California Haze

Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 30, 2005

The bitch sits before me, panting in my face, her tongue lolling, her eyes stupid and happy. I run my hands through her soft, raven-black hair, then grasp her shoulders, unsure what to do next. She loves daddy. Yes she does.

Juanita exhales dramatically and passes me a coconut-flavored blunt through the expanding smoke screen. “California haze,” she says. “Don’t stand up too quick after you toke this shit.”

The product made its way to us from the West Coast, via FedEx, packed in with oranges so as to throw off any possible interdiction efforts. Juanita knows how to work the supply chain.

“Okay girl, daddy’s gonna smoke now, so you have to—no… no!” It’s too late. Her tongue flutters over my lips and I’m forced to press my hand to her chest.

“Blow it in her face,” someone says.

“Kay,” I’m projecting from my throat rather than my diaphragm, trying not to empty my lungs yet, a stoner technique which makes one appear to have a rather bad case of indigestion. “Here goeshhhhhhh…”

The dog scampers off, evidently a bit confused. “Mmmm cococunut,” I blubber, passing down the line to Leslie.

A wave wells up within my gut, crashing upon my internal organs and breaking up into foamy tendrils that reach into my brain and settle there. For a moment I can see the gaps between time. “Time lapse!” Les announces, and when I look at her it’s like I’m watching the great cosmic flip book in action, decelerating now to one frame per second. The dog’s tail wags in slow-mo. Whump… whump. I look over at Lisa, who’s peering, glassy eyed, into the abyss.

I swallow. My heart thumps. I want to get up but I cannot move.

I attempt to join whatever conversation we’re having but I’m overcome by the thought that I’m not making any sense, that I must be clicking and screeching like a giant insect. Were I to deliberately click and screech, I reckon, my California haze might automatically translate from insect-speak into ordinary human mouth noises. Then again, judging by people’s reactions I must be making sense… unless that’s what they want me to think!

“Lex!”

Click?

“We’re leaving.”

Screech!

Our friends are kind enough to drop us off at our destination before heading off to one of the drearily trendy clubs that dot the Flatiron district. By the time we reach the coat check line at the Flirt party my haze has, thankfully, abated somewhat, and as I chat with the coat-check girl I’m relieved to have recovered some semblance of my customary social graces. Les and I aren’t terribly impressed with tonight’s crowd: evidently, the organizers were obligated to let in a few regulars and so the usual air of permissiveness is lacking. We make do though.

A brown-skinned fellow with a friendly smile recognizes Leslie and they carry on like old school chums. I pull Les aside. “Who is that?”

“Remember that girl we met at the last Flirt party? He’s her friend.”

“Wha?” My mind goes all hazy at first. Then the flashback hits: my mouth clamped around a lovely, perky breast. “Oh, that girl.”

“She’s not here tonight though.”

“Oh.”

The night wears on and we eventually retire to couches in the back, resting our feet and watching people wander by. There’s a dark-haired girl dancing with manic energy, her little rear end rising and falling in tune with the music. My lazy eyes follow her movements. “Get a load of that girl,” I say, but before Les can respond miss manic is upon us like a stripper who hasn’t yet earned her house fee. She lowers her top and grinds upon my girlfriend’s lap. Everything’s getting trippy again, the California haze coming back with a vengeance. Les looks a little overwhelmed and I briefly consider coming to her rescue. Instead, I cock an eyebrow at her and shrug helplessly, then rise from my seat.

“Excuse me ladies. Nature calls.”

I return to find them dancing, or rather wrapped together in a lustful parody of a dance. Leslie positions the girl between us and I place my hands upon her slight frame, peering at the nape of her neck and sorta wondering who, exactly, this person is—and whether I want to make this territory my own. I still don’t know her name. The girl reaches back between my legs and squeezes, not altogether gently. When Les whispers that she might come home with us I’m skeptical.

“Are you sure about this? She’s um… kinda weird.”

“I know. Maybe I got a bit carried away.”

We collect our coats because leaving one way or another appears to be the only sensible thing to do at this point. My spidey sense tells me this woman is only making a show of things: it’s not uncommon for people to debauch themselves in public in a way they’d be afraid to in private. Sure enough, the mystery-woman’s male friend materializes and says he’s going to make sure she gets home safe. I nearly thank him for taking her off our hands. We loiter a few minutes longer and then walk toward the exit.

“Hey! Wait.” It’s Ishmael, the fellow who’d recognized Les earlier on. “You guys wanna ride?”

I’d seen the lovely, slender young woman at his side, even spoken with her, but I hadn’t noticed her until now, you dig? She has a fresh face, a dreamy look in her eyes, a little mole above her lip. She and Les get better acquainted while Ishmael retrieves their things. Les flashes her breasts, to which the young woman responds in a moneyed drawl, “That’s hot.”

I’ll call her Paris.

Remember what I said about little dogs? Ishmael’s friend, a short Asian guy with carelessly sculpted hair, is of a less cantankerous breed—though clearly enamored of Leslie he makes no attempt to mark territory. Rather, he seems content enough to be along for the ride, and Leslie’s more amused than annoyed at his advances. We all pile into Ishmael’s SUV, Paris immediately lifting her blouse over her head as we speed off to god knows where. I place a hand over one of her small, tear-drop breasts. Les kisses the girl. The boys laugh.

The Asian dude protests lamely when we drop him off. Ishmael stands firm (“Time to go, man.”) so he shuffles away, placing his hands in his pockets and curving his shoulders into an aw-shucks slump. Before our ride continues Paris bends over the front seat and asks for a spanking, upon which I lift her skirt and let my hands do the talking. The impact of my palm against the ample white flesh of her rump echoes down the narrow, empty street.

Ishmael, thankfully, keeps his eyes on the road. He reaches over and tilts the passenger seat back as far as it will go and now Paris is peering up at me like a happily sedated patient on an operating table. I slip my arms around the seat and play with her breasts, looking up now and then to see whether people in the vehicles around us have caught on. Leslie pushes her silky tongue against mine and I realize that I’d probably be ill at ease in these situations without her reassuring presence. Out of the corner of my eye I can see our driver’s hand inching down his girlfriend’s skirt, revealing the soft and shaven flesh below. When his hand withdraws mine takes its place.

“I have to pee,” Les announces. Come to think of it, so do I. We park in the vicinity of Ishmael’s office, intending to use the facilities there, but as soon as my girlfriend is released from the confines of the car she pulls down her jeans and squats in the street. Ishmael and I shrug and take up positions along shuttered storefronts. Alfresco—a proper New York piss. Her shirt back on, Paris leans against the car and waits for us to finish. It’s not long before her skirt is up and the girls are fooling around a little and Ishmael is taking naughty snaps. Once again I pull my penis out into the fresh city air. Les wraps her lips around it. “That’s hot,” says Paris. Cars cruise by, the drivers probably rolling their eyes and thinking: Only in New York.

It feels like it’s been ages since we left the party. Les and I fool around in the back seat as Paris alternates between watching us and lowering her head into our driver’s lap. Her hand reaches back, making a grasping motion, so I guide it to my cock. She quickly pulls her hand away and I wonder whether I’ve committed a faux pas. Then I see that she’s only licking her palm, that her hand is now returning to the post sticking up through my trousers. She works me rhythmically, her other hand making a similar motion between her boyfriend’s legs. It’s almost a shame that the sun is coming up now, lifting our haze, and we’re cruising along Central Park North, our sex party on wheels coming to its inevitable conclusion.

More: Drugs | Marijuana | Flirt | Sex Party | Exhibitionism | Foursome | Swingers

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