Sunday, November 19, 2006

Object Lesson

This event was also described by Tristan.

Discretion seemed to have informed the décor of the brothel.

The lights were limited to candles and strands of single bulbs. A low wall of shelves divided the space, which was further segmented by drapes and netting separating beds from one another. The resulting cubicles were intimate, yet each was also a stage to be observed by passers by.

I held Viviane’s hand as we surveyed the goings on. We ran into the fellow who had been wrestling Marcus when he fell.

“Oh, hi!” he said in low voice. “It’s good to see you. Is Marcus okay? I feel terrible about what happened.”

“I think he’ll be okay,” I whispered. Our voices were quiet and reverential among the dim lights and copulation. “They sent him back with a brace and crutches. He’ll have to get an MRI and more tests.”

“Crutches? MRI? Oh, that is awful. I was just too rough.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “It was an accident.” I turned to look at the bed beside him. A man in a black t-shirt was fucking a woman with deep, rough thrusts. His pants remained around his ankles. His boots were firmly planted on the floor.

“Are you in line to be next?” Viviane asked.

“Hmm? Oh, no,” he said, looking over. “That’s my wife. I’m selling her tonight.”

“How much to fuck her?” I asked.

“Four hundred.”

I fingered the wad in my pocket. “Cool, maybe I’ll come back later and fuck your wife.”

“Please do,” he nodded. “Oh, and tell Marcus he can have it on the house. I feel just awful.”

“Will do.” We watched for a bit longer before leaving our new friend to continue pimping his wife for play money.

It would be nice, I thought, to finally fuck someone at sex camp. Here we were, two days into Dark Odyssey, and other than Lolita’s swift, deep blowjob during our roll in the grass the night before, my boner remained bone dry.

The orgy room was much better lit than the brothel, with a soft diaphanous fabric covering the ambient ceiling lights. Stacks of mattresses formed orderly mounds in the middle of the room. Shelves lined two walls, offering condoms, latex gloves, lube and fresh bedding.

One couple talked in the corner. Otherwise, the space was empty.

“No orgy tonight?” Viviane asked.

“No orgy yet, I bet,” I said. “I hope that changes. After all that’s gone on, it would be nice to see something so familiar as a good old-fashioned orgy.”

The objectification room, by contrast, was the happening place to be. Viviane spotted Marcus, Selina and Lolita across the room. We pressed through the crowd to join them.

Lolita and Selina were being updated on Marcus’s knee. Selina changed the subject to tell us how the Sex Idol Contest had gone in our absence.

I took a hit on my flask and passed it to Viviane.

“Too bad we missed seeing your act, Marcus,” Lolita said.

“Yeah well, nobody’s seeing nothing much from me tonight,” he said morosely. “I’m useless.”

Our conversation moved on to other topics, never addressing the five bodies on display nearby.

Marcus grew distracted and decided that maybe the bodies might be worth examining. I offered to join him.

The lower extremities of five nude women were laid out on cots. Their upper bodies were hidden behind a black scrim. As the room was brightly lit, it was possible that the women could see us faintly through the scrim. But from our vantage, they were invisible above the waist.

Above each woman hung a paper describing what could and could not be done to her body. Only one of the bodies was currently being “used,” in the parlance we had learned from Femcar in that afternoon’s lesson. Two men and a woman were crouched over one body, turning a variety of toys onto her genitals.

Marcus had selected a pair of legs shackled to a cot. A Sharpie marker was balanced between her toes. He rested his crutches against a nearby post and leaned forward.

“What do we have here?” he asked, reading the paper over the legs of this woman—or rather, this object. “’Do: talk about me, toys, penis, fingers, write on me. Don’t: talk to me, play with clit piercing, ass, pain.’” He turned to me. “What the fuck does ‘don’t pain’ mean?”

“Maybe it means ‘don’t pain my sensibilities with incomplete sentences,’” I suggested.

“Maybe I should ‘don’t pain’ this thing when I ‘don’t ass’ it,” Marcus said derisively.

The legs squirmed.

I slapped a thigh. “Those shackles are useless if this thing can’t keep still.”

“Cheap shackles, too,” Marcus said, lubbing its pussy. “Real bargain rate product here.”

“You know the good stuff.” I took the Sharpie marker and scribbled a moustache over the shaved slit. “I tell you, this whole ‘bare beaver’ thing is played. It would be nice to see some pubic hair now and then, just for fucking variety.”

“Do you need a glove?” Viviane asked, suddenly at Marcus’s side.

“I’m covered,” he said, a little annoyed at the interruption. He pulled a latex glove from his pocket and put it on his right hand. He slipped three fingers easily into the object.

“What do you think?” I asked.

Marcus shook his head. “Nothing special.”

The legs shivered as a quiet moan issued from behind the scrim.

“God, who can fucking hear a thing with all this racket?” Marcus complained. He retrieved his fingers and pulled off the glove. He threw it on the object’s thigh. “This is boring. I’m going to look for something worth doing.”

“I’ll join you in a minute,” I said, unzipping my shorts. “I’m just going to fuck this hole real quick.”

“Whatever,” Marcus said, reaching for his crutches. “I wouldn’t go near that thing for free.” He hobbled off, leaving me alone with the object.

“I won’t waste breath talking to you,” I told the scrim as I rolled a condom on my cock. “Please do me the courtesy of being still while I enjoy some pussy.”

The legs relaxed in their shackles.

I stepped from my shorts and climbed onto the cot. I poised my cock to enter the object, but found the shackles positioned its legs in an inconvenient position.

I tried to adjust the legs to better vantage, to no avail.

“This won’t last long,” I said, entering it. “Unless someone brings me a saw to get these fucking legs out of my way.” I began to pump roughly. “No ‘don’t saw’ on your God damned list, is there?”

A moan gave assent.

I slapped a thigh. “Shut the fuck up, hole.”

I grabbed the object’s hips and moved the hole to a better position. With this adjustment, I could fuck with gravity on my side.

I looked over my shoulder. I looked back to face the scrim and closed my eyes, ignoring the eyes on me.

I was the only man fucking one of the objects, so of course, everyone in this crowded room was watching. Lolita was with Viviane and Selina, just a few feet away.

I have no objection to being watched as I have sex. I have come to find it very hot. These days it’s so common I can either allow myself to be aroused by it, or I can retreat into my own head to ignore voyeurs if I’d prefer privacy.

I have places to go when I want to be alone in a crowded room.

But one thing I can’t abide, whether I’m fucking or blogging or talking, is the sense that at some point, I’ll be summarily judged by my actions. I dreaded having to explain and discuss my desire to use this object.

No bones about it, I was very turned on by this public display of anonymous sex. I just wished for the privacy of my own anonymity.

Marcus was fine. Neither of us needs to explain himself to the other. We do anyway, but more to understand each other, and life, than to judge one another.

I barely knew Lolita. I knew she was an expert in all matters kinky, so I couldn’t very well shock her. That didn’t concern me.

But I really liked Lolita, and I didn’t know her well enough to know what, if anything, was simply too grotesque for her. I would much rather get to know her better than fuck this object; I hoped this did not ruin her interest in me.

Still, I fucked.

Selina has had a tough time figuring me out. As she got to know me, she enjoyed that I was smart and funny; it didn’t hurt that my knowledge of seventies rock rivals her own. That’s the real me, and it made me someone she wanted to know.

But she seemed to have trouble reconciling this nice guy she liked with the dominant side of my blog persona. Here I was, this nice guy, not only fucking someone I didn’t know, but also talking trash and throwing in some spankings. This might rankle her considered opinion about trust in a sexual relationship, much less a dom/sub interaction.

I was fucking this hole and seemed unconcerned about the woman behind the scrim. Maybe Selina thought this was hot. Maybe she thought I was a misogynist prick. I didn’t know.

Still, I fucked.

Viviane and I have a deep relationship. Through knowing me, she came into blogging, group sex and kink—heck, even her first forays into sex after marriage were with me.

As Viviane created her own sex blog and dove into her first threesomes, her first orgies, her first domination scenes, her first efforts as a doyenne, I was right there by her side, giving her my advice, and, more critically, my imprimatur. If I did something, in her eyes, it was the cool thing to do.

I was one of the cool kids, and I was her devoted lover.

That’s a lot of responsibility. And here I was fucking some object, reducing a flesh-and-blood person to a mere hole, some gloryhole for my dick.

This was heavy shit and I was playing it out in front of people whose opinions mattered to me.

Still, I fucked.

I tried to focus.

I was also questioning my own motives. All my life, I have done my best to live by the golden rule. I was raised a good Christian boy, a Southerner who opened doors for others and blessed their souls when they prayed for me.

I was raised a mama’s boy within a matrilineal clan, taught to revere women in ways that translated easily into feminism as I matured as an intellectual. After a devoted marriage to someone who required my total attention, even to the most erratic demands, I had shifted into a single life dedicated to making happy the various women I met.

How did that jibe with fucking this woman—this object—while subjugating my concern for her pleasure, much less her identity?

Still, I fucked.

My mind was distracted, but my cock was not. This had me very hard.

I could explain myself later, I reasoned, even to myself. For now, I needed to concentrate and close down my peripheral vision, to reduce my immediate concerns to very simple elements.

My cock.

Her hole.

That cock.

This hole.



Nothing else.

I willed myself not to care about her orgasm as the object came in shudders against that cock.

I willed myself not to be distracted by her flinch when I touched her stomach. Was she concerned about her slight belly, or just ticklish? Was she pregnant, or protecting a tender injury?

Not my problem, I told myself, facing the scrim as I fucked. If that’s an issue, I thought, that fuckhole should put it on its God damned miserable “don’t” list. That will be a problem for the next cock that takes mercy on this hole and fucks it.

“How is it?” asked a sweet voice. I turned to see a young woman smiling pleasantly.

I shrugged. “Pussy’s like pizza, you know—even the least of it is generally pretty good.”

I kept fucking as we talked, my hands holding the object’s hips still.

“Good. Is this one any trouble? I notice she has a lot of rules.”

“Yeah, it’s a pain when holes come with troublesome restrictions.”

“Like that ‘don’t play with my clit’ thing?” she said, pointing to the list of "don'ts." "What's up with that?"

“Ridiculous, right?”

The object moaned. I slapped a thigh.

“See?” I smirked. “That kind of shit just ruins it.”

“Well, not to rush you,” the woman smiled. “But I’ll fist her once you're done.”

“Oh, please,” I said, pulling out. “I’ve wasted enough of my time. Do your worst.”

I pulled off my condom and tucked it into the object’s hole, using her body as my waste receptacle. I pulled my shorts up over my erection and buttoned the waist.

“Excuse me one second,” I said as the woman pulled on a glove. I picked up the Sharpie and left a signature on the object’s inner left thigh. When I finished, I slapped my note hard.

The leg winced.

“That was me,” I said to the scrim. “Remember my name, cunt.”

“You’re Jefferson?” the young woman asked, slipping her fingers into the pussy I had just vacated.

“Yeah, and that’s my blog,” I said, pointing to the URL I left inked on anonymous flesh. “Come read me sometime.”


"Laura" in Alaska said...

Very interesting read. I've been wondering what your thoughts were on this whole objectification room at sex camp. To see that you were conflicted about it, actually relieves me.

However, it's no less arousing.

Anonymous said...

"Shut up and let me enjoy my pussy."

not the exact quote here, but a familiar one.

Jerry said...

Now this is exactly the kind of insight I was looking for when I was reading Tristan's piece about it in the Voice.  If I weren't so truly hideous to behold, I could very easily fall in intellectual and philosophical love with you.

Anonymous said...

powerfully written post, J. What good writing...

Anonymous said...

Very interstesting. All of the "sex camp stories" were for sure, but this one is a fantasy of my Master and we both enjoy the whole "anonymous" sex thing. Something to think about i suppose. Thanks for the stories and the good blog. Hope we can perhaps chat sometime. I took down your email then you just never talked to me again. OH well :)
the chick from myspace lol

Anonymous said...

oh. . . lucky I came before I read that you were plugging your blog at sex camp. . . dork.

LaDuree said...

Over a year later and still hot