Menage of Coincidence

There's something a little Zen to the game of sex. The sound of one hand clapping? How about the fact that you never meet a hot woman when you're trying? I don't believe in pheromones, generally, but it's obvious women can smell desperation on a man. From a long way off.

So it was with no plan in mind whatsoever that I went to a party at my best friend's flat. I had just broken up with my live-in girlfriend and I was still pretty glum about it. I was looking forward to the party, though, and partially to take my mind off the break up. But I was eager, too, because the party was being thrown by my friend's flat mate, an occasional standup comic who hung around the fringes of the entertainment industry. It was very likely no one attending would know anything about my personal misfortunes and I was damn glad not to have to talk about it.

I got there early to help out. My friend's room needed some serious cleaning, but we had to settle for bulldozing everything into his, "closet," which through some oddity of the building's Victorian past, and decades of subdividing by various landlords, was almost the same size as his room. By the time we had his room looking respectable, the closet was about half full. The last step was to strip his futon and throw all his bedding on top of the waist-high pile of debris.

The period before a party is really underway, when you sit around wondering if anyone will come after all, was agonizingly long. This is the time when the guacamole starts turning brown and you wonder if you shouldn't just eat it yourself. But then the doorbell starts ringing and, finally, things start moving.

People began pouring into the flat and spilling out onto the back porch and up on the roof. The year before, we'd commandeered the roof and laid out astro turf, a plastic wading pool, a couple umbrellas, plastic jockey, lawn chairs: everything the urban pretend-resort would need.

I mingled. Parties stocked with comedians are generally pretty loud. Everyone is trying out new material but no one wants to play the role of audience, so there's not a lot of dialogue. Getting in a word here or there is mostly pointless, and I was too quickly fed up. I left a maelstrom in the kitchen and squeezed down the hallway to queue up for the bathroom. The guy just in front of me was proud to have just scored a development deal from a network and desperate to ensure everyone else who had to piss knew it. I was envious, of course. "Development deal," is sort of like free money. The network writes you a few checks in return for you doing some writing. Since the likelihood of you writing anything they'll actually use is pretty small, it doesn't really matter what you produce. Voila: free money.

As I stood there, a captive audience wondering if I couldn't just go up to the roof and piss off the side (it wouldn't have been the first time), a really attractive woman joined the line. The crowded hallway meant we had to stand shoulder to shoulder, which made looking at her awkward. Like strangers in an elevator, sometimes being packed in closer only makes you more isolated.

A virtual conga line of partiers pushed through the crowd on some unknown errand. Turning to allow them by, I somehow ended up almost nose-to-nose with the new bladder hostage. And yes, she was definitely pretty. Embarrassed, I quickly bulled my way back to my more polite spot against the wall. Her face, though, was still fresh in my mind and it was very familiar. In another moment, I had it. Standing next to me was none other than Lori Wilks, adult education classmate and would've-been lover from at least six years prior. We took a Spanish lit class together and, being a little young and idealistic, I fell head over heels for abstract impressionist poetry and Lori all in the same semester.

We'd gone out a few times, but it just wasn't going to happen. I still had the idea I would be a famous rock star while Lori was diligently amassing academic credits in order to earn a teaching credential. I was living in fantasy, and she, firmly, in reality. Had we actually hooked up, I knew exactly how it would've ended – like they all did back then. I'd fall hopelessly in love in the first fifteen minutes, we'd have an intense and consuming relationship for between two and eight weeks, then break up in a fiery nova.

In the ensuing years, I grew up some. I was able to maintain more or less stable relationships, but they all lacked the immediacy of the earlier ones. Like a state-sponsored addict, I'd transitioned from powerful and destructive heroin to the more balanced, and vastly less intense, methadone. Seeing Lori in the same hallway brought back a flood of intoxicating sense memory so, characteristically without thinking, I turned to her, looked her deeply in the eye, and blurted out:

"Yo pronuncio tu nombre, en esta noche oscura, y tu nombre me suena más lejano que nunca."

Had I planned a little better, or perhaps at all, I might've been a little less obscure; less weird. But seeing Lori was shocking and I'd instantly reverted to my former, tortured-artist sensibilities. Naturally, I hadn't bothered to imagine how my confession – even if stolen from a real artist – would be received.

So of course I was surprised when she just stood there blinking her gorgeous brown eyes at me for what seemed like forever. Pissing off the roof was starting to sound like the smart money.

Gratefully, it seemed to click for her and she said, "Mike? Hey! I didn't recognize you without the hair." Along with my cool, I'd apparently forgotten that, when last I'd seen Lori, I was sporting ridiculous sideburns and hair that fell well past my shoulders. But awkwardly or not, ice had been broken.

Like the old friends we almost were, we recapped the intervening years and in a clumsy parody of actual gallantry, I let her pee first. I was frankly surprised that she was still there when I finished my turn in the bathroom. I guess I expected her to bolt at the first chance.

Trying to regain what passed for my cool, I very carefully masked my enthusiasm. I made sure I never spoke more than a few sentences at a time and was deliberate about not monopolizing our conversation. It wasn't hard, really, because, when she spoke, Lori tended to become enticingly animated. Her eyes sparkled and her fine hands moved around almost autonomously.

Eventually, we retired to my friend's bedroom where there were only a handful of partygoers and it was much easier to chat than in the more crowded spots. And yeah, we continued drinking my friend's secret stash of very good red wine he'd foolishly tried to hide in his closet.

It was in the bedroom that I felt my evening slip away from me. I was spotted by Julie – maybe the one other person at the party I knew. We'd been friends for years, but only because I'd failed miserably to bed her and ended up a, "good friend," as penance for my failings as a pickup artist. I'd had to play the sympathetic ear for every breakup – male and female – or bad relationship she'd been in since. She was about the last person I wanted to see just then.

Irrepressible to the last, she plopped down on my friend's bed next to Lori and started chatting breathlessly to her as though they were merely picking up on a conversation only just interrupted. As I sat there suddenly upstaged, a few things were apparent to me. First, Julie and Lori were friends. That much was obvious. Second, having one woman around who definitely didn't want to sleep with me couldn't help my cause with the other. And, finally, the irony of sitting on a bed next to two women who'd each rejected me previously, really was kind of funny.

And, in a way, it released me from the self-induced pressure I'd been feeling to hook up with Lori and I actually began to enjoy myself a little. Whereas I'd previously been entirely focused on being the consummate conversationalist, I instead threw in the towel and let loose. It was a party, after all, and I had two hot chicks to talk to and to drink with, and that couldn't be bad even if it wasn't going to end up in any nekkid craziness.

I don't know how much later into the evening it was that Julie excused herself to go to the bathroom. I had been pouring my friend's wine pretty generously, though, and having a good time. The minute Julie left, though, Lori yanked me close by my shirt and, nose-to-nose, whispered, "we've got to lose her. Are you with me?"

Of course the first thing that came to mind was, "until the ends of time," but that was neither very cool nor very literally true. But ditching Julie sounded like a perfect idea, and I knew just how to pull it off. I replied, "let's go," and took her hand. It was the first time I'd touched her skin and it was electric.

I led her through the still-crowded hallway and through the even more densely-packed kitchen. We went out the back door and up the rickety stairs to the roof. Outside, it was cool and almost quiet. We were above the direct light from the street and it was as dark as a city rooftop gets on a summer night. As my eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, I could see there were a few people up here, but no one was talking much. Evidently, the rooftop had been co-opted as a designated make out spot.

That wasn't exactly the message I was trying to send, but it was, at least, honest. I saw that the chaise we'd dragged up the previous summer was unoccupied and as it was under one of the big umbrellas and therefore even darker, sat down on it. She seemed not to hesitate in the least as she took a seat comfortably close to me on the chaise.

We said nothing for a moment until her head started leaning in towards mine and I knew I would kiss her. As my lips first brushed against hers, I remembered only too well how insanely hung up on Lori I had been. When finally our lips met properly, we kissed each other perhaps a little tentatively. I pulled a little back and brushed my lips intimately down her chin and made a languorous journey to the whiteness of her neck.

With kisses small and large, I covered the entirety of her neck, from the sensitive back with its super-fine hairs standing at attention over a field of white gooseflesh, to her warm throat. We kissed some more and I felt her tongue for the first time. Small and agile, I took it in my mouth where it found my own.

If it's true that you can't go wind a clock backwards, here was the next-best thing. Making out with Lori after so many years at a flat party had reawakened much of my old romantic self.

True to cliché, eventually our hands began to explore. As they have throughout time, our hands sought out increasingly intimate places on each others' bodies. Lori's hands were particularly bold and I was glad to surrender the lead to her. Her touch was intuitive and somehow had me feeling as though I'd sprouted new erogenous zones. When she slipped her hand along my ab obliques, and just past the waist of my pants, I had to remember to breathe.

For my part, my exploration had turned up some interesting finds. Most obviously, and somehow unexpectedly, was the corset. Being a child of the 1960's and not the 1860's, I was in a little over my head. Here was a safe I felt fairly sure I could not crack. I was proud of my one handed bra skills, but couldn't imagine where to begin with such a device. Who wore corsets anymore?

Yet, perhaps because of the corset, her breasts were pushed high on her chest and their creamy tops excited me as I fumbled with the buttons of her simple white blouse. Precisely as in blitzkrieg, when faced with an unassailable defense, I diverted around it. Like high schoolers up late on a school night, we were all hands. As we kissed and groped, we each became ever more daring; slipping hands in wherever the limitations of being clothed would permit.

Without ever trespassing past her panties, I knew (whether she'd consciously decided one way or the other) that her body, at least, wanted mine. And my ardor was hardly covert after all the touching and groping proved. My modesty decided for me that a change in venue was due.

"Let's go inside," I urged and helped her up. We held each other a little more before returning down the back stairs to the kitchen. The party was definitely winding down, but was hardly over. At least we could easily make our way back to my friend's room. I was relieved he wasn't there, but the room was nearly dark anyway. I opted for the extra privacy of the closet, which was completely dark.

Opening the door, I pulled Lori in and we resumed our standing embrace. Safely alone, the pace of our explorations quickened and we were soon shucking off clothes until I was entirely naked and she had to pause to finesse herself out of the corset. And I was never more glad than when that anachronism hit the floor.

Free of the, what? whalebone? straightjacket, my hands held even wider reign. Finally, I could run my greedy hands along the delightful flatness of her belly and onwards to her delicious breasts. Unsatisfied by my hands, I slid my mouth, wet with shared kisses past her throat, down her décolletage and under her breasts, then slowly and deliberately back up again until I found her nipple. And, for the first time, she moaned just slightly.

I sat back onto the pile of laundry-covered debris in the closet and pulled her onto my lap. We were insane for each other and frantically kissed, licked, and touched each newly-discovered part of the other. She was bold, which I loved, and unashamedly laid claim to my erection. She held it firmly at the base and pulled outwards toward the swollen head with her other hand.

For my part, I had more slowly found her pussy and it seemed every bit as achy and in need of release as I was. We had been making out for some hours and had built up what was an undoubtedly unhealthy degree of sexual tension.

As I was working out the logistics of just how to enter her, perched as we were on my friend's duvet which was itself thrown carelessly on top of a pile of books, boxes, old records and laundry, I heard footsteps in the bedroom. To my complete horror, the closet door opened.

Worse, it was Julie.

A number of things entered my mind right then. Firstly, in the dim light coming from the open door, I could fully see the completely naked woman on my lap. And god, she was beautiful. Like, artistically beautiful. As in, faces-that-launch-fleets-of-ships and stuff beautiful. After having spent the years since we'd met in class not thinking about her, or, perhaps, when I did, leaving out the details of why I'd been attracted to her in the first place, being punched in the face with the magnitude of her appeal was overwhelming.

On the other hand, being very rudely interrupted during what should've been the highlight of my sexual life by an interloper whom, I suddenly realized, was probably as infatuated with Lori as I was, absolutely sucked out loud.

My realizations and speculations all stopped, however, when Julie stepped forward into the darkness and closed the door behind her without a word.

Not knowing what else to do, I resumed my exhilarating exploration of Lori's sex. She hadn't moved when Julie barged in uninvited and I resolved to at least try to ignore the interruption. Lori's renewed grip on my cock reassured me that, at least for the moment, we were still on our way.

But when I went to kiss Lori's neck, my cheekbone bumped into the back of Julie's head. The women were kissing and the moans which had begun when I first sucked at Lori's breast were renewed. Of course, it was incredibly strange for me. I wasn't so swept up in the sheer eroticism of the moment that I didn't pause to wonder if this was how these things really happened. If, instead of my previous, clumsy attempts to orchestrate such an encounter, that one instead just fell into them.

There was another hand next to mine; other fingers plying Lori's wet and irresistible pussy. I withdrew my hand slightly and instead placed it supportively to one side, gently holding open the gate. Julie's pace was much faster than mine; more urgent. She wasted little time in preliminaries and instead seemed to pounce immediately on Lori's tortured clitoris where she provided for it that which, judging by the panting moans coming from Lori, it craved.

I held onto Lori as Julie had at her. It seemed to me that I was the only one who thought any of this the least bit strange. I could feel Julie moving from Lori's mouth to her delicious breasts. Having only just been there myself, I envied her that first lick. Lori's breasts were full and round and somehow neither remotely too large nor too small. They were, like the rest of her body, simply ideal.

Animal instinct soon wiped my thoughts of any more introspection. I had earlier meant to enter Lori's waiting snatch and my dick impatiently reminded me. Despite Julie's greedy hands, I moved slightly for a better angle and set my cockhead against Lori's wetness. Moving still more, I teased at her swollen lips while Julie, unrelenting, massaged her clit.

With no additional warning I fed the head of my cock just inside Lori. I almost expected that escalation to break the spell; to cause everyone to realize how strange all of this was and how nice people just didn't all cram, naked, into a closet for unbridled sexual gratification.

But I could detect no such change in mood. If anything, entering Lori only turned up the collective heat. As she rocked her hips to accept all of me, I obliged and arched firmly upwards and buried myself. I wanted to freeze that moment in my memory – to forever be as deeply inside Lori as I was just then. But I was far from in charge and Lori raised herself up just to come forcefully down on my cock. On her own cadence, Lori impaled herself on me again and again while Julie kept her clitoris in constant motion.

As delicious as I thought our coitus was, it went up a notch. Julie had finally tired of touch and had proceeded to the sense of taste. She had worked her lips down to Lori's clitoris and again had no mercy. I could feel her there, but she seemed to take no interest in my anatomy. I could only just feel the incidental, misplaced tongue-lash on my shaft as Lori and I went at it. And yet, that was plenty.

In a movie, I'd have withdrawn from Lori and allowed Julie to engulf me with her mouth. But that wasn't how this was playing. Even as I enjoyed the fuck of my life, I could tell that, as far as Julie was concerned, I was merely a roadblock. Strangely, I didn't give a shit.

We copulated precisely there for a very long time with no one willing to risk changing a thing lest someone wise up and admit we were all on dangerous ground. "Hey – I have to move," said Lori, finally. With Julie standing behind her, she pressed me back onto the duvet cover and, with a little squirming, I found a comfortable-enough spot on my back. The closet-debris I was laying on was uneven and, in places, hard, but it was hardly a distraction.

Once situated, Lori came for me. Crawling up on the improvised platform with me, she straddled me tightly and lowered herself onto my eager cock. If I'd had any foresight at all, I'd have planned a little better. I'd have made sure there was enough light – a small candle, even – for me to drink in the view of Lori, entirely naked, sitting upright on my dick. The tiny amount of light coming in from under the door was suggestive at best, but my hands told me her body was something I should see with my eyes.

As we slowly made love, I could feel Julie climbing onto the duvet cover. Not knowing what she had in mind, nor really caring very much, I was very surprised to feel her inner thigh on my cheek as she sat uninvited on my face. I was absolutely sure, had Julie scripted this encounter, I'd have been specifically excluded. But Julie seemed willing to use me for her own sexual gratification as long as she was in some way making her own love to Lori, the real object of her affection.