Wallflower at a Sex Party
Chapter 3: Christmas Morning
He is fevered and a little frantic, but attuned. I slow my breathing, relax into the penetrative force of his enthusiasm, slow the pace. He matches me, dropping into the moment, allowing ebbs and flows to rise and fall. I can feel the warmth of his belly against my belly, the heat in his legs and feet, our lust burning through our clothes. I gently slide my fingers through his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, wordlessly commanding his own receptivity. He complies, shifting to accommodate every subtle fluctuation of my desire. I want to savor, he savors. I want to tease, he teases. I want to merge, he merges.
It feels strange to kiss him, because he is a stranger. But his unfamiliarity comes with having known lovers like him before. He is a man who worships, who wants to know exactly how I like it. He likes it when I like it. His turn on is my turn on. I want to be wanted. He wants me.
“Time is up,” a singsong voice interrupts. There are sounds of amused, delighted partings; giggles and groans as the trance is broken. He reluctantly pulls himself away and meets my eyes.
“You were the only person I was interested in,” he says, but I do not feel flattered. I resent every reminder that my looks matter to men; my beauty is fading rapidly as my health declines, and I desire real love now that I know how hollow it feels to compel a man’s fleeting passion. What the hell am I doing here? I am not going to fall in love at a sex party. I am not sure how to respond.
Regardless of this incongruence, I wonder if we can keep going? Sneak away. The idea of playing hooky from the party games and being pressed against a wall in the bathroom is suddenly much more appealing–but before I can tempt him, his conventionally attractive girlfriend signals for his attention from across the room. He immediately appeases her, his focus shifting away as quickly as it arrived. I am happy for her. I am sad for myself.
I do not know where to go or what to do. So I walk the perimeter of the room.
We are in a massive rural suburban home with tall ceilings and modern amenities. It is uncluttered and clean, so thoughtfully curated I asked my friend if it was an AirBnB when I first arrived. The landing on the second floor has been transformed into a temple. There are pillows and mattresses in every nook and cranny, an altar overflowing with earth offerings, oracle cards, and condoms, soft microfiber carpet beneath my bare feet. It reminds me of childhood Christmas parties; the kind my dad’s coworkers would throw every year, with tables full of food I wasn’t normally allowed to eat, and kids I would play with long past bedtime but never see again. I peer through the crack in a door and see a darkened, empty child’s bedroom. This is a family home. This is a wholesome event. But I do not belong. I miss him. I feel my heart break all over again.
The high school games are coming to a close, and we are called back to the center of the room. Everyone is more relaxed now; the seal is broken. Legs drape across laps and faces are bright with anticipation, flushed with foreplay. We are told the next event will require us to close our eyes. Keep your clothes on for the first round, keep your focus from the waist up (if you can). Clothing optional for round two.
The invitation is this: We will converge in the center of the room and feel for one another in the dark. No peeking. Follow your delight. Let every single person have their way with you. Have your way with everyone. Release yourself, lose yourself to the compulsions of sensual delight. Forget who is here. Forget where you are. Forget yourself completely, if you want to.
I cannot sulk anymore. I am a kid in a candy shop. It is Christmas morning. I close my eyes, and step into the warm embrace of 20 lovers.
