You know, I like to be in tune with what the universe is telling me and I've been horribly remiss with any faux meditation practice that I'd like to pretend I maintain, but I have gotten a few signs in these last few weeks. While Mercury Retrograde was clogging up technology and communication, a few things reached my antenna. First, things are not what they seem. I can't elaborate on that, but you know what I mean. Smells like a duck, walks like a duck, but lately...it's just not a duck. Don't know why, but it's not. I've also come to learn that it's often better to not procrastinate, because I've gotten fucked when I've blown things off and now is not the time for me to get lax. This scary realization could also signal that I may be becoming an adult. And, I'm getting laid far too infrequently--this is evidenced by the constant desire for me to "act out" and conjuring sexual fantasies about people who are inappropriate (the kid who made my sandwich yesterday at Subway) or just plain nasty (the customer from Florida who has aged VERY badly and has no nice feature except his eyes). I have that sort of limp (no pun intended), pathetic lost feeling when it comes to waxing now--I want to have to keep it all neat and tidy, but it's like dusting the furniture when there are no guests for the foreseeable future coming over. Why waste the energy.
If you know me at all, and I mean, actually know me, you know that there is nothing--NOTHING--I love more than the split of my life. The mix and match of banal life and sexuality that you'd never expect from a Hebrew Academy graduate. You don't really picture me, clad in my Talbots clothes excited to walk to that apartment on Amsterdam Avenue and have rather sporty sex. Masturbation isn't a word that I should really use, but I actually said it in front of a customer last week who seemed tickled pink (again, no pun) that I could say the word. The next day he emailed me, and picked it up again--writing, 'When you're done masturbating, could you check these listings for me and tell me when there will be an open house?" I told him that I'd have to wash my hands first or I'd get the keyboard sticky. He seemed to enjoy this banter and this is the rapport that I'm building with my client--an unprofessional and totally inappropriate line to walk, but good for some laughs.
So, my other 'job' has been in the sex world, which I admit that I miss. I was good at writing the porn and thanks to our squeezed economy people want their sex free. I think that generally they want free sex, but now it's not even much on the disposable income list. Orgasms must be cost-effective which saddens me because I think that's an important economic indicator that NPR never really pays attention to, but I'm sure some economist would have something to say about what that really says about the economy. It's one thing to take books out of the library, and to buy generic pasta instead of Ronzoni, but when you're skimpy on the porn and being forced to conjure orgasms from a free catalog, well, that's just damn sad. Happily, I have one new project to complete and while the woman publishing it expected and wanted it to be real, it is 100% fiction.
Through a course of events that I prefer to skip, I was introduced to the world of sex parties. Not introduced in the way that I was brought to one, but the idea was mentioned in conversation to me about a year ago. I was disgusted and horrified. Of course, it was around a year ago, I was disgusted and horrified by rather aggressive sex too, but everything has a season. With my assorted body issues, I don't know that I could mentally get my head around being in a room and being look at that way, but I do know that 3 seconds into the act, I would be thrilled and excited that there is an audience. However, it's not happened, so we'll just talk about what DID happen.
I decided, in the same way that I chose to call my IRS auditor, to go to the top on the whole sex party idea, and I was steered to a website that catered to high-class sex parties. What makes these, "high class", I think, is that they are expensive and beautifully hosted. And, I organized a lunch with the hen of this roost to find out more about what she does. It was hard to schedule lunch and in the process we bonded a little over our dogs and other mundane things. When we finally did meet, she saw that more cautious side of me--the Talbots side who is afraid what people will think, the one who doesn't want to offend and seemed boxed into her boundaries and shy. Our lunch was short, she was somewhat of a complainer and also confident and completely secure in her skin. She made a few notable comments and here they are in no particular order.
1) She has never heard anyone communicate any insecurity about their physical appearance or their body or having any inhibitions about exposing their naked self to a group of strangers.
2) In response to my assuring her that I wasn't interested in stealing her business model, she told me that it simply wouldn't be possible to do that--because she has a 'winning team' and it's her family.
And, knowing my excited apprehension about going to her party, she was sensible enough to ask me to do an erotic write up about the party. I violated her rule by having an expectation, which was to have a night that I could write off--with strangers, with no real consequences and no repercussions. I was going to the party with my friend, Adam, not a lover at all, and no one to be embarrassed in front of. With my past of being a freelance porn writer, I constructed a story in my head for days before the party. I'd never gotten up the gumption to be with a woman, except for a drunken make out with a college friend, only to cause a stir in a bar, and tonight would be the night. I wanted groping in a dark corner, fingers, hands exploring with soft curves of woman, tongues in and out of each other's mouth--and I wanted it to be a real story with a woman who I'd never see again and an experience that I could leave behind easily if I chose to do so. And, I didn't want to be the only one doing such things. I wanted sexual acts all around me--I wanted to see couples dry humping on couches and strangers squeezing each other's nipples through layers of gauzy blouses. I wanted the sexual energy to be completely palpable, yet just out of reach until people hastily hail cabs and rush off to fuck like bunnies.
I wanted it to be that. And in fact, the imagination of this scene garnered a physical reaction from me of desire. My skin even felt prickly and hot, and I wanted to it be something so different that even me, who often feels like she's seen it all, would be aroused and compelled. And, it was the opposite. In fact, when I think back on the whole night there is something about it that makes me laugh. I laugh partly because I was so nervous, expecting that I would be pushing my personal boundaries beyond my comfort level and partly because it didn't push a fucking feather further.
Adam and I hadn't seen each other in a long time because he defected to LA, breaking my heart since he would no longer be around to work out with me or teach my exercise classes, so he asked for some time before the party to get a drink. We didn't know what we were in for, so I wanted to proactively calm myself and invited a bit of Jack Daniels to the party. At the Maritime Hotel, our pre-game, we both nervously drank our whisky and Adam was fingering the condoms that he'd stuck in his pocket. He admitted that he had to buy them on the sly when his wife wasn't looking and like a nervous teenager, dispose of the box in a garbage can on the street and stuff the contents in his pocket. He thought he'd use at least one, and I started looking at women at the bar trying to gauge my idea of "attractive", as if I was sharpening a skill set that I hadn't used in a long time.
to be continued....
No comments:
Post a Comment