Is there anything as heartwarming as a loving orgy?
Multitudes of friends or intimate strangers, touching and loving and kissing and biting and thrusting and… well, you get the picture. A panorama of unqualified love and acceptance, a vista of exploration and discovery.
But, while I approve in the abstract, and I have nothing but admiration for those souls who enjoy broadening their horizons in this manner, I doubt seriously you’ll see me in the punchbowl line at the next All-County gathering. Why? A number of reasons, really, and I’ll list them now.
• Never enough places to rest a drink.
• That awkward moment at the beginning, when no one’s quite sure how to start and the guys start making mumbled references to strip poker.
• I’d always want to be on the bottom so I can see what’s coming at me. I mean, jeez.
• My embarrassing habit of vomiting at climax.
• A crippling fear of running out of bean dip.
• You know how, whenever you go to an orgy, there’s always some guy with the hanging paunch and spindly legs, and you turn the corner and see him crouching over some poor woman, and all you can see is gray, hairy skin and swinging things and you wish you had never gazed upon such a horrifying, mood-killing sight? I’d totally be that guy.
• I’d be afraid that the group would begin assembling some strange geometrical shape, and my math skills aren’t the best.
• I’m pretty sure I could only completely satisfy 8, maybe 9 women in an evening, and I’d hate to slight anybody.
• The awkward moment in the middle, when you’re in between goes and everyone else is still going, and you start wondering what’s on tv.
• My fondness for screaming my orgasmic cries in an Elmer Fudd voice.
• Seduction lines don’t work when everyone in the room already heard you the first time.
• My secret fetish of sneaking up behind copulating people and screaming AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!
• Did you know that when fluids from different people pool together, they makes weird little designs that keep endlessly mixing and swirling, like oil on water? I get distracted easily.
• Indecision, combined with the sure knowledge that few women wish to be chosen for erotic bliss via “eeny meeny miny moe”.
• The uncontrollable urge I would feel to mix all the clothes up and then yell, “Run! The cops!”
• The suspicion that if someone came up behind me and smacked me sharply and playfully on the buttocks with a leather paddle, I would turn and deck the bastard. You have no idea how embarrassing that is, or how legally expensive.
• The indescribable feeling you get when you suddenly realize that the women with the amazing tattoo that you’ve just bent over a coffee table is your child’s second grade teacher.
• I just know I would want to get everyone going in a spontaneous and synchronized rhythm to a snappy beat, like in Holly wood musicals.
• The way I feel after I’m sent out for more drinks and pizza, for the fifth time.
• I can’t get everyone to shut up during “The Simpsons.”
• Never enough towels.
• The ordeal of trying to find a bathroom that you can actually use as a bathroom. Alone. Off-camera.
• The fear of getting voted out of the room.
• If I really please my boss’s wife, will he be happy? Or pissed?
• I don’t think I would fully trust any food I didn’t watch prepared, especially sauces, dip or any vegetables that are longer than they are wide.
• The obsessive need to know where all the pets in the house are at any given time. Don’t like surprises.
• Pool filters won’t handle as much as you’d think.
• My weakness for practical jokes. “That guy over there? Loves Mountain Dew enemas, sudden ones. No, really, take this and…”
• The awkward feeling at the end when everyone’s done and gone except for one couple who are apparently out to break some heroic record and they’re too far gone to hear your subtle nudging.
• The stuff that comes up in the vacuum the next morning.