Laura Meets Jeffrey

by Jeffrey Michelson

  Andrea and I went to non-stop weekend bashes at resorts where I learned, at twenty-four, that a sixty-three-year-old woman can be a hot babe. We went to dude ranches with 300 couples of every color, age, and perversion. I was summoned into a room to service a woman, who was on her knees blindfolded, begging for another “gangbang mystery fuck,” who called me “Number 31.” By Sunday afternoon I ran out of sperm and then the blood pressure necessary to raise the beast.

  ORGYMETRICS

  The equalizer at orgies is stamina, which was my strong suit. Toward the end of the evening there were always more willing women than men. It’s a simple physical reality that men need to be willing and able and women merely need to be willing. Late night is when guys like me who could get it up over and over and over and over earn their stripes.

  For example: It’s the tail end of an orgy that started at 9:00 p.m. with fourteen couples and it’s now 2:30 a.m. and only five couples are left. Three of the guys are sleeping or at least have a sleeping penis which leaves five active women and two guys, and I am usually one of them. All of a sudden my stock goes up five points.

  There are at least two women playing with each willing man and maybe I am the lucky guy with three. Plus, think about it. What kind of woman is still hungry for sex at the end of an orgy after getting fucked maybe six, seven, eight, nine times already? A very horny, highly sexed animalistic fucky one that would be pumping out the super-pheromones that a penis needs at that hour when a man’s reputation is made. I was the Reggie Jackson, the Mr. October, of Orgies.

  Another measurable attribute of orgies was the access it gave to certain kinds of women, high-class very beautiful ones, particularly, that I could not score on my own.

  One anecdote explains it all. It is a Friday afternoon on Fifth Avenue near Central Park and I want to call Andrea to make plans for dinner. I notice that my watch has stopped. This absolutely gorgeous tall lady with Fur Coat And Lots Of Diamonds walks by and I ask her for the time. She doesn’t acknowledge me and keeps on walking.

  The very next night, Saturday, Andrea and I are at an orgy in a very posh apartment on Gramercy Park North done in stucco and stone, the entrance of which was made to look like the inside of an old English castle. Shortly after my first orgasm, I am aware, astounded, that next to me is the very same Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty, with the most beautiful God-given B-cup tits I’ve ever seen. She is beyond luscious. Not sexy looking but just plain gorgeous. She must have been a model. If you wanted the young executive look, the girl at the country club, or the right patrician trophy wife to show off an elegant fur coat or diamond necklace, you’d hire her.

  She’s on top of a dude parallel to me, riding up and down and screaming. They finish and she slides off the penis she’s just wilted, and into my arms. We kiss; we feel each other all over. I hope she’s more versatile and doesn’t need to ride me cowgirl style, which is one of my least favorite positions because it’s too passive for me.

  I maneuver on top and hold each of her delicate thin wrists against the mattress to see if she responds. She does with a pleased whimper, a vain cartoon struggle and a smile in her eyes that signals it’s her kind of fuck. We make long, hot, sweaty love.

  She kisses great. Her skin is silky. Her eyes are light blue. She is just a few inches shorter than me. She is the single most perfect woman I ever fucked. Nothing about her hair, nails, face, hands, body, bum, legs, teeth and feet could be any better.

  After fifteen minutes she suggests we 69 and as we start, before she puts my cock in her mouth, she bends around and starts sucking my asshole. I have to be really in love, or inspired, to suck an asshole, and knowing this is the same Lady from Fifth Avenue is suitably inspirational. She has one of those little hairless doll anuses nestled in a cute round firm tushy. When I stick my tongue in her bum she wiggles and squeals with delight. I add a finger into the mix and can tell this is one Very Anal Lady.

  She relaxes and opens rather than tightens and closes. She then asks me ever so politely to put my cock up her ass. Actually her words are “Put yours there please.” She refuses to mention any of the parts by name. I slide in and I am under siege by a battalion of different emotions, perceptions and sensations, all of them terrific. I am conquering the unconquerable, and adoring the most perfect female physical form I have ever felt. Everything about her says dainty and lady and refined, and my cock is up “there.” I have one of those memorable orgasms that I hope will run a bit slower than most events when my whole life passes in front of me at the moment of death.

  I never mention our outside world encounter. I hold her for a few minutes afterwards and secretly say a prayer of thanks to the Magic God and/or Goddess Of Orgy who sometimes makes the unattainable fuckable. On the way out The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty comes over to me wearing the same fur coat from the day before, kisses me slow and tender, and whispers in my ear that she hopes to run into me at another party.

  Sadly, I never see her again.

  The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty was the date of a funny looking Jewish gynecologist who was one of several funny looking Jewish OB-GYNs I met on the orgy circuit. They always showed up with the most gorgeous dates. Not only were these men doctors, which is a financial and social advantage, I suspected there must have been some benefit to introducing yourself to a fashion model while you are already between her legs.

  MISCELLANEOUS ORGY QUESTIONS

  Laura asks many questions, like, “What about falling in love with someone other than the wife or girlfriend you came with?”

  It happened, but it was a rare event. I met and fell in love with Andrea at an orgy—but I was with some orgy-ticket girl whose name I can’t remember and Andrea wasn’t George’s girlfriend. People who came with “just friends” would sometimes meet other “just friends” and fall in love.

  I never worried about losing Andrea to someone else, and I never fell in love with anybody else no matter how beautiful or good a fuck. My confidence came from being twenty-four and feeling invulnerable and immortal every day. My commitment came from my trust and joy in the ease and intensity of being with Andrea. We just clicked. Both of us were avid readers, enjoyed cooking, loved walking the city streets, had lots of stamina, and loved animals, trivia, music, dancing and being silly, We both had a soft spot for Dada, Surrealism and absurdist theatre and literature. We were both always horny. We were both dedicated to sexual honesty. For the first time in my life I was in a relationship where we not only loved each other, we indulged the other’s desires, we were whores for each other.

  I was happy to have found Andrea and didn’t want to replace her. I just wanted to also be able to fuck other females. I do not remember having even a passing thought about going home with someone beside Andrea. Love was a relationship, orgies were for sport, and I never forgot who was on the home team.

  From years of seeing the same couples come to orgies, it appeared that healthy relationships were not dissolved because of swinging. In fact, I think it held many otherwise insolvent marriages together. It was something else to stay together for besides the kids.

  If you wanted to fuck another woman you met at an orgy, you could meet her at another party and have her. Twice or three times in a row if you wanted to. Or if you were a female and your date/boyfriend/husband liked your fuckee’s date/girlfriend/wife, you could get together with them at other orgies, or the four of you could get together anytime. Andrea and I had many mini-nookie festivals with a selection of couples.

  Orgies made emotional fidelity easier. That might seem oxymoronic but think about it. Being able to fuck another girl or guy you fancied took the need “to cheat” out of your life. I mean, why bother?

  Also, swinging couples were more likely to be sharing hot sex with each other so they were less likely to be unhappy with their sex lives. They were having the kind of sex at home that people who would worry about losing their mate at an orgy didn’t have.

  There was the switch here and there and one real life divorce/rem
arry inter-couple swap, but these were rare. Being able to fuck nearly anyone you wanted made whatever relationship you were in more tolerable and made this small risk worth it. Relationships were more fun with the threat of monogamy removed.

  Example: I met an adorable petite smart girl named Amy at an orgy who liked Andrea and loved fucking me. She asked Andrea if she could come over in the mornings to fuck me on her days off. Amy would arrive with coffee and breakfast and jump under the covers with us. Then Andrea would get dressed, kiss us both goodbye and go to work.

  Sometimes we took Amy with us to orgies. An extra female was always welcome, and a guy who showed up with two girls was treated like the living Buddha. None of us ever thought of ruining the situation, and if Amy was lonely and wanted to be with me/us she just called and came over or I would go over to her tiny apartment nearby in the West Village. It’s amazing what can be accomplished with the lack of jealousy. (Note to Amy: Please call!)

  These new ethics made Baby Boomer Orgiests think we were creating a new society and changing the world.

  Laura asks me, “Can a girl turn you down?”

  Of course. But remember the odd circumstances you are in: a room filled with people who have chosen to fuck many strangers one after another. Being discriminating, selective, is not the operative mood. Private parties were by invitation and the hosts/hostesses performed triage before you got through their door.

  This was less true for on-premise swingatoriums like Plato’s Retreat (I must ask why they named that place after one of history’s least sexy people) where I believe the rejection rate would be higher since it was an “open” rather than an “invitational.”

  These public places to fuck had a very low bar of admission—usually the door money and something that vaguely reminded the doorman of a woman—so one didn’t benefit from prequalification. I went to Plato’s and Trapeze and a few other on-premise public swing clubs, but they were like finding too much bok choy in the moo goo gai pan.

  At the 300 or so private orgies I attended, with an average of five to seven couplings at each one—and roughly 1,400 chances to be rejected—I must have experienced just over a dozen rejections, which is just over one half of one percent, the standard minimum necessary for statistical significance.

  While there was a statistically significant 0.8 percent chance of being rejected, that meant for the twelve times I got rejected there were 1,388 acceptances. That’s an acceptance rate of 99.2 percent. Who can’t live with that? Plus my first refusal didn’t happen until at least the fortieth orgy and by then it was emotionally a non-event.

  Probably six of the twelve were outright rejections from females who, erroneously in my opinion, found me repulsive and would rather spend the time cleaning urinals than have sex with me. Another six were just from exhaustion. Some of these women I would conjugate with at a later date, some never. Only one I ever remember saying, “Oh No! Not you!” which did sting momentarily.

  I have left out the three dozen “Oh, no, not again’s,” and “Oh, no, not now’s” I got from females that I had had before and would have again but were either ready to go home, had their momentary fill, were just beginning a rest period, or were too hungry to be thinking about sex—logistical differences, not rejections.

  This is not to say that the selection process was all one-sided. There were always some females who aggressively pursued males and sometimes other females. I was asked occasionally by ladies and only twice did I beg off. One was aesthetically challenged and one, more aggressive and masculine than me, scared me.

  Another question Laura asks is, “What about guys being so close to other naked guys and do they ever touch sexually?”

  Nearly every orgy I went to was run by average Hard-core Masturbator Guys. These orgies were the living manifestations of our (The Hard-core Masturbator’s) dream world and were almost as homophobic as a gang of tough Italians. Bisexuality, not just tolerated but encouraged for women, was a tacit taboo for men. Nearly every straight guy likes to watch two women have sex with each other, but guy/guy sex is a definite no-no.

  I don’t know the psychobabble reasons why girl/girl is okay and guy/guy stuff isn’t, but since most Hard-core Masturbator Guys feel the same way, I guess it must come bundled with our original operating system. Touching a guy happened all the time and was as accepted as it would be when playing basketball or football or even when wrestling. It was impossible not to touch each other as you crawled over a clusterfuck. If you were part of a threesome or moresome, guys would balance themselves, without even an awkward grimace, by holding onto each other. But we were all butch about it.

  Occasionally, some guy would be playing near or around some female orifice you were already involved with, like a husband putting a finger up the ass of a wife you were screwing, or maybe some guy eating the pussy connected to the anus you had entered and your Johnson or cahones might be sideswiped or even fondled. I never minded it as long as it felt good and didn’t impede my motion or pleasure. I only ever heard a very few true homophobes complain of these Class-C Misdemeanor Bisexual Encounters.

  Once or twice in the middle of a cluster I looked down to see who was sucking me and it was a guy and a girl or just a guy and I just let it continue, especially if it was a guy and girl.

  At the huge orgython at the Holiday Inn in New Jersey I was fucking this lovely lady and felt my balls being sucked and played with and I thought it was my friend Tina who often did that for me. I turned around and saw a tiny Japanese man down there and it felt so good I just kept pumping. It got a bit strange, however, because he followed me to provide the same ancillary benefit to my next copulation. This time I told him, “Thank you, but no more please.” I don’t think he spoke English, but he understood the International Body Language for “Go away or I’ll kill you.”

  Laura also wants to know, “What about VD?”

  This is what we worried about before we knew enough to worry about—“YOU’LL NEVER GET RID OF IT!”—herpes and ––“YOU’LL DIE OF IT!”—AIDS.

  I have no idea why, but I swear in over 300 orgies I have no memory of anyone ever getting anything and I never saw one condom. The answer must be that we were a healthy disease-free group and stayed in our own circle. Or, as I like to think, we were doing God’s work and were protected by Guardian Angels.

  The last question Laura asks is, “What about anal sex at orgies?”

  At orgies where you really did have license to fuck, anal sex was a privilege. Most women didn’t want it. Some women only shared it with their mates. Some liked it selectively. A few liked it equally to fucking and a very few, God bless them, preferred it.

  I would say that anal sex was available from less than ten percent of the women and only once in a blue moon with a blue ribbon anus like The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty. A gentleman never pushed the issue past a little cajoling. In retrospect, the vast majority of the sex I had and saw at the hundreds of orgies I went to in the early ’70s was vanilla or at the most cherry vanilla. Lots of fucking and sucking, a sprinkling of rimming and a smidgen of anal sex. I never saw a whip or even handcuffs.

  We were a randy bunch, but not really eccentric, once you got past the part about having sex with strangers in groups.

  24

  Laura’s first orgy

  Early 1981

  The prospect of taking Laura to an orgy raises my anxiety level. Would there be a price to pay? There already is one, just me wondering if there would be one. Dread pokes me in the kidneys. Here I am, about to risk my most precious love gladiator in the modern-day Roman Sex Circus. What if, even if it’s an outside chance, she finds a man/dick at this orgy who jazzes her toenails more than I do?

  What if? What the fuck if?

  I make a few calls to people I know from the old days who might still be travelling the orgy circuit. I am only half surprised that after an absence of seven years it takes me only twenty minutes to find a party that is about to start in two hours.

  Laura is excite
d. She’s got more questions: “Can I really fuck anyone I want, Jeffrey? Is that really okay with you? Can I say ‘no’ to anyone? Can I ask a girl? Do you want me to ask you if it’s okay with you before I fuck someone?”

  I spend the cab ride to Larry’s explaining Orgy Etiquette. The eavesdropping cabby nods each time I make a point—“Do what you want.” (Nod.) “Don’t do what you don’t want to do.” (Nod.) “Respect other people’s wants as well as their not-wants.” (Nod.)

  Laura wears lots of makeup, big sexy dangly earrings, high-heel red slut pumps, a slinky, short, tight, fire-engine red leather mini-dress, sheer stockings and garter belt, and white cotton bra and panties. She’s a dichotomy, a sexual ice cream sandwich, whore on the outside and virgin inside.

  We arrive a bit late. Larry, tall and GQ handsome as ever, greets me. “Hello, Jeffrey, it’s been so long everybody thought you were dead.” After making eye contact with me for 15/16th of a second, he oogles Laura.

  “My God, you’re lovely!” he slimes, stifling a drool. “Jeffrey, you always do come up with great-looking women, but Laura is the top of your game.”

  Larry, who has not looked at me since the first 15/16th of a second, holds Laura’s hand and coos, “Please come in and join the party. I can’t wait to get to you later, Laura.”

  Laura whispers, “I don’t have to fuck that creep, do I?”

  “Only if I tell you that you have to,” I whisper back.

  Larry’s apartment, filled with about two dozen nouveau riche perverts, is an overdone, flashy, big two-bedroom on Sutton Place, with formal dining room and a very large living room. The second bedroom, the main “orgy room,” is done like so many others I had seen, in expensive ugly New Orleans whorehouse-style red flocked wallpaper and obligatory wall-to-wall mattresses. Naked people mill and mix with clothed people, the late arrivals or late bloomers.

  Orgies were almost always couples. If you didn’t take a wife, you took a girlfriend or had the decency to hire a call girl (not a street hooker) and pass her off as a friend. But if you counted heads at Larry’s, you’d always come up with extra guys. Larry, a lawyer, would always sneak in a horny client/partner/friend or two. It never bothered me because Larry always had lots of very high quality pot, terrific purple sensimilla, and the women at his parties were always equal to the drugs.