First orgy, worst orgy

March 27, 2008 at 5:39 pm 3 comments

It was right around this time of year, actually, perhaps a bit later. I was a junior in high school. We’d just finished our exams, so it was either mid-term or the end of the year. We all jumped into Rich’s car and headed north to April’s house. April, whose mother up in Maine had despaired of ever taming her wild daughter, finally threw up her hands and sent her to live down in Fairfield County with her dad. She lived in a little shack behind the main house. It had no indoor plumbing and relied on a wood stove for heat, but it did have something far more valuable to a wild 17-year-old: privacy.

The year was 1990, and Rich popped in a tape of all five radio remixes of Madonna’s Vogue. There were six of us: Rich, April, me, young Susan (a mere freshman), Hester, and April’s beau Thom. Aside from chiseled good looks, Thom had few redeeming qualities. But I don’t think she liked him for his conversation.

“I’ve got that feeling,” I said aloud as we sped north.

“Like you’re going to be bad?” said Susan. And I nodded. We were thrilled, glad to be alive, free of schoolwork, free of parents and obligations, free to be bad.

Once at April’s place, we clambered up the steps (more ladder than staircase) to the little loft above the main room. Someone produced a case of beer — the cheapest kind imaginable. There was some shotgunning of beers. And then people were passing a joint, tiny, mostly paper, and almost gone before I’d become aware of it. That was most likely the first time I saw anyone actually smoking pot.

And then someone–Thom or Rich, I’m sure–came up with the bright idea of tying up all the girls. We were all in the drama club except for Thom, whom I’d never even seen at school, and Rich was the flymaster. This meant he was adept at tying knots. He demonstrated this skill fairly well, and pretty soon we were all prettily trussed and bound on April’s rat’s nest of a bed.

When Rich first appeared on the scene at the beginning of the year, I’d developed a crush on him. Along with every other single female member of the drama club. Since then, I’d come to realize he was just a conceited ass. And yet there I was, hands bound above my head, undulating as he teased me with his hands.

“I’ve got to have more beer in me to do this,” I said. And shotgunned another beer. That turned out to be a big mistake, because pretty soon the bed and the room were spinning. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. And without further ado, I did. Right next to the bed.

Folks obviously weren’t too pleased, but I was too far gone to do much about it. I clambered downstairs without falling on my head and stumbled through the bright spring sunlight into the main house. I took a shower in her parents’ bathroom, then headed back out to the porch. Hester had quietly excused herself when the rope came out, and the two of us sat there talking and smoking cigarettes. Across the lawn, we heard the noises of our disporting friends through the open window of April’s shack.

April called to me through the open window. “I think I just had an orgasm!” she said.

Strange that she would call it out to me, with two boys and a girl right there in the bed beside her. But she did.

Later, she gave me a full-on kiss, lips, tongue, passion, and all. Hester told me she was surprised, since April had made some comments earlier in the year that expressed a clear dislike for lesbians. In vino veritas.

I made my way back up to our coltish little orgy, intending to clean up the mess I’d left. But my friends had beaten me to it. And then Rich was guiding my hand into Susan’s pants. I pulled down her fly and slid my hands into her panties, felt her wetness, probed further, intrigued and amazed at myself at the same time. “Too hard,” she said, and I pulled my hand out, too awkward and afraid (afraid of what? everything.) to try again. Susan was soft and chocolate-colored, with a fine nimbus of black hair framing her round face and green eyes. I loved her body, had always thought she was gorgeous. But she was also like my little sister. I lay with my chin on her chest and talked. Next to us, April and Thom writhed against each other.

Much later, Hester drove Susan and me back to our crappy little downtown apartments. I watch the green, green lawns slide by. The sky was grey and overcast, like my head in the aftermath of all that beer and transgressive sex.

Entry filed under: bisexuality, childhood awakenings, kink, memoir, sluts have more fun. Tags: , , , , , , , .

Quickie Sex doesn’t kill, but sex addiction does

3 Comments Add your own

  • 1. Only In It For The Ponies  |  March 28, 2008 at 5:40 am

    It’s hard to keep the Bad and the bad disentangled, isn’t it? Alcohol, especially, requires such a delicate balance by all concerned, titrating the right blood levels to be out of your head but not sick to your stomach. It took me a while to learn that in college.

    Every drug seems to have its pros and cons in that regard. Ecstasy, in my experience, is absolutely tailor-made for dissolving all inhibitions about touching, reducing a group of users to a multi-tentacled mass within 45 minutes. (The setting helps, too. I really recommend a strobe light, provided none of your guests are epileptic.) This awesomeness has the minor drawback that no one will have the slightest interest in sex; but on the other hand, that does avoid so many categories of possible unpleasantnesses. At noon the next day everyone just wakes up, untangles limbs, adjusts clothing, goes out for brunch and giggles a lot.

    (Did I mention setting? It counts for so much. At the first such experience of mine, my girlfriend showed up two hours late, sober as a judge. She took one look at the flickering pile of bodies, said “oh, wow” in a very impressed voice, and dove in.)

    But neither of the two such experiences of mine that had any, y’know, sexual undertones to them involved any drugs. The one that came out the best, with me, girlfriend, a previous girlfriend, didn’t quite get to fourth base, but was lovely and memorable anyway. (Does that still count as an “orgy”? Or is n=3 a degenerate case [sic]?)

    The other event didn’t actually happen; it was clearly a would-be-orgy beginning to self-assemble, with n=7 or so, but the vibrations were wrong for me so I did like your friend Hester and excused myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have, I don’t know. My life since has been very, very monogamous, so maybe old things just seem rosier in retrospect. I don’t think so, though, in this case; I trust my gut feeling. But the n=3 case I’ll never regret; in fact, for years afterwards I oddly couldn’t remember whether it had happened twice or just once. I think it was once, but the experience had strangely fissioned in my memory, like some unusual variant of deja vu.

  • 2. Rogue  |  April 5, 2008 at 1:52 pm

    Oh, for youthful initiations. Gotta love it.

  • 3. Shy « Omnivore’s Dilemma  |  May 28, 2008 at 1:31 pm

    […] Like the first time I drank from the furry cup. Or my real first group experience (I lied when I said it was this one). Or one of my many, many heartbreaks. Or something else. I know I’m forgetting something. […]

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