When you're bored at a party and somebody comes up to you and says, "Let's have an orgy," there is only one logical response: "Round up the rest of the people. I'll be waiting in the bedroom."
That's not how it happened at all actually. It was an accident.
It had been nearly a decade since I’d even thought about my old friend Carlos. When I knew him in Winnipeg, we were just friends. Lack of interest on my part had contributed to the halting of anything more than shared acid trips and spooning. Then, two years later, when I moved into a building one block away from his and discovered he was seeing someone else, I became interested. I wasn't sure if I really cared or if it was just the challenge of the situation that got me reeling. In the end, I didn't say anything because he seemed committed. Eventually, I moved to the other side of the city and lost touch with him. At one point I heard that he had moved to Ottawa without having said good-bye to anyone, and I moved to Toronto without giving him another thought. Over time, I forgot he even existed, until one night, there he was in my dream.
We were doing it in a twenty-man tent with a bunch of people I didn’t recognize. We were obviously not feeling inhibited as we pounded away at each other. I loved being watched. If it’s possible to have an orgasm in your sleep, I think I had one. Then, terrorists invaded our tent and ruined it all. I somehow lost Carlos after a few minutes of slow-motion running, but after successfully shooting a terrorist to death with the tips of my index fingers, I found myself inside a house. Carlos was there having sex with one of the terrorists. On account of it being so dark, I couldn’t make out if it was a male or female. Regardless, I didn’t enjoy being the watcher.
Maybe this dream was trying to tell me: Go to him. He’s the one.
It took me no time at all to find him on the Internet. After the initial What have you been up to, etc., etc., emails, he got down to business.
He wrote: I used to have a crush on you.
I wrote: Me too. Why is it that we never slept together?
I don’t know. Maybe you should come visit me.
Maybe I will.
He no longer lived in Ottawa; he lived in Vancouver, which was halfway across the country. But because Carlos was such a fantastic lay in my head, I considered travelling the 4000 plus kilometers to see whether it would translate into reality. That’s only two hours on a plane.
Carlos sent me an up-to-date jpg of himself. His once lanky body looked filled out and taut. His once shoulder length hippie hair that he kept pulled back in a hairband was now short and fashionably styled. Even with these changes, he looked more or less the same, except not only was he adorable, as he had always been, but he was sexy. I sent him a photo of myself. Apparently, I hadn’t changed a bit.
He started sending photos of various parts of his naked body such as his forearms, shins, and feet. I guessed he was trying to be funny since they weren’t necessarily the important parts, but I was intrigued all the same. I sent him pictures of my chest, with my breasts toppling over a push-up bra that was one cup too small, and my ass, which I encased in boyshort underwear in order to cover up the cellulite. Then came photos of his chest and ass, both smooth and tight, and I was intrigued even more.
An hour later, I called Carlos to tell him I was coming.
Hey, Carlos wrote. Do you remember Blake?
Of course I did. Blake had been his insanely attractive, insanely intelligent and therefore insanely intimidating roommate with whom I’ve never had a conversation.
I’m throwing him and his fiancée a Jack and Jill party the weekend you’ll be here, so I’ll be a little busy getting everything together. It’s a James Bond theme, so bring something slutty.
Not only would I be bringing something slutty, I’ll be bringing a boxful of condoms.
I arrived in Vancouver with a slinky red dress, fishnet stockings, and contraception in tow. I was nervous as hell as I waited for him in the airport terminal. While I was on the plane, my sexual fantasies had accidentally mutated into romantic ones. I started to imagine us falling in love and living happily ever after, preferably in the city of my choice. But there was a good chance we’d discover we no longer even liked each other and would therefore be forced to spend an awkward week wishing the other were dead.
When I saw him, I definitely didn’t wish he was dead. He looked good. Damn good. Better than his pictures. I couldn’t stop trembling as he casually took me in his arms. It seemed he was perfectly calm, which naturally made me tremble even more.
Thankfully, our first stop was the beer store. There was no way I was going to get through this first day sober. And since it was his idea, he must’ve felt the same way. Maybe he wasn’t so calm after all.
Once we were back in the car, heading home, he prodded me for advice.
“What do you think is better for the party? A belly dancer or a stripper?”
“A stripper, definitely.”
“Yeah, but a belly dancer is more James Bond-ish. Speaking of which,” he said as he slipped in a CD. Tom Jones came blaring out of the speakers. “I found it at the library.” As he sang along to “Thunderball,” I wondered what kind of people he and Blake mixed with. Back in the day it was badly dressed hippies who bummed around hot-knifing all day, myself included.
Carlos proceeded to explain that both Blake and his fiancé were biologists. As a result the party will be filled with their scientist friends and colleagues. It worried me. In terms of maintaining an intellectual conversation with a scientist, I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance. And nodding and smiling can only take one so far. This could turn out to be one hell of an awkward vacation.
We spent the day on his patio, sitting in the sun and drinking beer. As I watched him slinking around trying to explain the technical process of his latest art piece, I couldn’t help but tune out and think about all the sexual things we could do together. Just before leaving, a friend of mine told me a story about role-playing offender-parole officer one night with his latest conquest. Handcuffs were involved, which I had ruled out years ago after reading Gerald’s Game by Stephen King. What if Carlos were to have a heart attack and die while I was handcuffed to the bedpost? What if a rabid dog were to come in and start eating his flesh right in front of me? Not to say that I was against bondage fun. He could tie me up with something I’d be able to escape if I needed to, such as a chiffon scarf or, I don’t know, toilet paper. Originally I was just thinking we could do it in a tent. Although getting smacked with a baton would’ve been most welcomed.
It was at least another six hours before we hit the sack. Once we were behind closed doors, he pulled out something I wasn’t expecting: his digital camera. We took turns taking close-up pictures of each other in various stages of undress. Then, when it came to the unveiling of his penis, I had to zoom out. It was bigger than I was expecting. Quite huge, in fact. In my head, I had been off by at least two inches. I wanted to jump up and down for joy, but instead I gave him a blow job, which in my opinion was the next best thing. He pressed record and I went down. Then I pressed record and he went down. The recording continued until the battery died, which was just as well because we had run out of ideas for oral positions. After he set the camera down, we got down. It took three positions for him to cum: missionary, cowgirl, and doggy-style. Though I enjoyed it and felt it was a reasonable effort on both parts, I remained orgasm-less. I could’ve asked for a baton-beating or whatever its household equivalent would’ve been, but I wasn’t comfortable enough, or drunk enough, to do so.
Breakfast was awkward. Here he was treating me to the Grand Slam and all I wanted was to be alone. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but there was something about him that was starting to disconcert me. Was it the way he moved? His snake-like gestures that started to look more slimy than sexy? Were the pauses he made between sentences too long, or was it the way he stared fixedly at me during these pauses?
As he ordered us another coffee, I was suddenly belligerent that his presence was taking up my analytical time. Was it possible that I was just imagining the odd behaviour I now saw in him? It didn’t matter. I still wanted to be alone, at least until nighttime. After all, he had a mighty fine cock and I wanted to take full advantage while supplies lasted.
At the pharmacy, while he picked up more batteries for his camera, we started running out of things to talk about. Luckily, this was a problem that could easily be solved with a few drinks, but since he was driving, I knew I’d be solo in this venture.
Sitting on the patio of a tacky family restaurant, my predilection for alcohol really shone through as I drank two long island iced teas so fast that his odd behavior vanished. And then I made the mistake of asking about his past relationships. I guess I kind of cared, even though there was this nagging feeling that I shouldn’t. He told me that not too long ago, he was in love. I suspected he was still in love because he seemed distressed that this girl was happy now that she was no longer with him. I suddenly felt the need to fight for his love whether I actually wanted it or not.
As soon as we got home, we had sex. Again, he came after three positions and again I was left without cumming at all. I fell asleep, exhausted by his endurance and my drunkenness.
I awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice coming from the kitchen. When I turned over to his side of the bed, Carlos wasn’t there. Then I heard his voice coming from the kitchen. I lay there, listening to their conversation. She was talking about an upcoming country fair that was holding a baking contest. Her voice was loud, and her laugh jarring. He was laughing along with her and I wondered whether this was the ex he was still in love with. Curiosity got the better of me as I slipped into my clothes and sauntered out to the kitchen in a manner that suggested: Yeah, we’ve been fucking. What of it?
There, sitting at the kitchen table with Carlos was a girl who looked like a drab version of Mary Louise Parker. Her hair was long and unkempt, and she was badly dressed in her red fleece pullover, faded jeans and white tennis shoes. All this, yet she was still pretty and it made me want to stick forks in her pretty little eye sockets. She looked at me with a dazed expression as Carlos introduced us. And then left ten minutes later. Perhaps my presence made her uncomfortable.
“Was that her? Your ex?”
“Yeah,” he said and looked at me with such disappointment that if he had the ability to drop kick me back to Toronto, he would’ve.
“She kinda looks like Mary Louise Parker.”
“Who’s that?”
As he Googled the actress, I tried to seduce him. It didn’t work. I went back to sleep and tried to pretend that I was anywhere else but in his bed. When night fell, I wasn’t tired at all. I tried to seduce him again by rubbing my naked body against his. I was so close to success this time I could almost taste it.
“I need a little more motivation,” he said. In other words, I was close but not close enough. I loaded up my hand with the lube I had accidentally kicked earlier as I passed his side of the bed, and proceeded to give him the best hand job I could give. Very little rubbing and twisting was involved before he became awfully, and visibly, motivated.
In the end, however, I still couldn’t orgasm, but what the hell, that stopped being my goal long ago.
Since it was party day, half the afternoon was spent on food preparation. I didn’t help much; I was too tired and depressed and, admittedly, I had become increasingly uncomfortable around Carlos. Really, I just wanted to go home and find someone who would love me as much as Carlos loved Mary Louise Parker, the woman whose real name I had already forgotten. I knew I was wasting my time here; I knew I was no longer cut out for casual flings, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I was an emotionless sex fiend. I also knew that Carlos wasn’t someone whose love was worth fighting for. There was still something odd about him, and I no longer worried that it was all in my mind.
Finally it was time to change into our costumes. Carlos ended up putting something together out of things he already owned. A green visor, a brown vest with loose threads hanging from the bottom seam, matching pants, a wrinkled white button-up shirt, tattered armbands and oval, wire eyeglasses. He was going for the 1930s casino card dealer look, but he looked more like a homeless accountant from the 1800s. I took my time getting dressed, hoping I wouldn’t end up looking incongruous in my slutty outfit.
The first two people to arrive immediately busied themselves by blowing up balloons and setting up the poker table. I busied myself by making my first martini of the night. No measurements were needed. Just pouring and shaking. More people started piling in, and soon the room was filled with glamour. They all looked James Bond appropriate in their sophisticated outfits. I could’ve been dressed like a Jehovah Witness and be just as equally out of place as I already was. I mixed another martini and poured it down my throat. Who cares if these people are beautiful, sophisticated scientists? I can hold my own. While I was busy showing my underwear to some guy in a tie and patent leather shoes, Blake and his fiancée walked in. Carlos, having to first pull my dress down to cover me back up, dragged me over to greet them. First, he re-introduced me to Blake, who was even more attractive than I remembered, and then he introduced me to Phoebe, who was even more attractive than him.
As Blake and I engaged in our first conversation ever, it was clear he didn’t really remember me. Out of awkwardness, I played along. “Oh, right. Blake. Yes, I believe I have met you before. Would you like a martini?”
The main event of the party was about to begin. We gathered into the living room and formed a circle. Arabian music filled the house and in entered the belly dancer. Nothing against belly dancers, but I still thought a stripper would’ve been a much more enjoyable watch. After her seductive dance of mediocrity, the belly dancer shimmied and shook toward the bride-to-be, wrapped her scarf around her neck and gestured for her to stand. While the two women danced, I noticed a girl looking at me. She was less sophisticated than the others, kind of plain really, with her limp-dirty blonde hair and her green and white summer dress hanging off her scrawny frame. She smiled. I smiled, then left and went into kitchen. Other people were being gestured to dance and I wanted no part of it.
I stood before the martini shaker and created a new drink that involved double of everything. As I was gulping this back, trying not to gag, the plain girl came up to me and introduced herself as Laura. And before I could take another sip of my drink, or even say my name, she had her tongue in my mouth. This is interesting, I thought, even though I wasn’t terribly attracted to her and it had been eight years since I had kissed a girl. Then just as abruptly as she entered my mouth, she exited and said, “Let’s go find Carlos.” I followed her mindlessly, not knowing exactly why we needed to find Carlos. Maybe she thought it’d be even more fun if someone were to watch. Whatever. He could watch. I was too drunk to care either way.
Next thing I knew, the three of us were in his bedroom. As soon as Carlos closed the door, he grabbed his camera and Laura removed her clothes. Their actions were so flowing, I wondered whether they had done this before. I followed Laura’s lead and removed my clothes. She pulled me on top of her and without even thinking about it, I started to finger-blast her, as though I were a mindless actress in a movie, doing what the scene so obviously called for. All the while, Carlos stood over us on the bed, snapping his version of aerial photos. Then, it was time for Laura and me to switch. But just as I rolled onto my back, Carlos threw the camera down and took off his clothes.
My memory is unclear as to who did what to whom and in which order. Perhaps while she was blowing him, he was fingering me. Or maybe while I was blowing him, he was fingering her. At some point, he was inside me. That much I remember. Then the door swung open and in walked the bride and groom. We all had ourselves a good guffaw; me out of embarrassment; them, presumably the same. Then Blake turned back toward the door and just when I thought he was going to leave, he closed and locked it. Phoebe joined us on the bed while Blake proceeded to get naked. We all guffawed again, but this time, it was out of shock, at least that’s how it was for me. Phoebe had to be left out of the equation because she was having her period. She took her clothes off anyway, except her underwear.
As Carlos resumed his picture-taking, the following events went a little something like this: Blake had sex with me, then Blake had sex with Laura. The fiancée squeezed her nipples and watched. Then all three of us went down on him, one after the other. During his third bj, which I believed was being administered by Laura, he yelled out, “This is the best stag party ever!” Phoebe beamed and then started kissing me. She was such a trooper. Carlos threw down the camera again and plopped on to the bed. Blake bent over Carlos’s penis and away he went. It was the first time I had ever seen this kind of thing live, so I pulled away from Phoebe and picked up the camera to begin my own documentation. When they switched two minutes later, I took up another angle for the sake of variety. Then Phoebe got in there, shoving Carlos out of the way. With nothing else to do (because I had already been done), Carlos started having sex with Laura. I set the camera aside and watched. It was a voyeuristic experience I could’ve done without. Perhaps my annoyance was a sign that I was sobering up.
After it was all over, the five of us silently dressed, trying to avoid stepping on the used condoms that now ornamented the floor. When we went out into the living room, where a few people remained watching A View to a Kill, we acted like nothing had happened. Our performance mustn’t have been very convincing since we had exited the bedroom together with a spring in our steps and possibly pubic hair stuck in our teeth. Blake and Phoebe joined the others on the couch, I sat on the floor, Carlos sat in the chair, and Laura sat on Carlos. They were face to face as she played with his hair and looked intently, almost eerily, into his eyes. He briefly returned this look before averting his attention back to the movie. I wasn’t focused on the movie at all. I watched her as she continued with her eerie, relentless, whatever it was she was doing.
Finally, Carlos had no choice but to pay attention when she started grinding into him. He then stood up, with Laura’s legs wrapped around him, and carried her to the bedroom. I tried to watch the movie. I tried not to care. I failed at both these tasks. I sprang to my feet and stomped into the bedroom after them. Carlos had Laura pinned to the wall. Both their clothes were already off, except for their underwear. Neither of them took notice of me as I sat on the bed and gaped at them. Once there, I couldn’t move. A mixture of curiosity, helplessness and repulsion fastened me to my spot. Then Blake walked in and immediately made a beeline for the bed. As Carlos tugged at Laura’s underwear, Blake stuck his hands down his pants and looked at me. I didn’t want him looking at me. It was weirding me out. And I didn’t want to be looking at Carlos and Laura; that was weirding me out even more. Just as Blake reached out to put his hand between my legs, I jerked up and sprinted to the door, but not without giving Laura one last look, which wasn’t really a look, but more like a glower that suggested death. She didn’t see me, though. The daggers coming out of my eyeballs were left hanging in the air.
I went into the bathroom and sat on the floor. Tears flooded my face; I couldn’t control it. Some girl caught a glimpse of me through the crack in the door and asked if I was okay. “Yes,” I said, wiping my snot with the back of my hand. I sat there until the rest of the people left, including Laura. When I stumbled out of the bathroom, I was still sniffling.
“What’s wrong?” Carlos asked.
“I wish I was special to someone.”
“Well, I think you’re special, and all my friends think you’re special.”
“You mean, the ones I just had sex with?”
“Yeah. Especially Laura.”
“Who cares about Laura. I hate Laura.” And then I started crying again.
The following morning, I felt like a fool, not because I participated in an orgy, but because I let Carlos see my emotional side. “I realize I’m not your girlfriend, so I don’t know why I reacted that way.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You were just drunk.”
“Yeah,” I said, relieved that he had given me absolution. And then I went and fucked it all up.
“Have you guys had an orgy before?”
“Yeah,” he said. “A few times.”
I knew it!
“Except for Laura.”
Laura. “That’s surprising. She seems like such a slut.” I knew it was a low blow, but that’s what happens when you’re feeling possessive over someone you didn’t even know you wanted.
“She is, actually,” he said. “I’ve heard stories. Apparently, she cheats on her boyfriend all the time.”
I didn’t give a shit about her boyfriend. “But you’ve never been with her before?”
“Well, I just met her last night.”
“Speaking of sluts,” I said, then stormed out.
I was ashamed of my behavior. Just because I wasn’t cut out for orgies didn’t give me the right to expect others to follow suit. I came back minutes later, apologized again and then slept while he went out for breakfast with them. When I awoke, we barely spoke, except for one brief conversation wherein he listed all the things he thought were unattractive about Laura. I knew it was just an attempt to assuage my jealousy. Why else would he have had sex with her twice in one night? I also wondered why thinking `about them made me so jealous to begin with.
The next day was a bullshit day, which involved being at the fair with Carlos and Mary Louise Parker, the three of us dressed up like cowboys and eating hot dogs. He doted on her while she posed for a picture with her winning whatever-the-fuck-it-was that she had baked. I felt like a third wheel, which basically made me want to kill myself. But there’s no reason to end your life over a sleazy motherfucker. And there was certainly no reason for my being there, lagging behind like a fool.
The remaining two days were uneventful and sexless. I lay in bed with food poisoning from the hot dog, and he worked on his art, filtering paint through tiny, drilled holes, into the shape of a deer. It was clear neither of us were interested anymore. He burnt me a copy of the orgy photos anyway, which I could view later in the comfort of my own home. Admittedly, I wanted to see what I looked like while being pummeled, or administrating a blow job or whatever other prurient activity Carlos was able to capture.
By the time I was at the terminal, I was ecstatic to be getting away from Carlos, the sleaze, and he looked equally ecstatic to be getting away from me, the emotional freak. We said our goodbyes and patted each other on the back. When I got home, I checked out the pictures. I was pissed to discover that there were hardly any of me; mostly, they were of Laura, the slut.
