The School of Sex

This is a repost from my blog. You can view the story (and a wonderful photo of me and my mermaid) by clicking here.

How I ended up in someone else’s underwear is still a mystery to me. But, isn’t that a sign of a successful sex party?

After Gerry and I schmoozed at a Warhol-themed art party, I was ready for the sex party. School of Sex sponsored the event. The paintings and holographic images on display pulled me in with a magnetic force; although, I must admit there were people decorated in spiffy digs that flashed, glittered, and gleamed. The host’s car was covered in interactive Play-Skool instruments. I spent a good chunk of time playing Chopsticks on the pink and blue piano that blinked technicolors in the already glistening New York City street. After stealing as much food and drink as I could, we cabbed it to midtown.

I’ve always wanted to go to a swingers club, but in my head I had visions of Plato’s Retreat romantically swimming in my fantasies. I enjoyed the idea of surrendering all of my reservations just for the sake of touching and being touched. But, alas, the landscape of sex parties has changed, hasn’t it? The most popular sex soirees cost an arm-and-a-leg; the most affordable sex parties attract a shady group of characters. Both obstacles had pushed me out to the lip of boring ol’ curiosity. Now, I finally had an opportunity to discover just what occurred behind closed doors.

Funnily enough, the space they used to hold the event is on the top floor of my husband’s office building! Last time I visited the penthouse, it was decked out to the nines is spiderwebs and black-and-orange streamers in preparation for a large Halloween gala. This time around, a corner of the huge loft was sectioned off by long sheer drapes (sensuously colored in plums and deep pinks). Parallel to that were an arrangement of sofas and folding chairs. A large projection screen featured your typical gonzo porn: Living room setting with a woman perched next to her sock-wearing lover. A long table was garnished with chips and dip platters (not the sexiest provisions that come to mind). Pop music blared through the space.

Not my ideal picture of Sodom, but the guests in attendance were exceptionally frisky and fun-loving couples and individuals. Host and hostess Rocco and Jasmine were accommodating and friendly. They escorted us over to the makeshift bar for drinks. Yes! Social lubricant!

It was then that lesbian porn star Justine Joli bewitchingly came over and greeted us. So. Hot. She looked nothing like the LA crop; her hair was a bob of Irish red ringlets and her bullish septum ring winked at me every time she talked.

I was surrounded by people in lingerie. I was merrily chugging my fourth… fifth… yes, fifth glass of deep plum wine like a kitten sheepishly lapping up a bowl of milk. And the charming Joli and I waxed poetic about the porno business. Sigh.

Gerry and I ran into a pair of models in the bathroom. We spoke to the stunning beauties as they adjusted their lingerie. They were cocoa-colored with a touch of creme to their skin, like two tall cups of Nestle’s Chocolate Quik. When we made a second round to the ladies’ room, I met one of Justine’s friends. She was changing into her lingerie and asked me if I needed one.

I sheepishly shook my head. “No.. Well… maybe…” Now I wonder if this is what my sexual identity is really like – coy and sweet-faced… at first. Anyway, she passed me a pair of red panties with a satin fringe skirt that barely hid my ass-cheeks, as well as a soft, one size too small bra. Voila! A bona fide slut emerged from the bathroom… me.

Like a saucy ballerina, I delicately bustled over to the main area where a lingerie contest was about to take place. I shuffled to the end of the line-up and proudly boasted my new little nightie (giving credit, of course, to Justine’s friend). The two beautiful models from the bathroom were also in line; a petite busty girl in a lacy black bustier was also present for judgment and a prize. The round of applause, obviously, went to the creamy pair of models who peaked the crowds’ interests with a sensuous kiss. Curses. Well, lesbianism always works! Besides, who cares? Joli, the starlet of the evening, gave me a sultry consolation hug; I returned the favor and impulsively goosed her firm ass.

Sometime after midnight, the beds were finally filled with copulating strangers. An erotic swing set was occupied by a woman who was sprawled open like a dissected frog. Her lovers swarmed around her body, sucking and probing any available area that was not yet occupied by another’s wet mouth.

“We thought you should have won the lingerie contest.” I turned around and discovered a sexy couple standing next to me. Serious, the woman was a dead ringer for Arlene on True Blood. Only petite with a Jersey accent. She had long red hair; the top half was pinned up and the rest swept across her cheeky, beautiful face like a copper tidal wave. Her boyfriend was robust (I likey) with a friendly face and dimples that seemed to hold all of life’s mysteries.

That was what I thought after the 7th cup of something toxic and sweet.

Her bra straps had fallen around her iridescent, milky arms, exposing the tattoo on her chest.

“That’s not a tattoo,” she said. “The guy over there painted it on for me.”

It was a beautifully detailed portrait of a woman. It didn’t look like her; but, the dark and somber colors in the wind-swept woman’s hair seemed to undulate on the surface of Arlene’s beating heart.

She gasped. “You should go and get one!”

“What kind of painting should I get?”

She thought for a minute. “Why not a mermaid?” Her eyes brightened.

A woman after my own heart.

As we waited in line for the body painting, we each took turns making out…

…screw this… body painting really isn’t important. Moments later, we all shared a bed together. My mouth was glued to her clitoris for the entire night (which was about an hour and a half for me). An onlooker wanted to cuddle against me. Arlene and her beau were hesitant. I embraced him for just a few seconds, feeling his penis rise and stiffen against my asscrack. Then, he returned to his lover who waited patiently on the bed. Eventually, they disappeared and were replaced by a svelte couple. They nearly fell off the aero-mattress, as it had been deflating throughout the night.

The suckling of my lady’s sweet clit was enough satisfaction for me. I enjoyed being the third wheel; what a stress-free role! All I had to do was enjoy two bodies (or at least one) simultaneously. I felt like a young kid diving into a wet slice of watermelon. There is no science to fucking strangers, as there is no science to enjoying a watermelon. You just do it! My brain melted into the rest of my body, all limbs lanky and slithering like snakes attached to one another. She and her lover continue to roll around on the expansive ballooned bed while I went to the bathroom. I looked at my thong (my thong, not the lingerie given to me). It was wet for no good reason. Sigh. I left the bathroom and had one last drink before slipping through the glass doors and down the stairwell (the elevator was broken).

The next morning, the mermaid stayed with me. And, in the back of my mouth, I could still taste the salty goodness of her sea.

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