Palisades Pool Party

PALISADES POOL PARTY

Christie meets me at the door and life does not feel real. It's probably her perfume, or is that scent her conditioner? Her lotion?

But what really distorts reality is her smile. Her eyes wide and clear and blue. Her cheeks flushed, her mouth wide and upturned and inviting, showing me her teeth. Her teeth are nice, her smile real and toothy. The evolutionary part of my brain tells me she is showing me what a fine vixen she would be, what a good hunter and carnivore. I know that despite my rush of insecurity at her scent and her feminine perfection, the evolutionary part of my brain tells me she does this because of all the alpha qualities I have displayed throughout our dating, throughout our courtship. Her eyes match her smile. She feels sincere to me, and ethereal, like a dream.

Like I am experiencing this, but also at the same time watching it happen to me as if on a screen. This is real, but this is not real.

We're at her place, up some winding hill in Silver Lake, where all the amazing spiritual models are living that era.

She makes sounds of greeting that the evolutionary part of my brain tells me means she is happy and aroused and available and her smile makes me smile and then she's still standing in the same place in the middle of her open front door, not budging, not getting out of the way to let me in, and she's leaning slightly forward and then:

Christie is kissing me and I'm kissing her, slow and sweet on her lips.

She puts her hands on me, to hold me there, one hand on my arm, one hand on my face, to hold my lips to hers. Her lips are full and with my eyes closed, I can tell her eyes are closed.

The scent of her is so close and so layered and creating a sort of magnetic connection; my lips and hers are bound, polarities meeting.

When our lips part, my brain has partly melted.

"Shall we?" Christie says, already pulling her door closed and using her key to turn the lock on the front door to her house.

"Let's," I say, and then take in her outfit. Her sandals are strappy, soft leather; her sundress is cotton and flowered, tight enough on top to show she has no bra, and a hem that catches the summer breeze easily and shows that she is wearing a matching set: no bra and no panties.

"You look incredible," I tell her. "I love your outfit."

Christie smiles and says a modest "Thanks, mister."

I hold the passenger door of the top-down convertible open for her. She slides in demurely, thighs together, then gives me a sweet, quick flash of her open thighs just before I close the car door.

And another flash of her conspiratorial smile.

Her housekeys go into her wristlet purse, and that goes into the glove box of the sportscar, a silly toy that only feels worthwhile on adventures like this.

Driving the car down her block and to the freeway, my head feels drunk, but in the good way. Maybe it's her perfume. Maybe it's her conditioner. Maybe it's her magnetic field.

Psycho-spiritual Intoxication notwithstanding, it is a thirty minute drive to our destination.

Christie plays the radio and sings along to the Top 40. We say fun and funny things to each other. I've never felt like a better driver in my life.

"The Los Angeles Gods of Traffic have blessed this Quest," I say to Christine. "This is how long it was supposed to take to get out here using the freeway when they built the things."

"Of course we're blessed," Christine replies. "The gods always bless Sex Quests."

I laugh. "I think that was a rejected Showtime pilot."

It's one of those big houses in the Palisades, way up on the bluff where you can see and hear the Pacific. There's security at the gate and we can see other cars of other guests parked up the hill near the house's entry courtyard.

The sun is in the southwest and bright. Another perfect day with blue skies and no clouds and plenty of sun.

The guard is respectful, there's a recent drive-on pass from Paramount with my name and photo on it in the center console, and I show that to him instead of a driver's license. I can feel that his small guard shack has its own air-conditioning set icy cold. He presses the button for the gate and we drive through.

Cars fill much but not all of the courtyard. "I see everyone brought their party cars," I remark to Christie.

She punches me, lightly on the arm. "Yellow car, I win," Christie says. "You ever play that game?" A smile on her face.

"Sure," I say, and I notice the yellow Rolls SUV convertible, parked close to the house's front door that Christie saw first. Another tastefully uniformed security officer is manning that door, too; tastefully and unobtrusively out of the way.

We park, and Christie waits for me to open her door and help her out of the car. The gravel of the entry courtyard makes it easy to park elegant automobiles, but more difficult for a lady in fine leather sandals with the narrow, high heel so on trend that season. Someone so beautiful holding on to you for support, because she is wearing one-of-a-kind sandals personally given to her by the designer, and which she will later sell by secret auction online and thus pay for an entire year at the University of California, is one of the most invigorating feelings available in the modern world.

Fortunately, it's one that stays will you long after it's happened.

The closer to the door we get, the louder the beat sounds. "I love she loves house music," Christie says, as we walk to the door, which is a tall, double-door, one panel of which stands open.

The sound of our hostess is the cheerful sound of a thousand perfect champagne bubbles. Her sound approaches as we are approaching the outside guard attempting to be unobtrusive and anonymous--he and I share share a classic, friendly head-nod and a "hey"-level smile--and the music is getting louder as we're getting closer, steady fun beats and sampled vocals, provocative vocals, teasing vocals.

Then, in the door, there she is. From the sound the two women suddenly make, I can tell Christie has seen and recognizes our hostess.

"Hello, hello!" my date coos.

"Hellllllooooooooooooo!" she receives.

But the greeting our hostess gives Christie is intimate indeed. Not the continental air-kisses that were de rigueur that season at The Ivy lunches or Bird Street dinner parties, though continental air-kisses were what the ladies exchange first.

Muah. Muah.

And then, something not at all de rigueur: a long, sizzling kiss, on the lips-- closed-mouth at first, but the longer it lasts, the more the women open their mouths--it takes no time at all, but as I watch them, it feels like it takes forever, the slowest kiss I've ever witnessed and I want to savor every sudden second of it--and my sweet Christie is soul-kissing this lovely woman who looks to be wearing next to nothing; something very expensively next to nothing.

I notice her hair when Christie has her hands in it: full and thick, such a luxury of dark curls that Christie pulls at the roots with no difficulty. Christie pulls and our hostess winces pleasurably.

"Mmmmmmm," the woman says, biting her lip when their kiss finally breaks. Christie's hand still pulling tight at the dark roots of our hostess's dark hair. "Pristine Christine. So good to see you again, Doll."

"I missed you, Light-of-my-Life," Christie says, and releases her grip, giving the woman a peck on the lips.

"Honey, this is Luz," Christie says.

"Hi," Luz smiles, "I'm Luz, it means Light."

"Hi," I say, and reflexively put out my hand. Luz takes my hand, and leans in for an air-kiss, turning to my right-cheek side.

"Oh, I know who you are, K.B.," Luz says, warmly, and we exchange polite, trendy air-cheek-kisses and then, like she did with Christie, Luz lays one on me. Right on my lips.

Even though I know to expect it, I am still shocked. Stunned.

Then I'm delighted. And amazed. And happier than I may have ever been in my life, yes, it feels like for a second, possibly. And as I respond to this kiss, knowing that Christie extremely wants me to respond and to kiss her friends back with full enjoyment, my entire spine melts because I feel like as good as things are--the best they have ever been--they are about to get even better.

It's going to get even better than French-kissing Luz the first-time meeting her in person, and having her being the aggressor with the tongue.

When she ends our kiss, I am dizzy. I think for a second, we just had an earthquake. Something full and fun, like a low-four on the Richter scale. Four-point-two. Four-point-four. A fun one.

Luz's laughter at my reaction--cheerful, accepting the compliment--clues me to reality. Luz's swimsuit is perfectly-tailored fabric held together with impossible-looking chains. Her model-perfect feet are in flat sandals.

Christie takes my arm like a sweetheart, steadying me and smelling like heaven. Luz guides us into the house, and then the house smells like heaven, only a different and even more exclusive part.

But around a corner, and then through the house we go, out to the drop-dead view of the Pacific, out to the drop-dead view of the back lawn, out to the drop-dead view of the infinity pool, out to the world-class patio for entertaining.

Large enough for a powerful party. Isolated enough from the neighboring properties that powerful parties stay private parties.

The sounds are of party music, and party laughter, and of people in the pool. Of people on the patio, sunbathing and rubbing lotions on each other. Of joints being rolled and passed, of bongs being iced and filled and passed, of edibles being distributed with strict descriptions of their potency.

Their voices are music when they make the sounds of greeting.

The welcomes of those who recognize us as new guests.

The welcomes of those who recognize us as friends.

More people know Christie than they know me. More of the couples who come up to welcome us know Christie than know me. The couples follow a pattern. The men come up first, shake my hand, introduce themselves, then they turn to Christie while the lady of the couple now introduces herself to me.

My right hand goes out reflexively again, and these ladies always take my hand, and use it to pull their faces close, intimately close, to see my eyes at close range and tell me their names and to have me hear them saying mine.

At first, there is a kiss on the cheek, of introduction from these women, but after more and more people bring up joints to hit and glasses of wine to drink and come to say hello to us as the new arrivals, soon I notice these women kiss me full on the lips, and then they are kissing me with a quick dash of tongue and a naughty, winky smile, moving away for the next introduction.

It is not until having been french-kissed by a half-dozen women, and having my ass grabbed by at least two, that I remember Christie.

I look to where I think she is, but she's not there. I look again, my eyes searching, and I am distracted by a sudden noise and tumult from the swimming pool.

The sounds of splashing.

Of the playful shrieks of women.

Of men groaning, straining from labor.

The cheerful energy of the crowd rushing to watch. Bubbling with excitement for this naughty novelty. Myself included.

In the pool, two men, standing in water up to their chests. Sitting on their shoulders: a woman, one on the shoulders of each man. The men groan, each keeping the woman up and aloft and afloat and moving forward, in attacking maneuvers. The women shriek as they lean and they catch their balance and they reach for each other's bandeau bikini top.

The party crowd of men and women love it.

They are cheering the loudest when one of the women in the pool succeeds, and pulls off her opponents' bikini top! The loser is a good sport, smiling as broadly as the winner, and after a teasing moment to cover herself, lifts her arms and lets the crowd enjoy her.

I was soaking all this in, when I felt arms behind me, wrapping around me, and then the familiar feel of Christie resting her chin on my shoulder, her lips close to my ear. She kisses and sucks on my earlobe, then whispers, "enjoying the show?"

I nod, slow.

"Then take a look at this," she says, turning me to look at something behind me.

On a nearby, bright-red Adirondack chair, a fit and handsome, middle-aged man sits, dressed in preppy attire for an outdoor garden party. But sitting on his lap is a naked, porcelain-pale blonde, trim and petite like the top of the cheerleading pyramid.

At first, I think she's only a stripper, hired for the event. It looks like a lap dance. The way she is moving her spine--in those waves--it's a convincing performance of what those sensations actually look like--and then she lifts her hips up just an inch too far and we see it.

The fit, preppy, middle-aged man's dick. The open and gripping lips of the petite blonde's hairless cunt.

Fucking in and out. Right there, at the nearest lounge chair.

And then we can't see his dick anymore because her cunt has swallowed it up. And she's making those wave-like motions with her spine again.

"Party's off to a good start, huh?" Christie asks in my ear. Her voice a hot, teasing whisper.

"Your friends know how to throw a party," I tell Christie.

She pulls herself just far enough away from my face that she can be sure that I see her wink at me.

We head towards the bar, which is outside on a long table near the side of the pool by the pool's deep end. It looks like there are a group of people sitting on the edge of the pool, talking with some others who are treading water in front of them.

But as we get closer to the bar, and thus to the group sitting on the pool's edge, we see they are not having much of a conversation at all.

Rather, the ones sitting on the edge of the pool, with their legs in the pool, are three of the young, eighteen- and nineteen-year-old cater waiters for the company catering this party, wearing their matching black polo shirts with the catering company's discreet logo.

Each young man appears to be in a different world. One's eyes are rolling back. One has his eyes closed and his mouth open. One looks awake but catatonic.

In front of them, a group of older women, their grey or heavily-colored hair styled in elegant up-dos atop their heads, are swimming, treading water, and holding onto the pool's edge or to the knees and thighs of the young men sitting, moving back and forth around in the water in front of the young men.

We get close enough and can see now that the men are bottomless, and the four older women are sucking and edging the young cocks, floating in the pool while fellating them. Each woman would suck for a fierce ten or twenty count, and then suddenly stop, revealing a saliva-slick, youthfully erect penis, straining and aching, dying to be touched more.

Pointing up from the laps of each of these late-teens cater-waters.

"Oh those poor boys, they're so aching," Christie says, looking at the action on the pool's edge.

After each lady in the pool has her taste of one young man, sucking him fast or slow, but then she backs off, swims over to the end of the row of young cocks, and takes the place of one of the other women, each old enough to be any of these young men's grandmother, and then after she sucks this next man's penis for a skinny minute, abruptly she stops again, leaving him aching and needy, and she paddles away from him, stiff and springy and shining, until one of the other woman arrives in her circuit, to tease this young man even further.

Thus, there are always one or two ladies waiting and watching. "No fast-cumming, boys, savor it," they say to the young men, teasing them.

The obedient young men clearly understand that they are there as living boytoys for these older gals, and while these ladies are turning these men into drooling sensation monkeys, the women are giggling and laughing, teasing the boys about the "first one to lose his load has to eat it up!" and giggling even harder.

"Think I'll be hot like them when I'm their age?" Christie asks me when we reach the group of men and women standing around the self-serve bar table, saying it loud enough so these cute strangers can hear.

"Only if you stay as hot as you are now," I reply with a smile, also loud enough for others to hear.

Our arrival by the bar is chance for more handshakes and french-kissing, and now I am leading with open mouth and tongue with each woman I meet for the first time, and each time I find a warm, open mouth ready to receive my tongue, and often finding a tongue of her own ready to slip into my mouth as a hot moment of introduction.

Fun to meet women and taste what she is drinking as soon as I meet her.

Next to the alcohol table, is a table of glass rigs and two bud tenders with propane torches to light dabs off needles. I take a long hit off some Tangie Breath, "it's a hybrid concentrate of a great hybrid sativa and a great hybrid indica--perfect for a party where you want to have energy and to feel absolutely everything," one of the budtenders offering the different waxes tells me.

"Absolutely everything?" I ask playfully.

"Absolutely," the bud tender replies, smiling confidently.

The torch hits the glob of wax on the needle, and the smoke travels through the fancy double-percolators of the first-class water-pipe rigs set up to perfectly cool and mellow the potent tetrahydrocannabinol smoke, passing through the pipe's cooling chambers white and pure.

Hitting my lungs like a god breathing air into my lungs.

A very powerful god, indeed.

Like the first-class operation they represent, the budtenders have fresh, chilled water available after the patient's holding and exhaling of the cannabis wax smoke.

We exchange smiles and words of gratitude, and the world feels good and just and also moving in extreme slow motion, so we can all savor every second for certain, without missing a drop of the pleasure that is life, that is this night.

I turn back towards the drinks table, and see that Christie is now perched on the edge of the table, her cotton sundress has its hem pulled up, and she is being held upright by a woman I have not met yet, half of her head shaved, the other side bright and dyed, and she is kissing Christie and feeling up her breasts in her soft sundress; while kneeling in front of Christie, licking my date's darling bare pussy, is this thick, topless, chubby butch who I did meet when we went over to the bar. When we met, she introduced herself as Bex, and she wore double-extra-large men's basketball shorts, and her breasts were large and saggy water bottles, with big, full pierced nipples and dark areolae, that both looked extremely suckable.

Bex has short hair and a lot of funky ink on the exposed flesh she shows, plus a piercing through an eyebrow, and as we met, she french-kissed me as greeting with no hesitation, and I remember thinking how much I loved this party thrown by Christie's friends, loved it already for all the different types of sexy women whom this party introduced me to through the magic of French-kissing as icebreaker...

... and now that same woman was giving my date Christie oral.

Christie has her eyes closed and her thighs keep parting just a little wider to let the butch woman's face get just a little deeper into Christie's perfect, pristine cunt.

I go over to my date, touch her waist gently. The women kissing Christie look at me.

"Here honey," I say to Christie, touching her to suggest she move her hips enough so I can pull the hem of her skirt off of her thighs, lift it past the contact her butt makes with table, and then taking the whole thing off of her, letting both these women enjoying her, and the entire party, get a good look at this fine model's fine body.

"You don't need this anymore, I'll go lay it down someplace near the door," I tell Christie, taking her dress totally off of her, letting her settle back down on the table and letting the two women resume enjoying this skinny, leggy beauty I brought to the party.