Decadence (12 page)

He dropped his black towel
and revealed his nakedness. The room stared as he came toward me. His lingam swayed, had swagger, and was so full, so enthusiastic to become wooden, so alive and eager. Applause accentuated the moment. Suddenly I became a poltroon. The light side of Gemini was afraid. Not of him, but frightened of my powerful itch. The room applauded. With my chest rising and falling, my sexual distress pronounced, my eyes went to his wife. She was a blurred vision, yet in my covetousness I tried to read her. I wondered if she would rebuke me, reel in her husband, refuse me what my body needed, become outraged and spit in my face. When he was so close that his energy added its fire to mine, his desire to mine, I no longer cared.

He took to his knees, crawled toward me, pulled my shoes away and kissed my feet with warm lips. He took five of my toes inside his mouth. Bosh sounds escaped me. I had forgotten how sensual, how good it felt to have my toes sucked. So many nerve endings resided at the end of the foot, nerve endings that sent erotic signals directly to my brain. He sucked my toes, licked my foot as if it were a clitoris, and then sucked each toe as if it were a tiny lingam. My body danced.

He released my foot, licked my shins, moved his tongue across my thighs. I saw shooting stars. The texture of his tongue grazed my sex, painted my sex. I couldn't breathe. He kissed my belly. Mouth opened, I panted, gazed down at him. Licked my lips and stared down at his smile. His expression told me that he would be kind with my body, wouldn't abuse it, would praise my body as it deserved to be praised. I nodded for him to go on. The world felt wonderful. He licked between breasts that felt heavy and full, put his warm lips on breasts that were swollen. My hands touched his soft, curly hair, grateful to have chosen an experienced, patient, unabashed lover to cross these waters that separated voyeurism from exhibitionism with. The crowd no longer mattered. We all had the same religion. We were an audience, all of the same mind-set, of the same surreptitious society. I pulled his hair, encouraged him toward me. His breathing was thick and we stared. So beautiful. So fucking beautiful. I broke my gaze and without a kiss I pulled his weight on top of me, pulled him to the slick shores, pulled him onto the exuberant, fierce place where my legs intersected.

I hated being out of control, yet I never felt more alive, never felt freer than when I achieved this level of madness. My hand reached for his lingam, rubbed him across the lips of my yoni, slid him inside. I inhaled sharply when my lips spread. We merged. He was inside me. I had become his cocoon. He filled me. My insides molded to his shape. The mushroom of his lingam spread me wide. My mouth became an O and I admitted defeat, tried to swallow my sounds, but I surrendered many moans, ashamed because I didn't want him to know how good I felt. My back arched and I sighed when he slipped beyond my lips, spread me, widened me, and crept inside of me. Once inch. Two. Three. Four. He was polite and paused. Looked into my eyes. His expression assured me that he was here with me. Breathing ragged, leg quivering, I nodded. He slid. Again he paused. He took a deep breath, regarded his wife for a moment, then his eyes returned to mine, and he slid.

My right leg wouldn't stop trembling. Orgasm tapped at the door.

He moved slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and steady.

He managed to whisper, “You feel amazing.”

I couldn't talk. My response was a primitive grunt.

We had become a two-headed beast. He pulled back out to the mushroom and entered me again, gave it to me hard, moved inside of me until his hard belly touched mine, stroked me, stoked this madness and stroked me until my body caught fire. He matched my rhythm, rode my rugged waves, was almost capsized by my rise and fall, but he held on, found his balance and gave me the dance and rhythm of Curaçao.

There was more to him. He grew, hardened inside me.

My insides purred, stretched to accommodate, and again my lover put his tongue on my left breast, sucked my nipple. I absorbed the warmth from his well-built body. His skin spanked my skin. He moved in and out of my grotto. As I nibbled his shoulder and dug my short nails into the skin of his strong back, I experienced the shakes and trembles and loss of control that was the prelude to being overwhelmed by paradise. He had the weight and skills that it took to handle me.

Some members eased down on their haunches. I was being evaluated. Commented on as I had commented on others. That was surprising and terrifying all at once. But more than anything, I found it very arousing.

Yes, this is how I make love.

This was the animal within.

Watchers again lined the walls like apprentices of love. A handsome man fucked me without shame, fucked me as if he owned this yoni, as if the wedding ring that he wore was inspired by his love and devotion to me. I came and before I could calm down, I lost control and immediately I spiraled into the mouth of another nirvana again. Orgasm would not let me go and I refused to set him free. It hurt so good. I was imprisoned, but he was my captive. Again I was almost there. I never left from feeling like I was almost there. I wanted more. Needed more. But I didn't move because I was afraid of losing the sensation.

He took me missionary, the position that gave the man the most control, only I had him as much as he had me, my legs wrapped tight and anchored around his ankles. Then he had me close my legs tighter, and with him inside me, he rode me that way, rode me with his hard lingam rushing directly on my button. He opened my legs again, took one ankle over his shoulder and fucked me. I was gone. He had me pinned down. Couldn't move with him. He had my leg pushed so far back he was able to suck my nipples. He took both ankles and placed them around his neck. That position was dangerous. That angle always made me come, and my yoni didn't care if I was with man or vibrator.

Panting, dizzy, I managed to whisper, “Are you okay?”

“Oooo it just feels sooo fucking gooood.”

He found his control, pushed deep, held it there for a moment, then started over again, took it from the top and slowly worked his way back to the pace of sweet violence. I pulled him into me over and over. I grunted as he grunted, and moaned as he moaned. I wanted it harder. Deeper. Faster. I grabbed the back of his dank neck like I was angry with him. I cursed. He gave. He gave. He gave. Each time I received and like a boomerang I rolled and threw it right back at him.

I opened my eyes, looked through my sexual haze and saw his forgotten love. She licked her lips, folded her arms over her breasts, held her thighs tight and rocked and shuddered like she felt each stroke.

I had forgotten about the others.

Until he set free a bear-like grunt, I had forgotten.

Quince Pulgadas tightened his buttocks, tensed his sphincter, began to surrender to momentary madness, and revealed his weakness, his vulnerability, the growls and grunts from his voluminous pleasure resounding from wall to wall. He sped up, pumped, fucked the aristocratic Brit's face as if her mouth was the orifice he craved.

As my lover moved in and out of me, and he rolled his hips, what I saw as he gave me pleasure excited me that much more.

Quince Pulgadas became a lion, roared so loud his anguish could be heard a mile away. Women cheered the Brit on and applauded. They loved a lover who was vocal, not a man who orgasmed silently. The Brit struggled to keep up with him, to not let the snake slip from her mouth, a mouth that was stretched so damn wide. He was coming. He cursed and announced that he was coming and all eyes went to them. My lover didn't stop moving, maintained a pleasing rhythm, but he looked to them as well. The Brit consumed copious amounts of orgasm as if she were imbibing on the sweetest of the sweetest of alcohol. Eyes closed tight, Quince Pulgadas jerked and thrust and her eyes widened like she was surprised by the amount of love and lust that spewed from his engorged erection. She stayed with him, sucked and swallowed and consumed him. Her nostrils flared as she looked at him, as she monitored him, as she struggled, as she consumed him like she was feeding on his energy, absorbing his strength, his power. Too bad angels only received their wings when a woman came. It was too fucking bad. The room applauded like thunder. The members were alive with interminable, unsurpassable energy, as if we were all at a Roman colossus. We were all connected on an unseen level.

The Brit smiled, opened her mouth so the room could see that her viscid smoothie had been ingested. A bleb of orgasm as thick as callaloo remained on her face, but she wiped her chin and swallowed that smidgen of zinc, fructose, potassium, and free amino acids as well. She savored his semen as if it were honey. The libertines clapped, the women praising the loudest. They approved of her valorous act.

Many touched her. Hugged her. Kissed her cheeks. Some shook Quince's hand. The behavior of the group was always more daring than the individual. The social status here, the interaction between the members of this collective, the companionship, the encouragement, it was beautiful.

Then my lover resumed stroking me, wanted my eyes back on him. I complied. I heard our shared wetness. I reveled in his strength and manhood. I was in a state so intense that I was beyond reason and self-control. Emotional, rapturous delight had pulled me into a trance, into the warmth of an electrical happiness. And as he lived inside of my sweetest orifice, as he gave me his enthusiasm, as he became frenzied, he was exultant. The dark side of Gemini sheltered and controlled me.

Then as my moans rose and pervaded the room, the building, the world, his wife's eyes remained with mine. She leaned forward. Her body language told me that she was waiting on her invitation to come and feel as beautiful as I felt. She needed what I was receiving. She was waiting for the applause that would bring her into this arena. I was supposed to share this as she had shared this man with me.

But as tears of pleasure clouded my vision, I closed my eyes and drowned in my sensations. No woman's husband, no man should be able to make me feel that fucking good, no one man, not alone.

My orgasm diminished, but
orgasmus
didn't extinguish because a new orgasm started as soon as that one ended. He lost himself inside of me and grunted. I sang. He convulsed. Gave me more power. I sang louder. My lover gave me what belonged to his wife, felt his girth expand, felt his lingam elongate, felt his desperate strokes, felt each ingress try to reach beyond my womb to my heart, but I sang and put my nails in his side, made him not go so deep, his stroke delicious as the crowd watched, as the British woman watched in astonishment, as the Indian woman watched in admiration, as Rosetta watched in awe. His stunning wife watched him lose control, watched him as he went insane inside of another woman. And as he went insane, so did I.

His legs tensed, his arm tensed, his buttock tensed, and I felt his power, was given his energy as he strained to empty himself. His handsome face became ugly. It looked like he was about to drool. He had traveled beyond the point of no return, and with hard, primal grunts he surrendered. He spiraled over the edge. My lover grunted again as he strained, as he clenched his buttocks, as he thrust, as I tensed and made my yoni grip him tighter, as he gave me beautiful aggression and made me start to scream and come again, as I held him and danced my dance, as he became more passionate than any man I had ever experienced, as he started to jerk and come in squirts. I felt him continue growing inside of me, felt him become harder, felt him giving me all of his power, all of his marital energy.

And in response I grinded against him;
grinded hard enough to reduce him to fine powder.

He held on to me like he wanted to spend the rest of his life inside of my body. In time he slowed. Beads of sweat on his flesh. Beads of sweat on mine. Our skin sticking together. His sexual diatribe, his sexual discourse arrived at its conclusion. It seemed like it took minutes for him to come, to shove and exhaust inside of me, but it was only seconds. His orgasm, the way he had swollen and thrust inside of me, his dominance, the way he had given me his energy triggered another orgasm inside me. When he was coming, when he had become mean, powerful, and tempestuous I had had an apoplectic orgasm. I ascended, trembled. Shook violently. Driblets of sweat fell down my neck as I rode contractions, as I climbed, as I soared. Held him tight. Wanted more.
More
. My body wanted him to keep going until the end of time.

Sweat draining down my neck, orgasm diminishing, I looked first at the Watchers, then at his lady in waiting. She was anxious, uneasy, as if all of a sudden the skies were dark and the rain was in her face.

I had displayed a personal moment, a private moment, a moment when I was the most vulnerable. Suddenly, despite the tingles and warmth that covered my body, despite the adrenaline high, despite the endorphins, I was uneasy as well. Fear rose. There was no need to be ashamed of my body as I had been taught in America, no need to be ashamed of sex as I had been brainwashed by culture; there was no reason to be afraid behind these walls. I had paid handsomely to be able to enjoy this type of freedom. Yet the battle remained. As reality cooled my skin, calmed my senses, I felt self-conscious, I felt guilt, I felt shame. I expected finger-pointing, maybe even laughter, or snickering. Intellectually, I attempted to process this moment, but it was impossible to do while I existed in this moment, while my energy was part of the energy of the group, while I was in a den of modified social behavior.

Again there was the echo that came from applause, this time in honor of a stranger and me. So many eyes were on me. Men and women wished that I had chosen them for that journey.

Winded, I touched the side of my exotic lover's dank face. He had worked hard, pleased me in a wicked way, his sex as powerful, as moving as the letters that Henry Miller wrote to Anaïs Nin, and my body wanted more of him, wanted to allow body and spirits to reconnect, and I couldn't move my eyes from his. He sweated as if he were in the full sun, in the high temperature and humid air of my personal rain forest. He glowed. My dankness, the heat that covered my flesh told me that I had visited his jungle as well. The warmth of my overworked body, my dampness, told me that I radiated satisfaction.

I panted, swallowed, caught my breath and said, “Thanks.”

“I can do more. Won't take me a minute to get hard again.”

I moved my hand from him, moved my hair from my face. “No, that was all I needed. Always save the last nut for the wife.”

The Watchers gazed at us, but most grinned and moved on, went to see others, hurried away in search of more entertainment, more orgasms. We had come. Our credits had rolled. The show was over. All were happy. I had crossed another line. Had redefined myself.

My lover was amazed, smitten, enamored. My flesh smoldered, smelled of his flesh, his of mine, his lingam of my yoni, and he was sprung. Years ago I would've mistaken that physical, that spiritual release for true love. I craved the attention of a man. I craved raunchiness to rise and satisfy my carnal desires. I pushed away from men and yet I craved the affection that came from a man. I craved sex. I craved love. Neither craving would ever die. But now I wanted that attention, that praising, that lust, when I could be in control. When I didn't lose me. If a woman lost herself, then she was nothing more than a log in a man's river, owned by his currents. The man before me was smitten and already destined to try to smother me. I gave him the smile of a respectable writer, a smile that told him I was glad that he was married, and I respected that, as should he. My smile told him not to judge me by sex, because judging me by carnal knowledge would only leave him swimming in the cesspool of ignorance. This bold moment was not the sum of my existence, only a paragraph, maybe an incomplete sentence in my life thus far. Don't judge me by my weaknesses, not when your weaknesses are the same; don't label me by my desires, as most hypocritical men would judge and label women.

I looked up at the tall woman with the Afro. I saw his wife. She made me feel nervous. For a moment she looked upset. Her man had enjoyed a fantasy moment a little too much. She had wanted him to have fun, but not like that. Her eyes held her insecurity. Her man had entered me and made her feel less than invisible. She hadn't been included. She hadn't been in control. Still, I should have invited her.

I looked at the beautiful woman. Her man. Me. Her. We were close enough to start a war. My smile told her that I didn't want her man beyond this fantasy. I was done with him. The affair had ended.

I said, “Thanks for the ride. You helped me arrive at my destination. Exit to the left.”

I said that with kindness, not as if I were giving him the cold shoulder, not as if he had been my female dog. At that moment, the other side of Gemini that lived inside me, the light side, could've held him a million years, but the dark side patted him on his head as if he were a child on an adventure in my playground. Underneath nervous eyes, as I released him sans embrace, his wife's smile broadened.

The Brit and her lover applauded the longest, then waved and walked away, hand in hand. She could barely walk. She looked drained. Her yoni was swollen, tender, each step echoing the pain. The married aristocrat and her pilot from British Airways held on to each other, he too a stranger in a strange land. He took steps as if he were tipsy. He had been drained. The snake had been pleased for the moment.

He would travel back across the pond with a wonderful story about a nameless brown-skinned woman. No, about two beautiful women, me and Rosetta. Plus the Brit. Three women. His tale would sound like the ultimate fish story. My lover rose and staggered, light-headed, and the crowd laughed a little, made jokes about not being able to control me. When he found his bearings, he reached down and helped me to mine.

Again I looked at the Indian girl. Looked at her well-managed anger and disappointment. Her lover had left her in need. She should've made him suck his worthless come back out of her temple.

I retrieved my heels, slipped my colorful Burberrys back on, and hoped that passion hadn't damaged the shoes or the beautiful beads. I wrapped a towel back around my body, hand combed my hair and with a kind smile and pat on his ass, I took my nameless lover's hand and took him to his nameless woman, told my unexpected lover, told my zipless fuck to enjoy the rest of the evening with his wife.

He wanted a discourse after intercourse, but that was not the course that I desired. His wife stared at me in amazement, her jealousy heating her beautiful skin, this infidelity seared into her brain after she had watched her husband plummet into an abyss of pleasure. During our affair, she'd disappeared from his life. But she stared like she understood. Something about me, my moment of boldness, how I had been in that heated instant, astounded her. She was changed. Or maybe it was he. Something had happened between them, in their marriage, that led them here. Unhappiness in the outside world always drew people toward a metaphorical Disneyland. All that mattered was that, through my eyes, as I interpreted her reactions, she understood me. Not all would. Not everyone would try. Just the generous and unselfish ones like her. Or stupid like her. Some would not see her in that warm, colorful light. Some might think that I was as foolish as she. I chose to see her as being benevolent. Myself as being audacious. Only a few understood humanness, the need to fulfill curiosities without the desire to own or give harm, to be selfish with self and generous with love and never possess the lover, the ache to learn and give without being bought or imprisoned by the rules of others.

I kissed her cheek, whispered, “Thank you. Sharing him, allowing him to take me away from the agony that I was feeling, that was very kind of you to help me in that way. I'm forever indebted to you.”

It only took a few words to disarm someone. Only took a few words to soften a heart. Women didn't always know what to do when another woman showed them an unexpected kindness, especially when they were still trying to define which box to put that woman in. The box of competition. The box of foe. The box of friend. The box that said the other woman meant nothing.

She touched my tousled hair, used her fingers to comb my mane, did that with a caring gesture, one of concern, as if she were making me presentable to the world. She winked at me. Then she ran her hand down the side of my face. Her soft gestures broke the fourth wall and humanized us, womanized us. We were sisters in solidarity, if but just for a moment, united in ensuring the satisfaction of a comrade. She gave me a tender hug, and when she released me I touched her amazing Afro, put my fingers into soft cotton and told her how beautiful she looked, told her how I admired the strength in her hair, that moment making me just as personal with her as I had been with her husband.

She too had met me out of context.

I needed her to know that there was more to me than this.

She smiled at her husband. “You were amazing.”

Exhausted, he said, “Lucky me. I have the best wife in the world.”

“I've never seen him that spirited. He gave it to you good.”

I nodded. “I'm sure that he gives it to you much, much better.”

He chimed in, “My wife is an amazing lover. Best in the world. Especially during a threesome.”

She smiled. “Now who has the wickedest wife in the world?”

He kissed her. The taste of my skin, of my flesh, of my sweat had permeated his tongue and he kissed her, shared remnants of me with her. When he finished, she kissed him, her smile still fractured.

Tongues danced while I watched. It was very romantic, like it was a night for the renewal of marriage vows.

She was sexually stimulated, heated to the point that she couldn't be still, kept crossing her legs tightly and clenching the muscles in her long legs, creating pressure on her clit, trying to calm her yoni.

She asked me, “Are you done for the night . . . or . . . ?”

“I'm exhausted, sweaty, satisfied. It didn't last as long as the war between Zanzibar and England, but like Zanzibar I surrender by waving the white flag. That was very intense, more than enough.”

She said, “Hopefully we will see you again.”

I nodded.
We
. The woman with the beautiful Afro and skin gave me undeniable eye contact and said
we
. Then she stood close to me and rubbed her hand over my flat and firm stomach, my swollen breasts, then moved her hand south, eased between my thighs and touched my damp yoni with her fingertips. Two fingers touched me, massaged where I was swollen, where I was the most sensitive.

I asked, “Are you a regular here, or only on occasion?”

“My husband started this. He loves to put me on a mattress and get me hot and bothered and show me off to the crowd. I'm not dumb. Other women see how he fucks me and want to experience the same.”

“But do you like it?”

“I was a prude. Now I am open to many experiences.”

She licked her fingers and tasted our permitted sin. As the woman behind her moaned and rode her companion, my lover's wife's pupils dilated. She rocked, licked her lips again and again, inhaled, her nose flared when she exhaled, and then she smiled. I brushed my wild hair from my eyes and smiled a fatigued, intoxicated smile in return.

I said, “You're in a serious mood.”

“He fucked you well. That has left me very, very jealous.”

“I feel the heat coming from your body.”

She smiled. “You have made me yearn to know you better.”

“I'm flattered.”

“I would love for a woman as remarkable as you to be responsible for my climax.”

Her husband stood behind her. He held her. She stood forever tall in her sky-high bondage heels, those skyscraper heels making a statement, as all shoes made a statement. He touched her breasts, breasts that were a wonderful, natural C-cup, but looked small on her height. He nuzzled her, licked her, and sucked her ear. Her eyes stayed on mine. As her husband playfully bit her, and he kissed her simmering flesh, she lifted her chin, leaned her head backward, exposed her long neck and shoulder blades, studied me as he molested her, invited me to join him as he molested her, and her eyes said that right here, right now I didn't need to shower away the scent of her husband, that three could have much more fun than two.

She asked, “How are you with a woman?”

“Inexperienced, for the most part.”

“As energetic as you are?”

“Certain things are new to me and require practice.”

“A class on orally mastering the vagina starts in about twenty minutes. You could shower, or we could shower. I could join you.”

“Not tonight. I'm leaving soon. Long drive home.”

“You're a hot little Mandinga. You reek of sex and sensuality.”

I smiled in return. “Mandinga. I take that as a compliment.”

Again I leaned to her, kissed her cheek, but she held my face, touched my face, stroked my hair, moved it from my eyes, then leaned in and she gave me her tongue. I gave her mine as a sweet solatium, something to give her in compensation for her inconvenience, for loss, for my stealing her husband's orgasm. She tasted remarkably sweet, like a combination of wintergreen, vanilla, and cassia. That tender kiss made me purr. Made my flower want to open and bloom once again.

With regret I said, “Would love to be your next. Just not right now. All of this is new to me. I came in as a Watcher, and all of a sudden I have changed status.”