The Second and Less Favorable Impression
August 7th, 2007Let’s get the rest of the morally dubious saved stories out of the way, so I can go back to talking about how hot and dominant I am.
Loving sex is not always enough to love sex events.
Attending an orgy was a stretch for me. I’m into sadomasochism: swingers and sex parties often leave me cold. I am also, believe it or not, somewhat shy.
I was pleasantly surprised to find my first orgy titillating. Think beautiful, young people (and they were both quite young, and quite beautiful) naked and earnestly fucking — a sight quite rare in any public “adult” scene. None of them seemed averse to my naked body, either, but then that is not a sight rare in the public scene.
I had high hopes for my return trip, but I couldn’t get into it. I worried about my partner left at home. I got puppy-dogged all night by eager young things in whom my interest was not reciprocal. And worst of all, I kept having to shove off one rude, drunken boy.
I watched people, for a bit. The drunken boy’s persistence made me so angry that I nearly left at 11, never having disrobed.
Finally a cute boy, scrawny and tattooed, enticed me to the back room. Barely a minute passed before people were everywhere in the dark. What had been just the two of us, giggling and trying to make out without being crushed by the folding futon, was a confusion of limbs and cocks and hands on cocks.
The tattooed boy fucked me (these boys, not so much with the equal participation) and someone took off the glasses bouncing on my nose.
The boy stopped fucking me. There were people everywhere. Then the boy grabbed me up again, this time more forcefully. He slid his hand around my neck and started choking me. You little slut, you like being fucked like this, he said. That’s right, bitch, take that cock.
I was shocked at being addressed so, but I was also being choked and fucked, and God help me if I could think of anything else. I am a masochist. The only way to better make me come plugs into a wall outlet.
As soon as I could extricate myself, I grabbed for my glasses, and I looked at the face of the second man I’d had sex with that night.
After the orgy, I explained the event to the host thus:
He was the one person I really didn’t want to fuck, and he *knew* it. He leaped in on the action, after a whole night of very clear rebuttals… At the time it was hot, I came, I had fun. But it shouldn’t have been with him, and he didn’t deserve it.
I suspect … that it was the same boy from [other attendee’s uncomplimentary blog entry]. That makes me wanna punch him a lot more. I would be happiest not to encounter him, were I to come to the next party.
It does make a girl worry about all the things I try to set aside at sex parties. I’m sure there is no truly safe space, where consent is the golden standard and mutual respect twinkles in the air, but the illusion is necessary for me. I need to know that no means no. And I’ve got *no* problem saying no.
I would have used stronger language if I felt entitled to stronger conviction. I felt violated, but I also felt I didn’t deserve to. When the poor little slut goes to the orgy, can she really complain that someone stuck the wrong dick in her hole? If the little slut came, she liked it, didn’t she?
Of course the answer is that I’m only a slut when and how much I want to be, and that I had every right to complain about duplicity. I did complain. He wasn’t invited back.
It didn’t help me feel better. My philosophy had no room for grey area. There was sex I wanted and asked for, which was awesome; and there was rape (even now I feel like I shouldn’t dare to type the word), which was horrid and criminal and reported immediately to the police.
This just made me sick to my stomach.
I felt not-so-inexplicably wronged, and I wanted culpability, and I knew I was never, ever going to ask for it.
When I left I hailed a cab, and the pop of its door handle was sweet music to my ears. My chauffeur and I lurched herky-jerky up the avenue, dotted with traffic-light gems. I melted into the leather seat, and for a blissful moment, felt alone and safe.
I didn’t come back for several months.
August 7th, 2007 at 12:50 pm
“When the poor little slut goes to the orgy, can she really complain that someone stuck the wrong dick in her hole?”
Absofuckinglutely. Consent is still consent, whether given or withheld.
August 8th, 2007 at 11:42 am
Well sure. I mean, having an orgasm isn’t the same as giving consent.
A lot of non-con fantasy revolves around making someone have an orgasm they don’t want to have. (A-hem)
Whether or not you give consent is your choice. It’s not consensual because you’ve agreed to other things before, or because you like that kind of thing in general, or because all women want it really, or because you’re a slut.
Your consent is yours and it reverts back to you no matter who you are or what you do.
Now, where’s my special delivery?
August 8th, 2007 at 3:35 pm
Viviane - I’m with you, of course. I was just so gobsmacked by the whole affair that I started to think maybe I was the crazy one.
Bitchy - Eileen and I are having some technical difficulties getting him in the box.
August 8th, 2007 at 10:09 pm
Oh! The solution to this technical difficulty has been revealed, and involves chocolate. Apparently, he can be lured places with chocolate.
He asked me to use this knowledge only for good. They’re so cute when they’re naive.
August 9th, 2007 at 9:14 pm
I’ve been touched (without permission) by the person you write about. I could understand how you’d come to feel that way.
August 10th, 2007 at 4:39 pm
I am waving a bar of chocolate out the window right now. Do you think he’ll be able to sense it?
August 10th, 2007 at 7:18 pm
Nope, remember to unwrap it next time. Probably lucky for me you didn’t, though. I’m glad to know people had fun with the grappling at that party, I was worried it was taking up too much space and getting in people’s way. I think I’m going to have to be careful in the future about being alone with either Eileen or Calico, and am definitely not accepting any food or drink they’ve had a chance to tamper with. I’m not sure where I might wake up.
August 11th, 2007 at 8:44 pm
I’m so sorry to hear that this happened to you.
August 12th, 2007 at 7:07 am
I consoled myself by eating the chocolate. I wish I’d read your advice about unwrapping it before hand
England is quite lovely at this time of year.
August 12th, 2007 at 6:57 pm
That boy was so rotten. I mean, really, who talks like that to a girl he’s only just met? That on top of the touching without permission.
That was the beginning of the end of the orgies for me as well.
August 16th, 2007 at 1:20 pm
I am very sorry that this happened to you, but you obviously understand the difficulty of making any kind of complaint in the situation you allowed yourself to be in. I know everyone will say no is no etc, but I am guessing that you are smart enough to realise that while I agree with that, the nature of your association with this person is only going to trivialise what happened to you. I suspect that this person needs dealt with by members of your own community as the vanilla world will disregard any complaint!
August 23rd, 2007 at 12:15 pm
Clearly I understand that complaining is difficult. All this behavior is stigmatized even though it’s very rarely wrong. That creates an environment where, when something does go wrong, there is no recourse.
And that’s why I felt like talking about it. Sexuality shouldn’t be so marginalized that it’s frightening or incomprehensible.
Thanks for providing an example of that, Toni.
October 10th, 2007 at 11:58 am
Of course, even if a criminal complaint goes nowhere (courtwise), they are not entirely useless.
The create a paper trail around the person that does not go away. Sure, it’s not quite evidence of anything on it’s own, but the police don’t worry about that while in the investigating phase. Also, a pattern of such reports lends credibility to subsequent complaints by others subjected to similar treatment at his hands.
Depending on the state, you may even get his fingerprints and (more importantly, his DNA) entered into their databases, and you never know what those can turn up.
But most importantly, you give him a taste of the panopticon. And if you give don’t believe in the reforming influence of old French prison designs, well Foucault’s take on the “uncertain state of being observed” has a lot more kick when coupled with the realization that pushing your luck again comes with the risk of becoming someone’s prison bitch.