"Go ahead," Skipper concurred, sipping her coco in her blanket's embrace. "I'm nice and cozy down here."
Goddamn it. The sting of defeat was one thing, but having to listen to it through the floorboards only added insult to injury. Jacques put Revolver on the turntable while I was changing his stinky, cum-stained sheets. Fucking great. Cucked to Eleanor Rigby. No way I'd get any sleep. I tried to jack off, but jack, Jack, Jacques! It was hopeless. I cracked that stale, room-temperature Miller Lite and sipped it bitterly, torturedly worrying and wondering what carnal vices this swarthy hulk of testosterone was unleashing upon the damsel of my fancy.
Fuck it. Why wonder when I can watch? If I don't get to fuck her, I can at least indulge a front row seat to her live action porno, right? I tiptoed down the hallway and peaked down from the dark stairwell like a kid at Christmas. Don't mind me. I'm Only Sleeping.
Sure enough, Skipper was topless. I hadn't realized how much that sports bra had been holding back. She was a whole cup-size bigger than I'd thought, a fertility goddess basking in the flickering hearth. God, those nipples were bigger than I'd imagined! Jacques took one of his chains off of his neck and clipped it around Skipper's. Instantly, it transformed from radiating masculine energy to feminine, complementing her mall-punk choker. I realized then that these gendered totems were merely conduits for the raw sexual energy humans project; that they put out whatever kind of energy we put into them, but it definitely comes from us.
Jacques's chest was a sight to behold as much as Skipper's, his muscles pumped full of sailor tattoos neath a jungle of curly brown foliage. Somehow, even his nipple rings were masculine. Straight, thick, silver barbells. Until then, I'd always thought nipple rings were dainty--but I didn't know Jacques.
Here was a true scholar of both sexuality and eastern esotericism. He had the Kama Sutra on his bookshelf, in between the Tibetan Book of the Dead on one side, and Foucault's L'Histoire de la sexualité on the other. Skipper laid the Kama Sutra open on the rug, playfully exploring it by firelight. "This one's my favorite! It's called the Bull."
"Olé!" Jacques confidently slipped off his trousers. He was hairy, big, already hard, and--NO FUCKING WAY! Was that another barbell, crucifying his twenty-centimeter uncut Canadian cock!? I'd never seen anything like it before. Even spying it from afar through the slats in the banister from my dark corner up the stairs, I couldn't help getting wood myself. I instinctively reached into my pants to indulge.
Jacques laid back into a nest of blankets on a shaggy rug down by the fireside as the opening raga of Love You To filled the room. His magnificent cock protruded mightily into the air, its barbell accenting it like a viking helmet. There could be no doubt as to whom was the bull.
Skipper disrobed, but was facing away from the stairs. I couldn't get a good look at her pussy, though it appeared to be clean-shaven. Still, I stroked it to her tramp stamp, which was more than enough. She initiated the proceedings with an intimate kiss, her tongue ring lingering in Jacques' mouth as it had in mine not long before. I was suddenly awash with jealousy. It killed my boner.
Next, Skipper straddled Jacques's head, grabbed it, and shoved it into her twat as hard as she could. The jackhammer motion rippled through her bosom, in sync with her purrs of pleasure. Jacques devoured her cunt until pussy juice cascaded down his chin.
"I'm ready!" Skipper declared. She dismounted Jacques's face and quickly re-positioned to suck his cock. Her tongue ring tantalizingly tangoed with his "frenum" piercing (I looked it up). It didn't need much sucking, though. He was rock hard in ten seconds, easy. That's when the main event started.
Skipper turned around to face away from Jacques. She mounted him reverse cowgirl style, then thrust forward and arched her back like the cobra pose from yoga. The inflection point of the concavity was right on her kundalini lotus, as if to intake the energy from Jacques's cock, load it into the lotus and blast it up Skipper's spine, into her head and beyond.
I started to understand the mystical experience to which she had earlier referred. This was nothing like the sex my roommate had been having in our dorm-room when he thought I was asleep. For both Jacques and Skipper, this was a transcendent experience! They were tapped into something beyond the material. I could feel it. Skipper was following the beacon straight to the top of the tower, out of the abyss and into the light.
Stroking myself, I realized I was relating more to Skipper's receptive experience than I was to Jacques's penetrative experience. It was like watching Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally... "I'll have what she's having." I wanted to have that kind of breakthrough, to be a conduit for energy to flow between earth and beyond. Is there something inherently feminine about that kind of orgasm? Is that kundalini? Or maybe just gay? It was all so confusing, I totally forgot I was spying on people having sex!
My stroking gave way to heavy breathing, and Jacques took notice. He stared daggers up the stairs at me, but didn't stop or tell Skipper. I took my queue to split and scurried back to the bedroom. God, that was so fucking hot! I leaped onto the mattress and humped it to completion. Sweet relief!
The session may not have lasted long, but the orgasm was something else. Maybe it was the B-side of Revolver playing through the floorboards, but I was suddenly overwhelmed by psychedelic energy. Lightning flashed outside, the storm seeming to climax with me. I felt Skipper and Jacques in my head too. Were we all tuned in to the same cosmic frequency? Were we somehow orgasming together? This orgasm came from a different place, down the back of my spine. What if Skipper was relaying all that energy through her lotus and into mine? No way. It's just a coincidence that I had a good orgasm while thinking about her. I do it every day. Nothing extraordinary, right? Tomorrow Never Knows.
