. . . Being the fresh meat at a sex party that’s already been going on a few hours gives me the opportunity to be a little coy. As I enter, they all turn to look at me. But I just toss a wink their way and walk past to the dining room. The table is covered with drug remnants: a few empty baggies, some vials, and different coloured pills which have been broken in quarters. I go directly for the pre-rolled, but not yet smoked, joint in the ashtray and spark it. Feeling the smoke touch my lungs, I hold for as long as I can before letting it slowly trickle from my lips.

My presence has caused a tiny blip in the action. The guys disentangle themselves and walk one by one to join me at the table. Everyone’s completely naked except me, and I take a moment to revel in their curiosity. Four sets of eyes are on me right now and only one of them has seen me without clothes. I can feel them undressing me with their gaze. But I’m not going to give them what they want — not yet, anyway.

As they set about refreshing their buzzes, the conversation starts to flow. Even though they’ve been fucking for a couple of hours, I realize these guys don’t even know each other’s names. Pleasantries are exchanged. Fields of employment are shared. Renting versus owning is debated. Through it all I stay silent, not wanting to give anything away, remaining the mute, mysterious object.

My psychic wall lasts less than 10 minutes before I feel a set of hands wrap around my waist and a hard cock press against the ass of my jeans. Lips brush against my neck and I think for a moment they belong to the guy who invited me. But as I turn my head to the side I see I’m being caressed by a burly, 50-something daddy with a thick beard. He fumbles with my belt but finally succeeds in getting it open, pulling my pants and my underwear to the floor in one motion. His hand planted in the middle of my upper back, he gently but firmly bends me forward until my torso is splayed on the table, my ass high in the air.

I can feel a collective charge go through the room at the prospect of an as-yet-unfucked hole. The daddy presses his hairy face into my ass, teasing me open with his tongue. I didn’t arrive with a specific sexual goal in mind. But I make a resolution in this moment: I’m going to just lie here until each of them has fucked me, and then I will leave.

I stay face down on the table, not wanting to look back, not wanting to know who each dick belongs to as it enters me. Fingers pull at my nipples and run through my hair. But I keep my face pressed firmly into the dark wood of the table, not wanting to know anything about what’s going on, offering my body up for their use. 

I know at least one of them has fucked me more than once, because I’m on my sixth penetration when I finally grab my dick and start stroking, my cum falling in puddles on the carpet. I don’t even bother to make a trip to the bathroom. I just pull my jeans up, leaving the lube dripping from my ass to seep into my underwear. I stay silent, offering nothing but a wide grin as I don my jacket and step back into the hall, closing the door softly behind me.

Walking home, the wind seems to have picked up some warmth. The sky is still cloudy but the rain has stopped. The melting snow and the cigarette butts and the dog shit have been transformed from a depressing hangover of winter to an oddly optimistic harbinger of spring.

The next day my inbox starts pinging again and it’s clear my orgiastic evening has rejigged my mojo. When you give your sexuality to other people for a living, it’s easy to forget you need to save a little for yourself. But when you’re drained, you don’t have anything to give and you’re not going to do a good job. I make a resolution to try to have at least one purely recreational sexual encounter a week. I know it’s not always going to be possible, but it’s good to have goals. And frankly, it’s pretty great to get fucked by four different guys over the span of two hours, and be able to consider it professional development.

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