Do You Lie Parties?

I don't know exactly why, but I invited Cyril to come along to the party. Just to add more randomness, I guess, and maybe to have a bodyguard?

He was the newest guy in the group house. He fit our basic profile of stably-employed weirdo, but a bit more on the spectrum than the rest of us... more materially successful and less socially normal. And in our little world with a lot of tech guys, he stood out as a

tech guy

: undisclosed amounts of crypto money, a patchwork of coding and sysadmin jobs that rarely required him to be anywhere in particular, and a hard-core gaming set-up that occupied a full third of his room, with multiple game consoles, a special chair with cupholders and fans, three monitors, a VR headset, and what appeared to be an artisanal PC with freon cooling. I assume that work and gaming are cover stories, and it's really a masturbation corner... one of those things everyone understands but no one says.

Heavy bone structure, tall, lean almost to the point of stringiness. Cro-magnon brow ridge. Large hands. In a world of uncertainty, he has the morphology that reliably suggests a really big penis. But, even when you think you know, you never know.

Anyhow, some exercise would make him quite the bodily presence. And some sunshine. But he's objectively attractive as is, if you don't miss him under his asperger's invisibility cloak. He still has the brown ponytail of nerdy pot-head youth, a bit too thin on top to go on like that much longer. He probably has to make a decision there... likewise the beard. If it's still scraggly at 28 or whatever he is, it's not ever going to be full lumberjack, but could be a respectable goatee. Or just shave. Anyway, like I say, he has a good jawline under the shrubbery.

Why am I going on about him? Sure, part of my reasoning was that if I take him to this party, maybe I get to see his dick. But in the end, he's not the main character here; I am. Cyril's distinguishing feature at this point is that he was new, obviously attracted, but didn't really know me yet.

Me, I'm MC, which stands for Marie-Constance, which was my grandmother's name. My dad's mom, who was French. I'm kind of short, which I blame on that side of the family. I'm maybe more

cute

than classic beauty, which also comes from MC the elder, since I don't really look like my Scandinavian mother. But I dare say I'm moderately hot. I've been described as

feral

, which I attribute to my bangs, my one proud untamed unibrow, and moderately-gauged lobes. I dye my hair an absolute and unnatural black, and the bangs are short enough to be creepy. It's a look I call

mortician's apprentice

. I know, yes, it's a style that I too may be aging out of, but I don't have another direction yet. And once I make it to my forties I think it'll be okay again, maybe with some clunky jewelry and pale foundation. For now I compensate with an everyday ensemble that's more approachable, basically jeans and t-shirts, low-rise all-stars, little or no makeup.

The thing that new-guy Cyril doesn't know and that everyone else in the house knows, is that I am a giant whore. There are eight of us in the house, five dudes, and all of them know they can pretty much just come into my room and do whatever they want. Now that I'm thinking about it, in the two years I've been there, I've literally never stopped any of them from whatever it is they came for. Partly because they don't sneak into my room so often, and because they don't want anything interesting enough to be a problem.

It's conventional wisdom--and true--that men don't choose sluts for girlfriends. But they also don't seem so down to fuck them either. At least, not the sluts they know personally. John is the housemate in a couple, shares the largest room with moo-cow Helen and, surprise surprise, he's the one who sneaks in the most--when she's out--for some safe vanilla sex, since he's terrified of STDs and being caught generally. I half expect him to put on rubber gloves and a covid mask sometimes.

Eduardo uses AI to generate celebrity-gossip content for, I guess, every clickbait site in the universe, and is generally in some stormy relationship or other. His current

du jour

is Ellie. But his MO with me is to come home drunk, bang into my place without knocking, fuck my ass with nothing more than spit unless I get some lube down there quick. I come once or twice, and then he does too, at which point he either gets strangely chatty, but more often just stumbles out again. It's kind of great, but just so rare, like every six weeks?

The others... well, I've had sex with all of them, but the point is that it's all somehow a secret. Each one thinks he's the only one, or that no one else knows, or really I guess they just try not to think about it at all. The situation is stupid but not without its charms: I get to watch John jitter for days after every visit, in chronic freak-out about being busted, based on nothing but his bad conscience. Or I start a staring contest with Eduardo when he complains about how infrequent and uncreative sex is with Ellie, just to see how uncomfortable he gets. I get my entertainment where I can, but it's also hard to really respect these guys.

But I need to skip some background or I get distracted. More to the point: The party. I got an invitation from an internet guy I hooked up with two or three times, like a year ago. Josh. Shady as fuck but super smooth and charming also, if you know the type. Totally unwilling to talk about his life, especially work. He managed to transmit that, in his world, having only one small facial tattoo counts as being kinda chill. I mean, he has full sleeves, blacked out neck, and somebody's name on his dick. But only one tattoo on his face, so: regular dude, job-interview-ready!

He said some friends of his were having a party, and that basically I was the kind of girl most welcome to show up. And that it would be the kind of party that I always wished I would get invited to but never do. He didn't explain what he meant, but I felt seen.

He explained that it was an edgy scene in a way I would like, but that there was a small but also real chance that someone would roofie my drink. So I should be careful, because, as he put it, it would be a shame if I were to, "sleep through the whole thing."

So the party was out in the suburbs in a bland development of low-rise apartment buildings. We arrived at about eleven, and the parking-lot islands all had leafless trees under halogen street-lights. They made it look like winter, which it wasn't. The trees were just dead. Neglect, I guess, or the wrong kind of tree. Trees that sounded like a good idea at some planning stage but then there's the reality of the property manager and some absentee corporate owner. Anyway, it created an eerie atmosphere, but hey nothing wrong with

eerie

.

So we walked across the parking lot, me aware that the place was a bit lowbrow for Cyril's Tesla, but too nice for a super-sketchy house party. But the actual people that lived there were apparently out of town... did they even know? Again, in some peoples' world, this would be a bad sign. Or even in mine, in another context. But for now:

Hmmm... interesting

. We could hear the beat from outside, so there was no doubt we had the right building.

It was a family-sized ground-floor flat, crowded, already underway. The music was louder inside--a lot louder--but didn't really change. From the car it was a dull DJ thump in the distance. There in the place, it was still a dull thump, but one I could feel behind my eyeballs and my solar plexus. It was totally smokey, reefer and cigarettes, and enough stale beer in the air to suggest they'd already gotten sloppy a while ago. The tenants had trusted someone with their keys... someone that they didn't know all that well, and wouldn't trust again. Live and learn.

I thought I recognized some people, but wasn't sure. Maybe this wasn't total criminal territory, but somewhere on that bleeding edge where the art-scene mixes socially with its heroin suppliers. Yes, a lot of tattoos. Yes, also facial tattoos. But also, I think, at least one gallery owner? Anyway, Cyril didn't stand out. He looks like his mom dresses him, but somehow he can pass for someone whose personal fashion-style is "mom dresses me." Something like

nerdcore

, but more adult and expensive. He could pass for a professor of print-making from a minor liberal arts college. And he seemed comfortable. But of course, around people he's generally uncomfortable and hiding it. He's got mild autism and will-power, faking it though barbecues with kids and apple juice in the park, and faking it through vandal raves where the chance of somebody overdosing at any moment was real... I was giving it even odds.

"When was the last time you were at a party where you didn't know anybody?" I asked.

"I am not such a party-person. But it's been a while."

"Nice, though, right? Not the same faces all the time."

"I think I recognize some guys, but I'm not sure where..."

During Cyril's pause, two things: For a moment I thought that the party was all dudes, but then I realized that basically all the women were sitting, and all the men were standing. Is it always like that, and I just never noticed? And just then two guys approached. One was Josh, who nodded a greeting, while the other introduced himself as Rob, and asked if he could get us drinks. I went for whisky-coke, to which Cyril said "sure," and Josh added, "Yeah I'll take one of those."

Ron squeezed away into the crowd, and I made the introductions. Josh said, "Great that you made it. Can I offer you the tour?"

"Tour?"

"Yeah," he said. "Like, this is the living room." He gestured around.

"Ah, oh, is it?"

"Yes. Across that counter with all the processed food and alcohol is the kitchen. That door is the bathroom. Those two are the two bedrooms, the one on the right has another bathroom. People will be having sex in the bedrooms. And really, don't go in there unless you are down for sex of some kind, and don't expect to have the place to yourself."

I shot a glance at Cyril to read his reaction. None visible. "So I can't just go in to watch?" I asked.

"Sure you can. Watching people have sex is sex," Josh answered without missing a beat. Cyril just barely nodded. Maybe his eyebrows were up a notch by this point? It might have been the angle, since we were packed in there a bit and I had to look up to see his face.

The drinks came, in an assortment of coffee mugs. Rob distributed them, said something flirty but totally not interesting, and left. Josh screwed up his face in thought for a second, and then switched mugs with me. He said,

"Ah, important note: The cops around here are stretched pretty thin, and don't care that much. If they show up--and frankly, they will--if you bail through any of those windows, you'll be golden. Or just walk out the front door. I guess by the third noise complaint, they'll just break it up. I assume you don't have any open warrants, but if you decide you don't want to find out..."

When I was fucking Josh last year, by the way, I also had a boyfriend. I'll skip the name. Too many names in play already, sorry. Let's call him BF. Anyhow: Nice guy, not inherently boring or anything. But the sex was always, like, "Let's do sex." "Okay." "Can we do this?" "Okay," or, "No, how about this?" "Okay, let's do that. Here on the sofa, or the bed?" And it was fine. It really wasn't his fault. I don't have any advice for him. It was all the way it should be. And I liked having a boyfriend. I want a partner, a family, all that stuff. And the sex was good. Fine.

The thing is: All my daydreams were about something else. But then he came to visit once, unannounced and later than normal. He rang the doorbell just as my housemate Eduardo, slightly-drunk, was shooting spunk up my ass as usual, and I was orgasming too. I might not have left my bed, really, but I had a text message from the boyfriend saying "I'm at the door." Eduardo scampered off, and I got up and let BF in, in my bathrobe.

Back in my room, he didn't notice the smell of the place, or the fact that my butthole was burning and slippery. Or, I should say, I guess on some level he knew, but didn't let himself admit to himself that he... oh, I don't know. People are complicated. The point is, I clawed his jeans off him and his erection was already hard enough to hammer nails. He fucked me in a kind of frenzy and everybody came like high voltage discharge, and I was laying there with Eduardo's load up my ass and this fresh one in my pussy thinking, "This is the best night of my life," which was an exaggeration, but it was the best evening in a couple months at least. And nothing that interesting had happened since then. In the meantime, BF became ex-BF, but, you know how it is with modern love: "We're still friends."

I said to Cyril, "I want to go see what's happening in the sex room." It was quick, yes, but now that I knew that these rooms were somehow officially for fucking... well, I wasn't going to be able to make small talk about motorcycles or art installations or bitcoin or whatever these scary hipsters were into. I was already fuckably turned on, warmed-up and slippery, which I could feel as I started to make my way through the crowd.

"Wow," said Cyril, which I guess for him counts as an outburst of pranic life energy. He stayed behind me, but close. I mustered some boldness and opened the door to the room that supposedly had the extra toilet.

It was empty. The bed was made, and had some coats on it. I noticed that there were actual paintings on the wall. I can't say I loved them, but also not horrible. Contemporary, obvious Rothko influence, some collage elements. But the point is: Not posters, not mass-produced prints. Someone chose them because they liked them, or knew the artist. The room was otherwise such an utterly ordinary rental. Beige shag. White walls. Sliding glass doors, I guess to a deck or something, invisible behind vertical blinds. But big, and the bed was king-sized.

I had been at this party maybe 20 minutes but was already exasperated and judgmental. I sat on the edge of the bed, on somebody's irritatingly lumpy trenchcoat, and put my mug on the little table with the lamp and the alarm clock. I sighed theatrically and slumped my shoulders. With the door closed, it was like another universe--a bland, stupid, cheap, prude universe made of drywall on metal studs--and the party was far away, just a bassline that could have been from a passing car. At least the air was clear; nobody had been smoking in here yet.

Cyril was looking at one of the paintings. I moved to sitting on a corner of the bed, where I could grab him by the belt buckle and pull him towards me. "Wow," he said, just as someone came out of the bathroom: a curvy, studio-tan woman packed into a red, too-small party dress and a lot, really a lot of tattoos. "Ooh," she said, and showed her solidarity and discretion by demonstratively tip-toeing to the door. In a decade, she'll be a cartoon of a blown-out leathery biker-mama, but for now she can pull it off.

Anyway, I said to Cyril, "I guess it's up to us to start." Which I meant quite literally, in the sense that I didn't really

want

to initiate, but I thought I needed to invest. If I started publicly blowing Cyril, it would inspire other dudes to be more... entrepreneurial? I guess

daring

would be the more normal word. Anyway, I was right.

He let me get his dick out, and his unreadability was dorky, but somehow I liked him for it. He was smiling, and it was a timid smile. A truthful, timid smile. This was what he could manage. This was his real weirdness.

But the thing is, with your posture or your face, you can fake being at ease. Or at least, some people can. With a penis you can't really fake anything. It was not a hard penis. Not totally shriveled, but quite soft. Still, it was a mouthful of warm, intimate flesh. It smelled like dick and the shower-gel from our group house. And I was feeling a bit better.

It was starting to grow, but only a little. Filling out, rather than standing up. Clearly a good one, but it's so hard to tell how much bigger they can get. I could feel the head taking shape in my mouth, the shaft getting firmer--is that a word?--anyway, more firm, and too long to just hold in my mouth. I needed to move it in and out of my mouth, more like blowjob-style.

There was some movement by the door, so I sat back for a moment. I also saw Cyril's cock hanging there, with a long way to go, but already definitely well past the size of a normal guy's erection. So, great things to come.

There were four people I could see by the door. Hanging back were the lady in red and (I am guessing here) her date, not in a hurry to get closer, maybe just there for the show. And two dudes whose eyes said,

Fuck maybe something's finally happening

. One was taking small careful steps towards me, not so much polite or checking for consent, but more like the way you'd approach an unexploded bomb or an ornery goat or something. I was an object to him: An object of fascination, and some anxiety. So far so good.

I smiled at the other one, who needed more encouragement. At first I thought it was Rob, but it was just another disheveled guy with curly hair, in jeans and a blue T-shirt. Which was--just to add a little kismet--also what I was wearing. Mine had a peeling, faded anime decal; this guy's had a logo of fast fashion, whose name and trademark I forget but let's say Pull and Bear. Rob's was similar, I guess, but don't remember. No, wait. Rob's was

Yamaha Racing Team

.

Anyway, the encouragement worked. Pull and Bear strided up as if pushed, and unzipped. No underpants. Not great hygiene, but if you're going to take dicks in your face, the funk goes with the territory. It can have its charms, if you embrace the grossness.

This wasn't the very first time I had multiple cocks in front of me, but it's still a special event, and easy to feel self-conscious. And both of them floppy... all the movement had set Cyril back to his starting point. I went back and forth between two flaccid wieners, a bit concerned, wondering how this was all going to evolve.

Meanwhile, the careful bomb-squad dude had arrived and dropped directly to his knees. He started grabbing at my all-stars, and unlacing them.

Jesus H. Christ

, I thought.

One of those

. I mean, I don't mind, but people are so weird, and I was just thinking how this could all fizzle and go sideways and awkward. He was getting to my socks when Pull and Bear started groping at my tits, bending sideways so as not to get his cock out of my cock-sucking range. Squeezing them for me? For himself? I don't know how men get to their thirties without having any clue how to touch another body.

But at the same time, my nervous system was so hyped up, that it got me. I was disappointed at myself, because I wanted to be superior and judge them. But some man-child stranger was squishing my tits in a way that made it clear he was a bit stupid, while someone else I couldn't really get a look at was rubbing the soles of my foot on his mouth, and all these sensations ran right through me to my electrified cunt, which expanded and radiated sudden heat and juiciness, to where I'm likely to soak through my jeans.

Anyway, this is where I take back my insults and say,

bless the perverts who go for what they want

. Because foot-guy stood up, with his pants around his knees, and offered me a fantastic ten-out-of-ten erection, a hard little curved nutcracker of a cock. And I was so happy to feel its hardness in my mouth, the sharp edge of the head, its heat, the firmness of the veins.

I realized I would have to keep things moving forward, so I started undoing my jeans. I didn't really think I would have to undress myself: It was again more an act of communication, meaning,

for god's sake someone pull my pants off and fuck me

.