Build Date: Thu Feb 22 06:50:36 2024 UTC

For those of you who don't think you are bad, all I can say is: you're bad.
-- Ratsnatcher

Body and Soul, a night of fucking in San Francisco

by Kakao Chouva

2000-11-12 23:46:37

For the benefit of Pigdog readers, I took it upon myself to explore the deep frontiers of human behavior and attend a saucy festival of the flesh. This was no ordinary fete of carnal delights, dearie.

Recently, a friend of mind invited me to a sex party. It was an invitation I knew was inevitable, and perhaps undeclinable.

"It's often the case that you end up not having sex," he said.

The scary thing is, he was right.

Taking from the German school of soft porn, a "sex party" aludes to swirling Jaegermeister cocktails nervously up to the point where everybody winds up in, on or below the sack.

Images of badly decorated swingers dens filled mind when mulling over the invitation.

My friend assured me this venue would be "creep free and consensual." To weed out the pervoids, one may attend only with a regular attendee who has proven themselves to be rule-abiding and not creepy. Upon entering the party, I was handed an affidavit to sign. "No means no" and "safe sex only" were the basic laws of the land. Monitors inspected carnal acts for signs of unsafe practices. Lube and rubbers were always within reach.

In the changing room, I slipped into something more comfortable, stored my belongings and was assured by my compatriots that I wouldn't be left to the vulchers. In other words, I was safer here than in any bar or free-for-all party. If I did consent to anything, the basic tenant is that only what I would agree to would happen. What I didn't agree too, certainly wouldn't.

First stop, the kitchen. A safe destination. No drugs. No booze, not even an energy drink in sight. Just punch, veggies n' dip and other snacks. Healthy and sober.

In the living room, a small group of individuals in bathrobes, lingerie or nothing at all were watching video porn depicting a group of well-hung boys popping a champagne cork. Scantily clad patrons were greeting each other warmly, obviously familiar from past parties.Conversations ranged from election mayhem to holiday plans. Here, there were no secret agendas and no pretenses or expectations.

So far, no sex. That is, until another door opened.

Hot and steamy with strange carnival sounds oozing out of invisible speakers, my eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting. Smacks of whipping devices alternated rhythmically with soft moans and high-note cries. The playground hosted various scenes, providing a public glimpse of the vast and unlimited sexual frontier.

Men and women of all shapes, sizes and generations (and I mean that) united in a grand subversion of the Mediated Belief (TM) that sex is only for the young, beautiful and able-bodied. In every corner, folks were fucking for the very salvation of the collective human soul.

Two Dykes Engaged in the Art of Fisting. A very Zen process, according to those more experienced than I. This process of getting there was certainly part of it, which definately fueled the intimacy of this rough and tumble couple. The bottom, once filled, took matters into her own hands and contributed to her multiple orgasms with a foot long vibrator. Her eruptions were gritty and deep, as if they came from the belly of the earth, itself.

The Whipping Boy "Would you like to read my diary," he says, noticing me watching him write furiously in a red book. His notes from the evening were not at all about the physical descriptions of the kinkity-kink happening around him, but a poetic rant of a fired employee. The whipping helps derail your ego. As pain rises, concentrates and localizes, his mind quiets. Highly recommended for noisy brains.

Horizontal Man Erect Obviously, a student of the Tao of lovemaking. In the space of four hours, this man probably got more ass than a toilet seat, all by doing absolutely nothing but maintaining a constant erection and a serene smile. Weekend at Bernie's anyone?

The Buzzthriller The evening's spectacle was the electrifying, thrilling, chilling Violet Wand. It's a sparkly little device that could have been the favorite of Nicola Tesla's wife. The owner had a clear mastery of the wand, demonstrating on a young cowgirl how various attachments and voltages could bring about mondo pleasure over time. The crowd gasped The Master raked crackling blue electricity down her stomach and pelvis, stopping just short of her delicate bundle of clitoral nerves. Besides puckering undies, there are other fun uses of this toy. Cowboy boyfriend was instructed to pass the buzz to the Master, whose mouth then became the high-voltage tower of power. The blend of the Master's slow, controlled technique and the cowgirl's ability to let go of fear were the key ingredients in this show's success.

By 2:00 a.m. most were calling it a night.

Those flushed-faced participants saying their goodbyes might have gotten off, or maybe they were "just looking".The fun was not only in what you could touch, or what touched you, but what was and is entirely possible and within reach.

It's all about sex, but not about sex, if you know what I mean.

Over.  End of Story.  Go home now.

nabob@pigdog.org

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