The Sexiest Basement in Brooklyn

SPAM, the queer sex party in a basement in Brooklyn, got a lot of attention back in 2002 when TimeOut New York covered it, and the curious flocked. I attended much later, after the crowds had died down, many scared off by its fabulous queerness or queer fabulousness. One of the best things about SPAM is the mandatory clothes check down to your underwear. A clothes check is the rule for a sex party on the West Coast, but seems to be the exception in NYC. The number of parties I’ve been to where people stand around in their work clothes, cocktail in hand, as if they are mingling at a company-sponsored mixer… it’s just not conducive to getting to getting it on. Remove some clothing right away and it propels you, mind and body, into a different state. A ready-to-fuck-a-stranger (-or-two) state.

I went with my boyfriend C and with L, a woman that C had been seeing from time to time, and whom I was getting to know as a friend. L was a regular at SPAM. She’d even met her boyfriend there. He couldn’t join us that evening, so we were three… at least to begin. L looked great. She has a very sexy, compact but curvy body and was wearing a silky short slip. I was feeling a little bit shy, between the new surroundings and my uncertainty of where I stood with L. C found the three of us a place to sit, placing me in the middle.

C took the lead, pulling up my camisole to suck on one of my tits. L asked if she could take the other one in her mouth. As I’ve mentioned before, that is one of my favorite things, a mouth on each tit. I agreed enthusiastically, my shyness melting away as her lips closed on my nipple. I leaned back and let the sensation of the two wet mouths lapping at my sensitive nipples wash over me.

We were outgrowing our perch on the couch, and decided to move to an empty bed across the room so we could get comfortable. I lay back between them, and L asked if she could eat my pussy. I smiled and nodded, so L and C shared the job of sliding down my panties, and L began to tease my clit with her tongue. Then she changed to a more aggressive course and fastened her mouth to my clit, creating exquisite suction. C continued to devote his mouth’s attention to my tits. The sensations were intense and delicious, and I was drifting towards an orgasm. Perhaps I closed my eyes for a moment. I gradually realized that we’d attracted quite a crowd. The bed was completely surrounded by men in various states of undress, their eyes fastened on us.

I must admit I felt a frisson of panic at the mob of men hungrily watching our threesome. But I was there for the full SPAM experience, so I relaxed and gave myself over to entertaining the crowd with my writhing and moaning. I do love an audience. I’m not exactly sure what happened next, but I realized that L and C were on the bed next to me ravishing each other, and I had no idea who was eating my pussy. It was strange, but thrilling. And, since the new mouth was doing an excellent job, who was I to complain. As I attempted to lift my head to learn the identity of my new cunnilingual friend, I was boisterously attacked by a sweet but aggressive kisser. This man with thick curly hair and muscular arms wanted to devour my face, my mouth, my tongue, perhaps even my teeth. I gave up on learning the identity of the man down below, and focused on the deliciously eager ministrations of the one at face level. There was something so joyous and fun about his boyish enthusiasm for kissing. He was even pulling focus from the kind soul who toiled away between my legs. I reached out and grabbed his curls, pulling him away from my mouth for a moment so that I could see his face. It was a very nice face. I said hello, and we exchanged a few pleasantries before we dove back into the delicious make-out scene. My hand found his hard cock, and I stroked it slowly while we kissed.

I honestly don’t know how many of the men in the crowd tasted my pussy that night. I was vaguely aware of changes in textures, techniques, and styles down below, but up above the curly-haired kissing monster had my full attention. At one point a young, thin African man came up to politely ask for his share of kisses, and the curly-haired man removed his tongue from my mouth and asked if he could take the opportunity to have a go at my pussy. I knew I liked his tongue very much, so I agreed at once. I kissed and cuddled with the young African man, who whispered compliments to me in a lilting accent. The curly-haired man turned his attention to my pussy with a renewed show of the boisterous enthusiasm he’d had for my mouth. His aggressive licking and tonguing of my cunt brought me rapidly to the orgasm I’d been too over-stimulated to relax and allow. I politely asked my attentive crowd to give me a minute to catch my breath, and I sat up on the bed to survey the scene, snuggling the young African man and the curly-haired man to my sides. C and L had found their way to a chair near the bed, and were pleasantly occupying themselves. And, as I’d hoped and dreamed from my vantage point at the bottom of the puppy pile, members of my crowd of admirers were also attending to each other. Cocks were being sucked and assholes lubed and fucked. I love to watch men fuck each other. It’s one of my greatest pleasures. I lay there, enjoyed the humming feeling of my much-sucked pussy, gave occasional kisses to the two men at my sides, and watched the proceedings with delight.

Published in: on January 20, 2007 at 4:50 pm  Comments (3)  

Gold Slut Standard Time Warp-Destination Y2K

Where did you spend new year’s eve 1999? Did you party like it was…? I was in the Caribbean with an old friend, who, for the purposes of this post, I will call Asshole. He is one, and he was also the first man I was with who really liked his played with during sex.

Asshole and I consummated eight years of hot-and-bothered friendship in his parents’ rental car as part of one of those vacations in paradise that travel agents (or now travel websites) live to pimp, but only happen once in a lifetime, if you are lucky. I was lucky. For the price of a plane ticket I got ten days of sun, beach, swimming, cheap and plentiful alcohol, amazing food, and the only downsides were having to share a room with Asshole’s siblings and cousins (hence the frequent use of the rental car) and increasing requests to explain the nature of our relationship to his parents when we were just figuring it out ourselves.

One night was particularly memorable. The island we were visiting had been clobbered by a hurricane a couple of years earlier, and parts of the island were just being rebuilt. This meant there were ruined ghosts of old resorts, half-built new resorts, and sections of the island that were in a limbo of aging sleaziness. We loved exploring these parts. There was a French bar. Run by a handsome Frenchman. I’ll call him Jaques, which may well have been his name. It was one of the few places that was open among the ruins of what was a particularly fancy resort. We’d been driving back and forth in search of such a port of call. We walked in and continued the day’s drinking. Asshole was (is?) an alcoholic, so there was always lots of drinking. Jaques was very friendly, flirting with me. A curvaceous woman is highly appreciated in the Caribbean. Perhaps a stereotype, but one that I was very happy to find to be true in my personal experience. There were many nights when Asshole glowed with pride to be the one walking by my side as man after man took in my figure. Asshole asked Jaques about other places that were still open in the area, and he directed us to a “gentlemen’s club.” We thanked Jaques, took our leave, with much French-style cheek kissing, and drove to the club.

It was my first visit to such an establishment. I was nervous. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to share Asshole’s attention with other naked women.

Past the entryway was a large room with a central bar. The bar counter extended around the room, becoming the stage for the dancers, who could easily move among the handful of customers. We took stools at the bar and ordered more drinks. The bartender was a particularly sexy woman, hotter than anyone dancing, even though she was wearing basic black and they were topless and in shiny g-strings. Funny how that happens. As Asshole glued his eyes to the dancers, I drunkenly flirted with the bartender, needing to keep busy.

Asshole started talking Russian with a stripper named Olga. He was the kind of guy who was convinced that strippers “got” him; that they responded to him in a different way than the other clientele; that he became their friend. He and Olga had the common ground of speaking Russian, and he was slipping her a steady diet of drinks and dollars, so sure, for the moment she was his “friend.”

I watched the women dancing in g-strings and tried really hard to get excited by it, but my attention kept returning to the bartender. Clothed, in a room of naked women, maybe that was her power. Or maybe she was just really hot. I was getting irritated by the whole Asshole/Olga thing, so I focused on her. I hit on her aggressively, asking if she was allowed to socialize with the customers, asking if she ever got up and danced. If I’d been a man it would have probably gotten me thrown out of the place, but as a woman I was getting away with it, and it wasn’t pretty. Did I mention I was soooo drunk? Asshole started to notice. He walked me away from the bar. He said that I needed to play it cool. He said that I needed to be more “minimalist” in my approach. What possessed him to use that word in this context? Aside from the sheer pretentiousness of that term in this context, he happened to hit on the one word that would send me over the edge. As an artist, as a big girl, as a smartypants… I am many things, and minimalist describes none of them. In fact, minimalism pisses me off. I have a running war with minimalism. I started to laugh. This laughter began to border on the hysterical. I fled to the lady’s room. That’s when the night began to get interesting.

I was cleaning myself up… amazing how intense laughter can have the same physical effects as intense crying. I was splashing water on my face, fixing my make-up… when who should enter the ladies room… Jaques. An angelic French visitation in the ladies’ room of the strip club. Jaques was there, embracing me, kissing me, and then we were hustling into a stall. His pants were down and I was on my knees. Not very minimalist of me, I know! I had been learning a lot about sucking cock from Asshole, really enjoying it for the first time. Jaques got to reap the benefits. He had a long beautiful cock. As I leaned in to take it into my mouth, his face was beatific. He couldn’t believe his damn good luck. I licked and sucked passionately, a woman embracing her joy in cocksucking. He leaned back against the tile wall of the stall, and said sexy French things to me. We could hear strippers coming in and out, using the sink and the other toilets. It did cross my mind that we could get in trouble, but this was too much fun.

Jaques was enjoying the blowjob very much, but he politely indicated that he wanted to fuck me. We didn’t have a lot of room in the stall, and as he lifted me to a standing position, I surveyed my options. Abruptly, I hiked up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and leaned over to brace myself against the base of the toilet, allowing my bare ass to push towards him. He wasted no time, lifted my fleshy ass to reveal my wet pussy, and plunged his cock into me. I leaned my ass back against him and rode his cock. Frankly I’m not sure if I would have tried this position if I wasn’t so well lubricated in all ways, but in the moment, staring down at the tiled bathroom floor, it made all the sense in the world. We fucked like that as long as we could manage it, the sound of strippers peeing in the next stall and chatting while fixing their makeup at the mirror by the sink was our soundtrack. But that wasn’t where we were going to finish. Jaques helped me up, tucked himself away in his slacks, and I took a quick peek in the mirror to see what state I was in. I was flushed from the laughing and the fucking, but ready for my reappearance in the club.

Asshole was waiting there with Olga as Jaques and I emerged. I ran to him and hugged him, thanking him for sending Jaques in after me. “Oh he was very eager to find you,” Asshole shrugged. Asshole had just arranged with Olga to go to the back room for a private lap dance. For a few dollars more, she was willing for Jaques and I to come along. The back room was all soft velvety cushions and leopard print: classic. Padded sofas ringed the walls. There were a couple of men having lap dances, spaced out around the room. Asshole led us all to a couch and I sat down between him and Jaques. Olga took off her bikini top and began a tantalizing dance right up against Asshole, but never quite touching him. Each time he reached out to touch her lovely, full breasts, she pushed his hands away. Perhaps she even said, “Niet!” Jaques’ hand had found its way under my skirt and inside my panties. Now I thought we’d really get in trouble! He was finger fucking me right there in the sacred back room. Olga turned her attention to me, sharing her dance between me and Asshole. I don’t know what possessed me, I’d seen her slap Asshole away enough times, but I reached out to touch her breasts. They felt so good! I could see Asshole’s outrage, when she not only allowed me to stroke her breasts, but reached out and started playing with mine. Asshole’s outrage turned to pleasure as he appreciated the show that he was getting. My other hand had found Jaques’ cock, which had somehow gotten back out of his pants. I stroked his cock, he fingered my pussy, I massaged Olga’s tits, she squeezed mine. All I could spare for Asshole was some hip and shoulder to rub against him, as Olga leaned in to kiss me. I leaned back into the soft cushions, feeling the cheap plush, tasting Olga’s champagne flavored mouth, and releasing to Jaques’s persistent fingers. Even Asshole had turned his attention to me, massaging and stroking what he could get his hands on. As Olga pulled away, he leaned in to kiss me, and though much water has passed under that bridge, I can still remember the joy of sinning with him in paradise.

Our lapdance was over. We’d spent our wad for the evening. Jaques, Asshole, and I groped our way back to the bright lights of the bar, and then out into the warm tropical night. Jaques and I kissed, and we muttered promises about meeting up again during the rest of Asshole and my visit to the island. Somehow, that never happened. But he earned a place on the Gold Slut Standard for his featured role in one of the naughtiest nights of my life.

Published in: on January 4, 2007 at 12:46 am  Comments (4)