Silly Sex Rituals
Episode 9
“Where are we going again?”
“Shut up, Tim.”
“Jesus. Just asking.”
Melody spins and twirls down the sidewalk with her arms open wide, wearing a white fishnet top and bleached cut off jeans ripped at the thighs. She bought them that way. Tim and Jacques-Alain trail a few feet behind, shuffling down the streets of Brooklyn.
“We’re almost there. Melody, bust a right at the corner.”
“Whoa.”
The building is a renovated red brick warehouse. They used to make soap here. You can still smell it, even from outside. There’s a large steel door on tracks covered in sensual graffiti. It makes a booming sound when Jacques-Alain bangs on it thrice.
A woman with a bullring in her septum and a Pam Grier afro slides the door open just wide enough to show half her leather-vested body. The look on her face is not accepting any sass. “Yeah?”
“Hi!” Tim blurts. “We’re here for the orgy.”
Jacques-Alain rolls his eyes. “We’re friends of Rosaline.”
“Oh,” she says, pushing the door wider. “You’re early. Come on in.”
The main room looks like a film set because it is one, at least during the week. On the weekends, it’s a playground for people to come and be whoever they want with whoever they want as hard as they want.
A large space in the middle is absolutely smothered with sheepskin rugs of varying shades of white and cream. There are a couple of sectional couches thrown together to box the area in like a ring. Another space is already laid with a clear plastic tarp in preparation for any squirters. It happens more often than you’d think.
There’s even a faux-gym with a bench press, yoga mats, and sweatbands. A massage table is outfitted with scented oils and rose petals. Next to that is a bondage rack with cables, satin ties, blindfolds, and whips. Sex toys are scattered everywhere, an assortment of dildos, vibrators, anal beads, clitoral stimulators.
Tim finds a small basket of condoms next to an industrial-sized bottle of lube. He then gives an approving look around the room with his arms crossed and a hand stroking his chin like he’s inspecting a Rembrandt. Jacques-Alain makes a beeline for a table that has a tray of cold cuts and crudites while Melody flops onto one of the couches and starts to flip through a magazine.
“Wait a sec,” Tim says, slightly alarmed, turning to face their escort, who’s been scrolling through Instagram on her phone. “Where’s the alcohol?
She stuffs the phone into her back pocket and does that “come ‘ere” thing with her index finger. Tim follows her into a kitchen that could be the tasting area of any microbrewery in America. The fridge is fully stocked with locally sourced IPAs but Tim is more interested in the sloshing tank of red liquid there on the counter that reeks of booze and Kool-Aid.
“What’s that?” he says.
A grin that can only be described as mischievous lights up the woman’s face.
“We call that Red Drink.” She serves herself a cup and then hands him a ladle from a drawer. “You don’t wanna know what’s in there. Trust me.”
Tim shrugs. “Bottom’s up,” he says and they clink plastic. After just a teensy sip Tim is breathing fire. He slaps his chest a few times and grunts like Al Pacino.
Her laughter is bliss. “Call me Uma,” she says. He watches the metronomic precision of her butt sashay and shimmy as she goes away.
Slowly but surely more people begin to show up. It’s like the beginning of every party. Awkward chit-chat between people who will soon be stripped and sweaty with sex organs in each other’s mouths.
Some have clearly been here in this type of situation before. An insouciant ease informs their posture, legs crossed, jocular, flirty, patient. There’s plenty of time. They’ll be here all night.
You can pick the swingers out of the crowd. They arrive dressed like they just came from the opera, and who knows, maybe they did. If anyone is going to get the ball rolling it’s them. One couple is already getting touchy-feely with Melody, who swings every which way.
A few bonafide porn stars show up and Tim almost drops his drink when he recognizes Darby Lee, a person he’s wanked to more times than he’s willing to admit. He watches her from across the room as she goes up to Jacques-Alain, his face stuffed with charcuterie, and taps him on the back. They hug hello.
Faint stirrings of jealousy slither through Tim’s intestines, though that could be the Red Drink working its magic. He does a quick headcount for no other purpose than he’s curious to know. There must be twenty-five to thirty people ready to get down, he concludes. The swinger couple has already removed Melody’s fishnet top, and she hasn’t even drunk a drop.
For whatever reason, Tim thought there would be a sort of coordinated de-pantsing if not quite a starting gunshot of ready, set, fuck. He watches in amazement how it all starts to come together and the inhibitions wash away. Some start kissing, others go straight to their hands and knees. Before long, the moaning is louder than the music.
The bodies slowly congregate in a glistening sea of sex and color. Melody floats among them. After downing a few shots, Jacques-Alain escorts Darby Lee by hand into the fray. Tim, thoroughly well-lit by this point, removes his clothes with the abandon of a midnight swim.
Just as he’s ready to go dive in, Uma grabs him by the elbow and asks,“Hey, who’s the girl you came with? She looks like Marilyn Monroe’s slutty cousin.”
He laughs and says, “I dunno. I just met her today.”
Before either know it, they’re swapping spit. Any other day and Tim would ask, “Do ya wanna…?” but that somehow seems inappropriate with this crowd.
And, anyway, Uma is in full control. She has him rock hard in just a few minutes. He is ready to slip a condom on when she says, “I have a better idea, my dear. Bend over.”
Uma removes her jeans to reveal the biggest cock Tim has ever seen.
“Why not?” he shrugs. “I’m game.”
