It’s one of those days when I just need to get away from my screen. Three writing assignments, a grant application and assorted research tasks (along with returning client emails and the requisite social media time-wasting) have meant nearly nine hours in front of the computer. I’m starting to get that ache at the front of my brain, coupled with nausea and the sensation of falling forward; a kind of motion sickness induced by staring at a fixed object while the rest of the world is moving around me.
I’m contemplating whether I should go to yoga or just take a walk when my phone buzzes.
“Hey,” the text says. “Group date now?”
It’s a regular I’ve been seeing for over a year. We usually meet one on one, but occasionally he invites me for larger scenes. It’s a common tactic of clients hosting orgies — secure one or two whores and then send our pics to anyone they’re hoping to lure with the promise we’ll be ready to put out for one and all. It’s not a bad gig actually. A bigger group means it’s easier to relax and not feel like you’re solely responsible the client’s enjoyment.
I text to say I’ll be there in 45. He’s only a 20-minute walk from me. But I haven’t showered today and need to douche my ass. “Cum soon!” he writes back. Lying on my bathroom floor, squirting a rectal syringe full of water into my hole, I start to think maybe this is exactly what I need. After endless hours in front of a computer, relating to real human beings on a purely carnal level can be a perfect physical and psychological reset.
There’s someone walking into his building when I arrive so I don’t bother buzzing and just take the elevator up to his floor. I forget which apartment he’s in, but the pounding house music from behind one of the doors serves as a beacon. There’s no response to my first knock, so I bang harder hoping they’ll hear me over the bass. He opens the door, totally naked, and I step in. It’s one of those living rooms essentially designed for orgies; a big sectional sofa with multiple fuck surfaces, a TV playing porn, and a stereo spewing forth house music. There’s a small dining table with a few chairs currently draped with jeans, t-shirts and underwear. On the couch behind my host, three naked guys are sucking each other off.
He ushers me into the kitchen, grabs an envelope from behind the toaster and discreetly slips it into my bag. It’s my fee for the evening, but he doesn’t want to alert the rest of the room to what’s going on. Knowing I’m being paid to be here is a potential vibe killer. The counter is littered with half-empty glasses, plastic baggies of pills and vials of GHB. He’s clearly planning for a long night.
He grabs me from behind, runs his hands down my chest and kisses my neck.
“Can I offer you anything?” he says, surveying the pharmaceutical smorgasbord in front of us.
“Just a joint, if you have it.”
He lets go of me, grabs one from a pre-rolled cluster in a wine glass next to the sink and places it between my fingers. He opens one of the drawers and produces a packet of green diamond-shaped pills, pops one out and slips it into my hand. It’s Kamagra (a generic Viagra knockoff). I’m not a big fan of erectile dysfunction pills as they tend to bring on headaches, but the joint I’m about to polish off should balance things out.
He heads back to the living room and I start looking through the cupboards for a coffee cup. At parties like this I always make sure my drinking vessel is distinctive. With all the drugs floating around, grabbing the wrong glass could mean accidentally consuming something I don’t want in my body — a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. I finally select a big white mug with a drawing of Snoopy on the side, fill it with tap water and swallow the pill.
My entry has caused a temporary pause in the party and the other guys flow into the kitchen for a smoke break. Everyone’s completely naked except me. We crowd around the ashtray on the stove as the fan above sucks the smoke outside. Names are exchanged and immediately forgotten. I hadn’t realized when I stepped in, but I’ve already had sex with two of the guys here, both in non-professional circumstances. The third I’ve never met but immediately recognize from his profile pics. He’s also an escort, though I’m not sure if he’s here in that capacity. I don’t say anything about knowing who he is, but he’s definitely hot; dark features, tiny waist and a huge cock swinging between his muscular legs. He tells me he’s Romanian but has been living here in Brussels for a few years, working as a party promoter.
I feel a collection of hands starting to move up and down my body, sliding my jeans and my underwear off, grabbing my nipples. Two mouths suck at my neck from either side while a saliva-covered finger gently plays with my ass. We float together as one tangled pile of limbs and dicks and holes until we tumble onto the couch. It’s pure carnality, that space where your brain totally shuts off. The writing assignments, and the grant application and everything else, all start to drift away and I become nothing more than a body.
I’m not sure how long it lasts but a least two wads are shot before the group slowly breaks up. Still pleasantly stoned and blissed-out, I head to the washroom to wipe the lube dripping from my ass before returning to the kitchen for another few puffs on the joint.
When I step back into the living room, the mood has shifted. Everyone’s still naked, but no one’s having sex. They’re just staring at their phones. I climb onto the couch between them, hoping my presence might stimulate them to turn away from their screens but they don’t. Two are on Grindr, one on another hook-up site, and the fourth on Facebook. I start running my hands along the two bodies next to mine but neither even seems to notice. Frustrated, I lean over and begin sucking the Romanian’s dick. I feel it get hard in my mouth but he just keeps swiping at his screen.
“You’re already in a room with a bunch of naked guys and you’re looking for sex online?” I ask, half joking.
“There’s only four dicks here,” he laughs. “I took an E tonight. I want at least 10.”
I turn to the guy on the other side of me, the one looking at Facebook. Grabbing the backs of his thighs, I push his knees to his chest, and sink my tongue into his asshole. He cocks his head to the side, looking past his phone, and smiles at me. But it’s only enough to hold his attention for a few seconds before he goes back to his feed. I’ve been here less than an hour and the party’s already dead. Everyone’s more interested in potential new additions than who’s already here.
It doesn’t matter how sexy I am. I’m not going to distract them from their distractions. I head to the kitchen, grabbing my underwear off the floor as I go, and pull a cigarette from one of the three packs on the counter. The host has opened the window next to the stove to release the smoke, and the chilly October air is seeping in. I push it closed, turn on the fan above the stove and exhale into it. As I puff on the cigarette, a wave of nausea washes over me. I can’t tell if it’s the joint, or the Kamagra or the whole situation, but that strange motion sickness feeling is coming back.
As I walk into the living room, one of the guys glances up, clocks that I’m wearing underwear and asks if I’m leaving. I just mumble that I’m not feeling well and going to lie down in the bedroom. The bed is big and soft and I fall into it exhausted. The unpleasant sensations begin to subside and I start to relax. I’m not sure how long I’m there when the host comes to check on me. He crawls in next to me and starts kissing my neck. There’s a slight tingle in my crotch and I can feel my dick getting hard again; the miracle of knock-off Viagra.
He manoeuvres himself below me and grasps my ankles, pushing my knees to my chest and pulling my underwear off in one motion. I feel his cock enter me, and my head falls to the side as he starts to fuck. Just enjoy this. Let everything go. Leave your body and let someone else use it for their pleasure. There’s a sudden twinge in my abdomen and my eyes flick open. Something isn’t right. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, as he continues to hold my ankles, thrusting in and out. I start to struggle a bit but he doesn’t let go. I can feel that awful rising sensation in my gut and turn to my right, grabbing the edge of the bed as I start to puke, miraculously into the garbage can that just happens to be there.
He stops fucking me.
“Are you alright?” he asks, which actually causes me to snort with laughter.
I mutter something about needing to go home, push him off me and grab my underwear from the floor as I head to the washroom. Throwing up always gives a little shot of adrenaline and I feel oddly refreshed. I wipe the remaining lube from my ass and splash my face with water. Apparently the group’s mad search has been fruitful because when I return to the living room for my clothes there’s a beefy Mediterranean-looking guy fucking the Romanian over the dining room table.
My stuff is on the chair beside them, sandwiched next to the wall, so I reach through the arch of their bodies to grab my jeans and jacket. If the host is disappointed by my early departure, he doesn’t show it. He sees me out with a kiss and closes the door behind me. I’d stopped noticing the house music playing in the background, but back in the hall I’m aware of it again, filtering through the door.
As I’m walking home, the wind blows yellow and brown leaves in circles around me. Back at my place, I pour myself a drink, fall onto the couch and contemplate what just happened. Has it really come to the point where we can’t even fuck without staring at our phones? Sex used to be one of the few places we could truly escape the endless electronic chatter that takes up so much of our mental space. I have the urge to return to my laptop and watch a movie, but resolve to spend the rest of the night away from the computer, and randomly grab one of the five books I’m currently reading off the coffee table. While you might not be able to depend on sex as an escape from the screen anymore, good old-fashioned literature can still do the trick.
(Photo credit: Tony Fong)