Chapter 11
If I had my choice I would have slept all the next day, all the next week, in fact, if I could. The orgy continued till dawn, and it was fucking good all the way. And exhausting. The next morning I sank into a warm bath, bellowed, let out the water, and took a cold, painful shower. I thought that every inch of skin had been stripped off me and thrown away somewhere. I ached everywhere (even my feet hurt!) and my prick and asshole glowed like torches. Vivi refused to get up and comfort me. The only time she awoke was to say that she would murder me if I got her out of bed. I actually believed her!
Lester, Billie, Hiram, and Hannah didn't show their faces the whole day. Neither did Sadie, Alex, Myron, Miriam, George, or Gertie. Mary took off for a closer look at the Vatican (you can believe that was something we'd never think of scheduling on our tours, even though some pretty sexy things went on there a long time ago).
So I was left with the "younger" members of our group (and Harold Palmer, of course) and this wasn't such a bad thing. We had scheduled a trip to a sex commune on the outskirts of Rome-just the right place for "youthful" antics.
We arrived an hour before sundown. The hills were magnificent and the setting was out of this world. The women walked towards us to give us their welcome. Olive-skinned beauties, naked to the waist, from their tits hung suckling babies. It was Italian warmth-trebled.
The men, strapping fellows in cut-offs led us for a tour of the place. We saw their fields, their flowers, their huts-all very rough and yet quite enchanting. The majority of them were craftsmen in the old style, and their machinery looked new and complicated. There was an air of peace about them, a looseness and happiness, a pride in themselves, their children, and their work. It was, in fact, one of the most successful communes I had seen, not only in spirit but in shape. Drugs were outlawed.
We dined with them on a mixture of pasta and organic food, an air of expectation hanging over the table. There was nothing venal about the whole thing; in fact, I had the sense that things would work their way out naturally. In spite of the innocent sexuality of the members of the commune, I didn't see anyone making a particular play for anybody. Our group remained cool, and I was happy for this. It would have been very embarrassing for me to have shepherded them there and then have them run amok. I didn't want any hard feelings on anyone's side, and I certainly didn't want to spoil things for the people who went to the commune on the next packaged tour.
After dinner I began to notice people drifting off into dark corners. There seemed to be a free mixture of our people with theirs and on the whole everyone looked pretty pleased. After exchanging words with one of the temporary leaders of the commune-making arrangements for things and so on-I sat down by myself in the darkened communal playroom. I was very tired and I found myself nodding off, time and again. I wanted to be back in Rome by midnight as we were leaving early the next morning to fly to Amsterdam. I needed a good night's sleep-that's all.
When I look back on what happened all I can see is confusion. The fine line between dreams and everyday life was crossed and crossed again. Did, in fact, anything happen?
I remember waking up-or at least thinking I woke up, feeling that it had gotten to be quite late. My body was heavy with sleep, aching still, and my mind was in a blur. Someone was talking to me-or it seemed as though someone was talking to me-and at first I didn't understand the words. He, and I was certain immediately that it was a man, was saying, T wanted to thank you. Not only you, but your wife. You've helped us. I'm happy. She's happy. This was the greatest experience for us. It really was. I mean it."
I tried to see who was talking to me but it was far too dark. My eyes were focusing on everything but on nothing in particular. I could make out the outline of a man coming towards me, a tall, slimly built man, who walked with a slight shuffle. I stared at the figure and tried to talk to it but no words came from my mouth. I was terrifically puzzled and very unsure of myself. I felt as though I had been thrown to the bottom of a pit and was trying to call for help, crawling my way out.
"I do want to thank you, honestly. Everything's changed now. We're changed. It's better. And so are we. We're good."
I felt his breath on my face and his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly he bent down and kissed me, not gently, not passionately-just a kiss. He was obviously someone who had come along on our tour; he certainly wasn't one of the members of the commune. Who could it be? Peter Poynter? John Thorne? Thomas Knox? Dick Turner? Harold Palmer? All of them had come with us, but which one was here, kissing me? What woman? I couldn't think straight; my mind was a jumble of names. Who was it? Who could it be?
Then I felt his hand close over my crotch, slip down between my legs, and rest there. One part of me was passive; I was far too tired and in a certain way very unwilling. It's not that I'm against homosexual encounters, not at all. But I'm happiest when they happen in groups, as part of the sex of everyone. But between two men ... just two men....
I was surprised when bis touch awakened a longing in me, I was vulnerable, there were no two ways about it. When he unzipped my fly I didn't protest but I didn't show any sign of encouragement. Instead I sat there, slumped in the chair, waiting.
He massaged my prick through my shorts and a slight tremor went through me. I was aroused, definitely aroused, and warm in the groin. When he undid the buttons to my pants, opened them, and then pulled down my shorts I felt my whole body begin to dissolve.
He bent down and kissed the tip of my prick, murmuring "Thank you. Thank you." all the while. Writh each successive moment of contact I felt my erection becoming harder and firmer, and by the time he brought his mouth down on me, I was fully erect.
I sat there, a dream man being sucked off by a dream man. Or were we both real? Again and again he brought his mouth down on me, cupping my balls in his hands and moving them around tenderly. I had no desire to reach out for him, none whatsoever. On the one hand I wanted to stay like this for a very long time, his mouth on my prick, his tongue licking my stem. But on the other I wanted this to end immediately but I didn't have the power to throw him off.
In spite of myself I became excited-by the darkness, the man, his tenderness, the image of myself ... everything. The more I tried to picture what was happening, the more my emotions flooded in, washing everything away, I had lost control and although I strained to recapture it I couldn't
When his sucks became more insistent I knew that I would come. It was just right for two people, two men, to do it this way, though I knew it wasn't the only way. His tongue encircled my entire stem, ran its length, grazed my balls. I heard myself moan, moan wordlessly, totally at ease in the situation, fully a part of it Soon, soon I knew. Soon.
The movements of his mouth and lips on the tip of my prick impelled me on. I was now in the groove of orgasm, moving swiftly towards a completion. X heard a voice calling to me, crying to me, and I felt his words echoing through me. He began to moan and his moans drove me on and on, closer, closer, closer....
I came in what I thought was slow motion. There was no sense of urgency, no rush of feelings, no feeling of going through a life and death cycle. Nothing-none of that. Just a spray of my life being passed on to him. Taken without greed or anger or passion. Simply acceptance.
I seemed to shoot on and on, on and on, subsiding only when he withdrew his mouth from me. "Thank you, thank you," he whispered. Then he kissed me, solemnly. And then I slept