Things to do in New York when you’re dead
Wake up in the grip of a hangover. Medicate yourself with a swig of cough medicine, a liter of water, two generic ibuprofens, a glass of wine and a ciggy. Watch a movie you missed when it was out in the theaters. Your girlfriend’s pretty eyes well up with tears. Decide her face looks silly when it cries. Soon enough it will be dark. Throw on last night’s costume and make a mad dash for the L train. “I hate Halloween,” a woman says as you walk by, but you ignore her.
Pick up the pace after you exit the station in some dilapidated Brooklyn neighborhood, broken glass everywhere, grass poking out through cracks in the sidewalk, and sodium streetlamps painting everything a sickly yellow. Down that street? No, this one. “C’mon,” you say, grabbing your girlfriend’s hand, “let’s hurry.” Try not to give into the feeling that you are dead tired. Flinch when a man walking behind you calls out. It’s okay though. It’s just Jimmy, also on his way to the party.
Hand your money to the bouncer. Tell the girl with the swastika on her arm that she has balls dressing up like that in New York. Talk to some people. Talk talk talk. Say hello to Daniella, who seems in a hurry to start fucking. See some girls you recognize—those you fucked, those you fooled around with, those you used to want to fuck, those you might fuck under the right conditions, those you would fuck right now, and those you would never fuck.
You need to sit down for a minute. Just fucking relax. Compose yourself. The couch comforts you; gets you out of the way of the guests streaming in and the people walking around with video cameras, cold lens-eyes staring back at you. A reporter approaches and asks for an interview, so you oblige. You do your best to explain why people like to get naked in groups and fuck. Don’t flinch when he asks you how many people you’ve hooked up with. You don’t want to think about this. Just smile and tell him it’s not about keeping score.
Make pleasant conversation with a girl who’s being chased around by the video cameras. A hot young photographer with bursting cleavage wants to do a photo shoot. Let her take you into the back. The girl being followed by the cameras balks at the last minute, so it’s just you and your girlfriend. The photographer is bossy but careful to keep your faces out of the pictures. Click click click. She orders your girlfriend to put her hand on you. You wink and tell the photographer she can put her hands on you too. Get a little aroused as your girlfriend grabs your cock through your slacks. You are suddenly aware you possess a dick.
Realize you want to be in control. You want to go further than anyone else. You want to be the alpha. This is a tall order at an orgy. It is easier to be free when those around you are in chains.
Head back to the kitchen for another drink and watch your girlfriend frolic with two semi-nude women. Click click click. More photos. “No, put your hand there,” the photographer says.
Coin a new term: swingersploitation.
The party is half over now and it’s time to take a piss. Note the traces of vomit on the toilet seat. Why is it that people drink themselves sick so quickly? Probably nerves. You are dead tired and you are pissing into the toilet and it has a little vomit on it. You step out of the bathroom and directly into the path of a ghost from the past. She looks unremarkable and throws you a half-smile. Shrug your shoulders and go somewhere else.
Talk to some people for a while. Touch some girls. Eventually you’ll find your girlfriend in a little blue room conversing with a little black fairy who has heaving breasts. Across from you a black woman fishes out her boyfriend’s big black cock and sucks on it. Miguel and Leandra enter the room, followed by another black couple. Everyone is sexy. Cup your hand now and spank Leandra’s ass properly, feeling her wetness when your finger slips a bit and finds its way to her pussy lips. Watch the black fairy slip out of her costume. The orgy is now growing around you. Play with the girls but don’t forget to pay attention to your girlfriend.
The room is now a cramped sauna. Take your girlfriend’s hand and flee to the back, to a cool, dark little room with an empty bed. This is where you fuck her the way she deserves to be fucked. She screams, but it’s not like you are putting on a show. For an orgy person, having sex in a dark corner of a crowded party feels as intimate as having sex at home. Ghostly figures sometimes walk through the room on their way to find new cocks and cunts but you do not flinch, nor do you take extra pleasure in their presence, their furtive glances. When you are about to come all you can think is “blue, blue, blue.” Your orgasm sits down with you for a while to have a chat over tea. You are Ivan Karamazov and it is the Devil.
Afterwards you find Schoolgirl wandering the halls wearing nothing but a corset. Suck her tiny pink nipples. Spank her tiny white ass. Be mindful of your technique. Remember to cup your hand—it’s only good for her when your palm stings and your ears ring. Watch her and your girlfriend for a while. Compliment them both on the excellent show. Say it with feeling. Even better, let them see that your cock is hard.
The party is winding down now. Go sit on the couches by the dance floor and stare at the ceiling, the reflected lights of the disco ball swirling around like hundreds of restless ghosts. Watch The Cock and Schoolgirl slip into a side room and make fucking noises. Strange noises. Laugh when a girl sitting nearby asks “Was that a duck?” Tell the wisecracking girl you have only recently overcome your spanking inhibitions, having been conditioned in college to believe taking such liberties with a woman is wrong. Look up to realize she is towering over you and bending over to see what you can do. Her breasts hang heavily. Lift her tiny skirt and give it a go, pausing between smacks to inspect the bruises on her rear end.
Grab your girlfriend on the way out. Don’t be jealous that she’s french-kissing another man. On the way home in a hired car, note the tiny colored lights dotting the support columns between the doors. Watch the Empire State gleaming in the distance through the tired metal skeleton of the Williamsburg Bridge. You cannot understand why the white lights are still on. Safely back in your neighborhood again, pay the driver and stumble out. When you see a marathoner on the street wish her luck. You’ve just run your own marathon of sorts, which is all the more impressive since you are dead.
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