Dating Confessions by You "Callin' me baby when I'm trying to get over you doesn't help. I just don't have the heart to ask you to stop because my heart skips a little each time you say it to me."
We were relatively early. There were only about fifteen people dancing in the middle of the room, all of them in various states of undress. A gangly dude in a jockstrap and a blue mullet wig was rubbing up against a slight young Asian girl in a corporate-looking blouse and A-line skirt who was swaying arrhythmically to the house beats. She wasn't in white, and I couldn't help thinking that perhaps she had accidentally stumbled into the wrong party. A good number of affluent-looking older men, tanned and freshly manicured, were reclining on the alabaster upholstery, arms wrapped around their younger spouses and girlfriends, eyes furtively scanning the room. Many of the gents could have made fortunes as celebrity impersonators. During the night I saw a Barry Bostwick, a Tim Robbins, two Art Garfunkels and even a Jackie Mason all accompanied by much younger women.
As the night wore on, more and more garments were discarded. The cute Asian girl was now on the dancefloor in a cluster of grinding bodies. She was wearing nothing but heels and the slightest of G-strings, her cupcake breasts being lapped at by a cavalcade of libidinous male and female thirtysomethings. A handful of lap dancers were giving out pasties for the ladies and encouraging them to take off their shirts. With Claire feeling slightly coy or so I thought I put on the pasties just for laughs. Far from casting her eyes to the floor, my date began coaxing a leggy lap dancer in a Renaissance-era wig and precious little else to dance for us. (Or, more specifically, on us as we made out like crazy.) After the dance, a topless woman in a miniskirt pointed at Claire and ran over to us. She grabbed Claire and the two of them totally got down. Honestly, I could take or leave girls making out, but the interloper's tan, young boyfriend was clearly enjoying the show, taking up a position near us and frantically rubbing his cock. After ten minutes of some heavy girl-girl action with me feeling about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle the girls unclenched, and the stranger and her voyeuristic companion rushed off to find fresh girl prey. Claire and I left the club and jumped in a cab. "Well, what do you think?" I asked. "I really enjoyed it!" gushed Claire, confirming my suspicion. "I can't wait to go to the real party!" Wicked.
Part II: The Orgy
A little more than a week later, the day of the "on-premises party" arrived. Having learned from my previous mistake, Claire and I changed at her apartment and took a cab to the famous hotel where the party was being held. Palagia certainly knows how to create suspense and intrigue: she disclosed passwords, locations, times and recorded messages one at a time, right up until the party started. On her outgoing answering-machine message, she took special care to reiterate the suite number, as there were "two or three other sexy parties" taking place on the same floor of that one particular hotel alone.
Looking like a couple of giant snowflakes, Claire and I pranced through the hotel's (thankfully empty) lobby and into the elevator, more than a little nervous.
We knocked on the door of Suite 603, and after being asked for our password, the door was opened by Blondie guitarist Chris Stein! Well, it wasn't actually him, but it may well have been his buff, tan doppelganger who works the door at orgies. After I gave him the password, he invited us in, and we walked down a long corridor. We were greeted once again by Palagia, who took me by the hand and led me into the living room. We had tried to arrive fashionably late, totally unaware that a power outage had brought all the subway lines on the West Side to a halt. We were the second couple there. The suite contained a couple of beds, a few sofas, several chaise longues, corners stuffed with pillows, an ornate Persian rug and a cornucopia of finger food worthy of any Bar Mitzvah. The only indications of the shenanigans to come were the bowls of condoms and individual packets of lube dotted around the place. After grazing the buffet for a while, Claire and I headed for the sofa, which had the best view of the couples sheepishly walking into the party. After about forty-five minutes, the suite was full to bursting: thirty couples were shooting shit-eating grins at everybody else. I recognized only a few of the faces from the first party; this bunch was noticeably younger and more attractive. At about a quarter after midnight, there was what I could only describe as a kerfuffle in the bedroom. One by one, all of the couples made their way in and stood there, agog at the scene taking place on the king-size. Two men and two women, perhaps on a directive from Palagia, were setting about getting the party started right and quickly.
It's when a woman is being gone down on by another chick while clutching a penis in each hand that a party (pronounced "par-tee") becomes a PAR-TAY! It was at this point that all hell and several sets of assorted genitalia totally broke loose. As was specified in our host's party itinerary, at 12:30 everyone had to strip to their underwear.
Quantify the effects of the experiment.
There are strict ground rules for an on-premises party. Here they are, exactly as they were emailed to me:
Absolutely No Drug Use Allowed.
All MALES must be escorted by a FEMALE.
"NO" means "NO"!
Arrive TOGETHER, indulge TOGETHER and EXIT the premises TOGETHER and NOT alone.
Treat each guest with RESPECT, ASK both parties before indulging. Remember: SOME members are EXPLORING certain areas for the FIRST TIME and are at a VOYEURISTIC stage.
ONLY INDULGE in areas that you BOTH feel completely COMFORTABLE.
NO RECORDING DEVICES ALLOWED:
-cameras
-video cameras
-microphones
-journalists
PROSTITUTION of any kind is absolutely PROHIBITED.
MINORS under the age of 21 are NOT allowed to attend.
NO excess ALCOHOL consumption is allowed.
Absolutely NO DRUG use/abuse is allowed.
NO ILL treatment of FEMALES is allowed.
Everyone must be safe. We are not responsible for any accidents that may occur at a OneLegUpNYC event.
Claire and I slunk back into the living room, stripped to our skivvies, and fell into a pile of silky cushions. At this point, everyone was still with the person they came with. I've never really enjoyed committing gross acts of PDA, but in keeping with the spirit of the event, Claire and I got to some serious necking, each of us with an eye on the rest of the revelers. Noticing that my shorts were tenting, Claire suddenly decided to up the ante. She leaned over and introducing my joystick to the party. After five minutes of mouth-to-south resuscitation, Claire, who had taken to the whole sex-in-public thing like a fish to water, led me by the wang to the bedroom, where a couple were getting busy on one side of the bed. Jumping on the bed beside them, I lay on my back. My elbow landed in something wet. Claire clambered on top in a formation that the Germans might call a neunundsechzig. Another fifteen people or so reclined about the room, staring at what was happening on the bed. At the moment of no return, I looked through the gap between our two bodies and saw the face of somebody I knew just feet away from Claire's head. A journalist! Someone who had appeared on Hooksexup before, no less! I later found out that she had a love in the mid-west and was just there as an observer. After ten minutes of me not realizing that she was "observing" me from just three feet away, I hastily got up, put the boys back in the barracks and scurried away to the buffet table.
Part II: The Orgy
