Group Therapy

I’m sitting in a tiny room watching a woman fellate her boyfriend as two girls and a guy roll around on a futon and a Swedish dude masturbates next to me and all I can think is, Why did I take this assignment?

I found out about the orgy through a friend, John, who had attended one before. He said each one had a theme, like “Doctors and Nurses” and “The Middle East.” They were held once a month in the West Village apartment of a hot Greek schoolteacher, men couldn’t attend without a woman, and it cost a hundred bucks a couple.

I sent an email to the hostess, “Lisa,” and she wrote back saying this month’s theme was “Vinyl” and attendees should dress appropriately. I wondered how I was going to hang two record albums on my nipples but then I realized that wasn’t what she meant. 

I mailed in a check made out to CASH and a few days before the event Lisa wrote back with the address and a secret pass phrase. As my date for the evening I enlisted a recent new beau, “Mike.” He was nervous but when I reassured him that he didn’t have to shtup, it was OK to watch, he said he’d give it a shot. 

When we got to the door a tall black guy peeped out at us from behind a gate. I felt like I was in The Wizard of Oz

“Names?” he said.

I told him, he found us on the list, and then asked, “What’s the password?” 

“Lick my toes,” I proclaimed proudly.

We climbed a flight of stairs and went in the door and immediately I realized how much size matters. It was a duplex with a wide eat-in kitchen and a hardwood floor.

Lisa came up to us, introduced herself, and said, “Welcome.” She was curvaceous and dark and seriously dressed for the occasion – black tape crisscrossed on her nipples, a black thong, and “FUCK OFF” written in black body paint on her ass. The other people there were a white guy with long hair in his forties; an overly tan Brit; and a Lolitaesque coat check girl who instructed us to change into our party clothes and put our street clothes into a plastic bag. 

We went into the bathroom and Mike stripped to his boxers, while I switched into a black teddy, the closest thing in my closet to dominatrix gear. We took a quick tour of the joint. The front room had a wide low bed with a Ron Jeremy porno playing on the TV. In the kitchen there was a full bar and a spread of (what else?) finger food. In the back were two small rooms, each with low lighting, decorated according to the evening’s theme. Handmade signs proclaimed, “Bitch,” “That didn’t hurt now, did it?” “Ask before you touch,” and, most poetically, “You’ve been a bad!” 

On the windowsills sat baskets filled with condoms and Hershey’s kisses. Upstairs was a third room, with two couches and a Kermit the Frog doll hanging over the door.

When we came back down Barry White was playing. I could feel the bass in my pelvis. “Let’s go in one of the rooms,” I said to Mike. We lay down on the zebra-print futon side by side. I was a journalist but suddenly I didn’t feel so objective. Mike looked rough and tumble with that bare chest. He lowered his lids. Barry sang, “Playing games is not my shtick.” I leaned in.

By this time we’d unentangled ourselves and gone back into the kitchen there were about thirty people milling about. The mix was like New York itself – hot women, so-so men. Many of the women wore leather and rubber. Suddenly I heard a shout and spotted Lisa bending over the British guy, whose pants were halfway down his waist, whipping him hard. “Are you smacking my ass or my balls?” he said.

“Both!” she shouted.

A hot blonde quartet, three girls and a guy, passed by and went upstairs. Mike and I followed. The guy was wearing a sleeveless shirt that said “Sweden” so I chatted with him in Swedish for a while because that’s where I did by junior year abroad. He was too fey for me though, so I started to head downstairs, but then Mike said to one of the girls, “What’s your name?”

She was leggy and tan with single process hair and even though mine is multi process there was no way I could compete with that bod. I stared at Mike, imploring him to come with me but he just shrugged and kept talking.

I trounced down the stairs and checked out the front room. A dommed-out couple was making out on the bed. I went into one of the back rooms found a brunette, back turned, thrusting herself against a guy on a chair so smothered I couldn’t see him. A black guy was sitting next to her, just chilling, as a tall Asian dude kneaded her ass. I stepped closer, trying to see whether the smothered man was getting enough air but as the girl arched her back I realized there was no one underneath her. She was surrounded by men and dry humping a chair. Then again, I could kind of relate.

I slipped into the next room. A girl in a black-and-white vinyl cheerleading skirt was going down on another girl, who was leaning against the legs of a very happy-looking guy. I sat down in a chair. The ass squeezer came in and rubbed the cunning linguist’s left cheek. He knew where he was kneaded.

The door opened and Lisa came in with the English guy. She sat down in the chair and he went down on her for a while, and then he stood up, pulled down his pants and she started giving him a blowjob. I was about ready to leave when Sweden came in. He closed the door behind him, dropped his drawers and standing up, began to spank the monkey. I didn’t know how I was going to get past him without being impacted but before I could try he came toward me. I started to cower but when he got close he just went past me, sat on the windowsill, and kept stroking, staring at the girls. His knee started to move with in rhythm with his pulls and when it banged into mine I walked out.

The kitchen was quiet so I peeked my head into the front room. There were a bunch of people standing by the door smoking and talking so I had to part them like the Red Sea to find out who was on the bed. Nearest to me the dommed-out couple was still rolling around, and next to them was MY GUY. With Single Process. I didn’t care if it was an orgy. I was no cuckold. I shook my head and slunk out the door.

I tried chatting with some of the partygoers but every five minutes I tiptoed back into the bedroom to check on my adulterer – who kept kissing Single Process and stroking her side.

After what felt like an hour he came into the kitchen. “How far did you go with her?” I hissed.

“Just kissing.”

“Were you erect?”

“Sure. She’s a sexy girl.” 

“Did she know you were?”

“I guess, but it wasn’t pressed up against her. Why are you so mad? I was just trying to get in the swing of things.”

“Why couldn’t you get in it with me?”

“Because you weren’t in the room.”

The party was starting to thin out. Sweden the Masturbator was heading for the door. Mike and I went into the bedroom, where the guy next to Single Process had his head buried between another girl’s legs. Single Process rubbed his leg encouragingly as the girl started yelping, her head lolling back, her thighs quivering like crazy. Suddenly I felt inadequate about my own Os. I come quietly with not much thigh quake.

“Let’s go,” I told Mike. We went into one of the back rooms to change and as I was slipping into my dress another couple came in and started making out against the wall. When I turned around the girl was on her knees.

As we passed them, the guy, while fellated, said nonchalantly, “You two aren’t going, are you?”

I didn’t know how he could talk and get blown at the same time. It was like rubbing your stomach and patting your head.

“We have another engagement,” I said.

“Too bad,” he said, as the chickenhead kept bobbing.

Outside on the street the cool air felt good. “So what did you think?” I said to Mike.

“Did you notice there was no actual sex?”

“That’s true,” I said. “I guess that’s the difference between the seventies and now.”

A cab came toward us and I hailed it. We got in the back seat. I told him we’d be making two stops. 

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’ve had enough,” I said. “I’m sexed out.”  He sighed, disappointed. “So what’d you think?” I asked.

“I liked watching that guy take care of his girlfriend,” said Mike. “It was all about her pleasure.”

“I guess,” I said, curling my lip.

“Why are you so grumpy?”

“I couldn’t stand watching all those women getting off. It made me jealous. I like to get the most attention in a room and be the best at everything. I think I’m too competitive for an orgy.”

Mike shook his head and laughed. The cab pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge. When we got to my place he tried to get out too but I shook my head no and slammed the door behind me.  As I walked up the steps to my apartment I pictured my big empty bed waiting for me and felt something totally unprecedented in my fifteen years of single life:  relief.