Up until very recently, I could only say I’ve had group sex on one occasion – it was a foursome – and it was a sore disappointment that lead to the other girl having a crying fit and me feeling a little irritated with my girlfriend for having had sex with my best bro. All in all, it wasn’t really worth it, although it does make for a good conversation piece now and then.
But not so long ago, this all changed! Maybe it’s because I started applying moisturizing lotion to my arms and face – after all, according to Seinfeld, an orgy guy has to use a lot of lotions.
An old friend of mine from high school who lives in Brooklyn now, Julian, invited me to a party in Williamsburg. It seemed like the kind of thing that would entail a lot of dancing or just standing around feeling lonely, but since I’m very fond of Julian and I wanted to see him and catch up, I decided to go. Sure enough, it was a dance party with only a small makeshift bar serving beer and shots of whiskey. I actually liked the music they were playing, but I still wasn’t inclined to dance. Thankfully, there were tables and my friends were all sitting down and sipping beer. With the exception of one attractive girl sitting next to Julian, there were all dudes, and like me, they were on the prowl.
I felt a sense of solidarity with these bros, because they were all pretty funny and, like me, had no game on the dance floor. We were just a bunch of lonely bros, and even though we probably weren’t going to get any, we had each other.
We went outside to smoke cigarettes. I noticed two girls with dreadlocks standing with different groups of people. I approached the one who was closer to me and said, “do you realize that that girl over there looks like your dead ringer?” She seemed to take offense at this remark. “That’s just because we both have dreadlocks,” she said. I insisted that it went beyond that, but the conversation stopped.
I was surprised that I had said anything to this dread-head, because usually I’m skeptical of white people with dreads. I don’t even think it’s necessary to explain why. But there was something about her. She was very pretty, in spite of the dreads, and she had a way about her that I appreciated.
Later on in the evening most of my friends left but they said they would be heading back soon. When I went to our table, I found none of them were there, but the dread-head and an equally attractive friend of hers werethere. I sat down anyway and sipped my beer. “I am sorry about that remark I made earlier,” I said in earnest; I actually did feel bad about it, because as much as I’m opposed to dreadlocks, it does not give me license to make snarky remarks to people who sport that look. If I were in her position, I certainly would have been rather annoyed if someone had said that to me.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. It did not seem like she had been offended in the least. “I’m Patricia,” she said, “and this is my friend Katie.” I introduced myself, shook their hands, and explained that this had been my friends’ table, but that most of them had left and so I was sort of riding solo. The three of us got to talkin’. Katie said to me, “you know, you are very attractive.” I was taken aback! I do not have low self-esteem, but strangers, especially girls who I meet at bars or parties, are not in the habit of complimenting my good looks. “Oh, thank you,” I said. “That is so flattering – don’t keep it up, it will go to my head.”
“Let it go it go to your head,” she said. I told them that they were also both very attractive. I started talking to the other one more, who I actually found more attractive, in large part because she did not have dreadlocks. She was a little shorter, with longish brown hair and a slightly dark complexion; I speculated that she was of Italian descent, or at least from that general region were people have an olive hue about them. The conversation was going swimmingly. Not once did I feel as if I was forcing it or that I was being creepy – you know the feeling, when you’re talking to a girl at a party, and you begin to realize that she’s just tolerating your presence until she finds an excuse to go away. There was none of that; in fact, I felt like, if anything, Katie was driving the conversation and asking me questions about what I do. I told them that I was a writer and editor, etc. etc., and they were eating it up.
I started to wonder, what the hell is going on? Even girls that want to sleep with me aren’t this nice. Every once in a while, Katie would remind me how handsome she thought I was. It was starting to go to my head, and like she said, I just let it happen. At some point in the night, Patricia went off with some other friends of hers, and it was just Katie and I talking at the bar. She continued to make inquiries about me and my life, and she also spoke very openly about her own life and her various outlooks on things. It is a good sign when the girl you’re talking to speaks about herself. This is what they say about interviewers, and I believe it extends to all kinds of conversations.
Time passed. Katie began to detail some of the relationships she had been in. After a long anecdote about something or other, she concluded, “so that’s why now I date girls.”
God damn it, I thought. As it happens, this was not the first time I pursued a girl who turned out to be a lesbian – or, at any rate, a lesbian at that particular point in time. I was in a state of disbelief for a few seconds. “Wait – so you crossed the border? And Patricia is your partner?” I asked. She laughed at my expression and answered in the affirmative. I excused myself to smoke a cigarette.
When I was outside smoking, my friends returned. Julian, actually, had left for good, but I knew Julian’s friend Jack pretty well because he is my roommate’s friend from high school. I explained to Jack how I had been talking to these two girls. “Damn, bro, you didn’t know they were lesbos? I tried to tell you. They were holding hands under the table.” We laughed over that.
“Damn,” I said. I thought about it for a while. “Shit, I’m going to bring it anyway.” I went back up and continued to talk to Katie until it was time for us all to leave. We rejoined Patricia and lit cigarettes. Once again they brought up how handsome they thought I was. We were discussing what our plans were for the rest of the evening, and Patricia off-offhandedly said, “well maybe you can come home with us.”
I chuckled a little and puffed my cigarette. Wait a second, I thought to myself. The meaning of Patricia’s proposition registered. I felt some activity in my loins, but I told myself that, surely, she was pulling my chain. “You’re pulling my chain,” I said.
“I don’t know,” Patricia said. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Do you mean, like, am I a virgin?” I said, and I chuckled a little, which was my way of indicating that I wasn’t taking them too seriously.
“No, I just mean can you handle it,” she explained.
“Oh, I can bring it,” I said, all the while trying to seem disinterested. The three of us spoke more about our plans. It was very difficult for me to discern what they were actually thinking. Yet again, they remarked on how handsome I was and also added that I was very charming, too. They invited me to get in a cab with them, because in any case we were headed in the same direction. We arrived at their stop. “So…” I said. “What’s up?” They invited me up. OMG, OMG, OMG, I thought. The possibility that it was all some elaborate practical joke still seemed very real. They had a nice apartment, filled with their artwork and decorated in a kind of way that seemed to say, “I got some money and I’m into design.” Katie and I sat down on the sofa and made small talk while Patricia fixed us a vodka sodas.
“You guys have a nice place here,” I said.
“Do you want some coke?” Katie asked.
“Yes,” I said.
In the bedroom, I took all of my clothes off. I started to think of myself as an attractive piece of meat for them to play with, and I was OK with that. I started to make out with Katie. I made short order of getting her undressed. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing about Patricia, who was so far uninvolved. “What about you?” I said to her. Katie and I were standing next to each other, naked, looking at Patricia. Patricia got on her knees and started to give me a blow jay. I continued to kiss Katie. “Lets go over to the bed.” I switched over to Patricia and got her undressed. It was difficult for me to pay attention to what Katie was doing, but I think that she was pleasuring herself.
I went downstairs, so to speak, on Patricia. “It looks like you know what you’re doing,” Katie remarked.
“I told you I could bring it,” I said as I pulled some pubic hairs off of my lips. I felt myself getting another blow jay. “I want to fuck one of you,” I said. Katie wanted me to start with her. We arranged ourselves so that as I penetrated Katie Patricia could also perform cunnilingus on Katie. “You are sort of like Jane Fonda at the end of Barbarella – you know when they try to kill her with the Pleasure Machine,” I said. This was true; she was not unlike Jane Fonda. “A French director did that movie,” I added. It was good that I had had a lot to drink and that I was on drugs, because otherwise this situation would have been too much for me and I would have already finished. We switched so that Patricia could get in the Pleasure Machine.
“How should we finish this?” I asked, after some time had passed. I knew that I could come soon if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to unceremoniously conclude the affair.
“You’re in it for the long haul,” Patricia said. Damn, I thought.
I woke up in the morning on the couch. They had sent me away after we had all finished – they had wanted some alone time, I suppose. I went into their bedroom. The sight of their naked, sleeping bodies aroused some turmoil in my loins. I nudged Patricia’s shoulder. She groaned and said, “leave us alone we need to sleep.”
In the living room I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of a window. I inhaled very deeply and rubbed my brow with my hand. I had a splitting headache and I didn’t know what to do. I threw the butt out the window and sighed. There was one of those grocery list notepads on the refrigerator. I tore off a piece of paper and composed a note for them.
Dear Patricia and Katie,
I had a good time last night. Thank you for inviting me to your home. I have no regrets. Give me a call sometime if you ever want to hang.
All the best,
I put the note on the coffee table and quietly left. It’s been two weeks, and I have not heard anything from them.