Epilogue
This was the best orgy I ever went to.
I stood in the corner most of the time. Edging between minding my own business while people got down to theirs, and minding their naked writhing bodies. What I look like standing there is of supreme importance to me. I’ve thought of getting an old-school beige trenchcoat, like one of those dirty old men wear to the park, but it would look out of sorts, not to mention be highly uncomfortable in the heat and humidity. The payoff wouldn’t be worth it. The point isn’t to feel physically uncomfortable. It would be a distraction.
I stood there carefully titrating the path of pleasure for me. It’s difficult to work my way into, because there is a real risk of ruining everyone’s fun, or at the very least taking something away from it.
I usually begin such an evening by getting into conversation with someone. There’s always someone feeling out of place, working up their courage to participate. I speak to them in reassuring tones, complimenting them and tracking their attention to get a picture of who they truly desire, then tell them flattering white lies about how I noticed the object of their desire checking them out. I tell them what I know about this object, guiding their minds to subjectify them. We’re all just humans here I try to remind them, looking for a human connection. After thus doing my duty, I retreat into the corner and the orgy can begin for me.
The path for me opens right where the orgy participants start really getting carried away by their instincts. Where they are so into the people they are rubbing against that they just barely register my presence. If they were to look up, really look up and not just have some vague awareness of the white man standing in the corner, there would probably be consequences. It’s a sad fact that creepers are everywhere, old dirty men who missed the bus to fulfill their own desires before it was too late and now have worked themselves into the sad space where reading Vladimir Nabokov becomes arousing rather than heartbreaking. At the same time, it’s tricky as fuck because asking the whole room for consent to do what I do will call undue attention to myself, which will ruin the whole thing for me. The television helps, and I always place myself in the diagonal corner to it.
I stand there feeling the rise of self-consciousness. What sort of person does that, stands in the corner while others are fulfilling their carnal desires? What sort of creeper am I to do such a thing?
These are the unanswerable questions I stand there with, having a conversation with my feeling of self-consciousness. I don’t stand in the corner out of any vampiric drive to gain pleasure from disrupting the pleasure of others or making them uncomfortable. Nor do I do it because I don’t know what else to do… Well maybe that’s not true. But it’s definitely true that I do it out of choice. I do it because I’ve been dealt a strange particular hand to play this game of hedonistic excess that we call sexuality.
That hand may have been dealt to me by watching my 4th grade teacher, Miss Haze, standing in a tight skirt and leggings, teaching existentialist philosophy, Sartre and Kafka to boys who were much too young to handle such things, installing very adult ideas about the nature of reality into my developing brain right as the first sexual hormones began to pump through me. She was such a good teacher though. I had hung on her every word, transfixed. For a distractable boy like me, that was true love’s first kiss.
My kink is self-consciousness, existentialist quandries, and alienation. Without these, there is no pleasure for me to be had.
And these people let me have it. It’s a rare flower to find.
5/5 would be the creeper in the corner again.
