed it. I wondered how I was going to fit my cock in there. Belinda’s pubic hair was natural, unshaved, yet neat and quite soft. I leaned forward and buried my face in her pussy. I came up for air and kissed her. She leaned forward and took my penis softly, shallowly into her mouth. Leslie came in and scolded me for running off without telling her where I was. Feeling like a bit of a cad, I asked her to bring me a condom, a request she of course refused. I stood and let both of them take turns sucking me before I headed to the living room to retrieve our pleasure box filled with lube, folded construction-paper hearts and rubbers. Two girls were on their knees in front of the couch giving head to their dates as Anya watched from the armrest. Erection twitching between my legs, I touched each of the girls and asked everyone if they were having a good time, then grabbed the pleasure box and headed back to my room. Anya, the boyfriend and Cindy came in and stole Leslie from us. They wanted us to join them in Leslie’s bedroom but Belinda and I were, like, fuck it. I asked Belinda if she wanted to get fucked. She asked if I had a condom and I leaned forward to open the box. “Oh, so that’s what the pleasure box was for,” she said, smiling. She watched as I slowly unrolled the condom over my penis. I glanced for a moment at the wet, ordinary world outside my window. Belinda lay back and I entered her tight little hole with some difficulty, but soon she was making her own quiet girl noises as I pounded her hard, the poor old futon creaking under the strain. I could feel every inch of that thing, every twitch of her cunt muscles. I touched her breasts. I draped myself over her and we kissed. “Can I be on top?” she asked, and I obliged, pleased at her initiative. She grinded on top of me, eyes closed, mouth open and hair matted over her sweaty face, that cunt again grasping me in its vice grip. A beautiful fucking face she had. After a while I took her from behind, her face pressed in the futon and her tiny body jammed between my cock and the armrest. My swollen member kept slipping out of her. Leslie came in and stood by us. I sucked Leslie’s chocolate nipples and kissed her before she left, her ass jiggling temptingly as she sauntered out. I sat on the futon and let Belinda mount me, grabbing her ass and guiding her up and down the length of me as our tongues intertwined. I dropped to my knees at the edge of her futon and fucked her where she sat. I pulled out and sucked on her clitoris for a while, looking up at her as she ran her hands through my hair.
Elsewhere, some sort of semi-drama had unfolded and people were wrapping up. I didn’t care. I joined Leslie and Cindy in Leslie’s room, admiring Cindy’s slim lines and nicely shaved pussy. We sat there talking for a while as Leslie and Cindy exchanged information, and Cindy was, like, “Oh my God! Your cock is so big. I don’t know how you’d fit that thing in me.” She grinned, cat-like, admiring the semi-hard stunt rod between my legs. Now, in all seriousness, it’s not that big. Anya’s boyfriend came in and said I must have made some impression on Belinda, because she usually doesn’t play with boys. Alarmed at this revelation, I wondered aloud whether I had fucked her too hard. Soon everyone was dressed aside from your humble hosts. Anya stood there stroking my cock and apologizing for having to end the festivities early. Leslie and I, wrapped in each other’s arms, bade them all farewell and enjoyed a slow, gentle fuck before we went to sleep.
As I sit here perusing Belinda’s blog, I have lost my eyes and feel the need to retrieve them from the floor. A choice tidbit: “A few months ago I became obsessed with having an orgasm with a boy. No reason except to satiate some sort of sexual curiosity of the other (or as others have claimed, to understand the normative culture I am suffused in daily with little distinction of my true self ever presented—their not knowing I am gay makes me so much a part of that social environment, some times I almost feel a part of it).” I wonder what she’ll have to say about me, if anything.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been some sapphic babe’s heterosexual experiment. It appears I’m a lesbian magnet.
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