Lynda Schor
The Orgy
For a moment he was
still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm,
there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling . . . like a flapping
overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to point of brilliance,
exquisite . . . and melting her all molten inside . . .
--D. H. Lawrence, Lady
Chatterley’s Lover
It was Pavel who took me to my
first and only orgy. Orgies were
part of Pavel’s open marriage lifestyle, and one I was trying to
understand. Though by becoming
Pavel’s lover I was part of his open marriage with Lou Anne, it wasn’t any way
I’d want to live if I were married.
I really only wanted Pavel, and wished he wanted only me. I didn’t even really want to go to an
orgy. I was doing it because Pavel
wanted me to, and because it was his way of sharing.
Though Bill was about fifteen
years older than I, he was nearly thirty years older than his wife Lou Anne,
who, with a bit of a stretch, could have been my daughter. I couldn’t help thinking of us as a
sort of family—Pavel the dad, me the wife, and Lou Anne the child. Sascha, Pavel’s dog was the baby.
The idea of an orgy made me nervous rather
than excited. I pictured about
twenty gorgeous Playboy Magazine-type
people on an enormous round satin-sheeted bed in some fancy penthouse. Or a dark, damp cave-like place in the
meat market district, with sounds of water dripping, animal heads hanging from
hooks next door, and with dark corners peopled with bald men and women, tattoos
moving peristaltically, pulling each other’s nipple rings and sewing each
other’s testicles. By the time we,
Pavel and I arrived, everyone would be intertwined like some enormous octopus,
one creature with many limbs and many suckers. How would we join in?
What if no one desired us?
Our cab stopped at a nondescript modern
white brick high rise in the east forties. Pavel nodded at the doorman, and we
took the elevator to the seventeenth floor. Pavel, blue backpack full of pigeon feed and maybe some cat
food, his breath smelling of Scope, and I, in my maroon silk shirt and jeans and
platform sandals, padded across the carpeted hallway with its matching flowered
and flocked wallpaper. Holding my
hand, Pavel rang the buzzer.
“Hi, Alvin,” said Pavel to the man, bearded
and balding, with a large gold Jewish star nestled in profuse pepper and salt
chest hair, who opened the door.
“This is Deanna.” Pavel,
still holding my hand, pushed me slightly in front of him and over the
threshold like his recalcitrant child.
“Hi, Alvin,” I say. Even though this is an orgy, I’m
polite.
“Come in and get undressed.” My heart starts pounding. I look back at the door.
Once inside I see that Alvin is naked
except for the heavy coating of hair that covers his entire body except for his
penis, his heels, his buttocks, and the top of his head.
Pavel is already throwing his jeans,
shirt, socks and scruffy sneakers onto the pile on the beige living room
carpet, which blends nicely with the nude bodies I don’t want to look at right
away. There’s nothing Playboy
Mansion-y about this apartment or these people who share an innocuous
middle-class middle-aged look.
“Do I have to get undressed?” I
whine. Pavel is beside me, naked,
unselfconscious, stomach protruding, stolid, toes gripping the carpet. Again he takes my hand.
Small groups of people stand around
holding glasses of wine or mugs of iced tea. Some Lawrence Welk-y music is playing. The place smells of room freshener,
like a taxi. This would look like
an office party if everyone weren’t completely nude except for one woman’s hot
pink bikini underpants. When I
look more closely I see two beige people off in an alcove, half on and half off
a beige couch.
Alvin’s a good host—noticing my
hesitation, he waves me further into the room, then takes my arm. “Deanna, this is Olivia. My wife.” Olivia holds two wineglasses in one hand. Slender on top, with delicate round
breasts, her stomach and thighs seem meant for a larger woman. Her dark nipples engage me—I can’t seem
to look at anything else—like when I see a nose, tongue or eyebrow ring—or
someone with purple hair. In fact
I wish I did see more piercings, some tattoos—some decadence that could be
interesting to me.
“Where’s Lou Anne?” Olivia asks
Pavel. “She couldn’t come today,”
he says. “She told me to say hi.”
I don’t want to think of Lou Anne here,
feeling quite at home, probably the youngest of this group. Tall and slender, she’d have shed her
clothes easily and comfortably. I
picture her long legs, her round rosy bottom, straight, blunt-cut red hair.
“I’m bored,” I say. “Can we leave yet?”
“How about getting undressed,” Pavel says,
helping me open my satin shirt, pulling down my tight jeans, which I step out
of while holding on to Pavel’s balding head. “Let’s just stay a little longer, Poopkie,” he says.
“Looks like it’s going to rain,” says
another balding, bearded man, checking out the sky through the large
window. He swings his penis for
emphasis. I drop my green socks,
the last of my clothes, on the pile.
Someone else says, “What nice hair you
have.”
“Thanks,” I say, pulling on a strand near
my forehead. Without their clothes
I can’t tell any of these men apart from each other. They are all bald, have beards, and are developing paunches. “I like a lot of body hair,” he
continues. I look down. Do I have a lot of body hair? I’ve shaved my legs in preparation. “Maybe we can get together later?”
“Yes,” I say, politely.
Pavel puts his arm around me, and tries to
kiss me, but I pull away. “I’m not
in the mood, Pavel.”
“Let’s meet some more people,
Poopkie. Soon you’ll see, you’ll
have a good time.”
Pavel pulls me into the bedroom
alcove, where a man, the only one with hair on his head, is kneeling. He’s also partly dressed—in a black and
white maid’s uniform, with a short white apron, under which I can see his
semi-hard penis. He’s also wearing
a black studded collar around his thin neck, to which a matching leash is
attached.
“Harder,” he tells the woman holding the
leash, who is also slapping him on his rump.
I laugh. Pavel smiles at me, glad I’m finally having fun. The man on the floor grabs my
calf. I jump, but then it feels
okay, so I let him touch me.
“This is Warren,” says Pavel.
“Hi.
I’m Helena, Warren’s wife,” says the woman holding the leash through her
dark hair that hangs over part of her face.
Warren remains on his knees, rising up a
bit to give me his hand to shake.
I stare at his studded collar, and the starched ruffles on his apron, and
laugh some more. Before I know it,
I’m under him and he’s inside me.
His wife still holds the leash.
Pavel watches.
“Smack me,” says Warren. It’s an order,
but not overbearing.
I laugh, but hit him on his behind.
“Harder, please,” he whines.
“Ha, ha,” I laugh, unable now to
stop. I feel like I’d love to hit
Warren harder, much harder—really hard.
But from under him I can’t get enough leverage. Helena, trying to be helpful, pulls the
leash hard, and at the same time, hits him with some sort of whisk.
“Good, good,” Warren says, closing his
eyes. I am still laughing. Pavel sits cross-legged, the fibers of
the rug cradling his genitals, and watches. I don’t want him to feel left out. I don’t want him to leave my side. Yet I have a sudden urge to make him jealous—after all, why
are we here? So I begin to move
under Warren, who moans, “I’d like to invite you to our summer house in
Maine.” He’s sweating. “I like you.” “Harder,” he says to Helena.
“Ha, ha, ha,” I laugh.
“We go up in August,” he continues,
panting. “Bring your kids. We have two.”
“Ha, ha.” I look over at Pavel, touch his thigh. Does he like this? Is he jealous? He doesn’t look it. “Ha, ha, I laugh.” Then I remember something. “I forgot my birth control.”
Helena pulls hard on the leash. Is that some kind of signal? Warren moans, then chokes a bit, but
gets up. “I really mean that about
August. Helena will give you our
address.” Helena says nothing to
me, but leads Warren to the door.
“He likes to ride the elevator in that
outfit,” says Pavel. It excites
him to shock whoever is in there.
Are you having fun, Sweetie?
His Polish accent is comforting.
I watch the new arrival, a tall, dark man
with thick wavy hair, who slipped through the door as Warren crawled out. Pavel looks at me. Do you like him? his blue eyes
ask. So far he’s the only person
who attracts me. I wish I could
stop laughing. I cover my mouth,
and watch the new arrival remove each article of clothing until he’s standing in
nothing but his hat, a black fedora.
From under the brim, two long side curls swing out. With long delicate but strong-looking
fingers, he carefully places the wayward hair behind his ears. He’s young, handsome, with huge dark
eyes. So what if he’s Hassidic?
Pavel seems pleased to see me interested
in someone, something. “Hi,
Nathan,” he says.
“Ha, ha,” I laugh, as Nathan and I fall
passionately onto the carpet. Is
Pavel still holding my hand? I’m
vaguely aware of a sea of legs.
Perhaps any kind of passion or excitement is a rarity, since these
people seem to know each other too well.
Not only am I attracted to Nathan, it excites me to know that for him
this orgy goes against his religious prohibitions. I can see the room, the people, Pavel, in Nathan’s enormous
liquid eyes. Pavel reaches out to
touch me. I push his hand away.
“This is Deanna,” says Pavel.
Isn’t it a little late for introductions?
I want to ask, but I am laughing too hard.
“Haaaa, haaaa,” I moan. Pavel seems pitiful. I want to protect him. I want to hurt him.
“We have to go, Poopkie,” he says. “I have to feed Natalia. I can’t count on Lou Anne for
anything.”
Oh, suddenly, just at this moment Pavel
remembers that he has to feed his dog?
And it must be done right away.
And he has to bring up Lou Anne?
Outside it’s raining lightly, a
heavy mist, and strangely, it’s not yet dark.
“Well?” Pavel asks.
I wonder what he hopes of me. “It was funny,” I say. “It was hysterical.”
Pavel smiles warily. “Good, good.” He puts out his arm for a taxi.
“Maybe because I was so nervous, and maybe
I couldn’t get into it, but all in all it’s
not very sexy,” I say. “And I’m surprised that most of those
people are married.”
“They have problems relating,” says Pavel.
Does that mean himself? Lou Anne? A holocaust survivor, Pavel is extremely eccentric—so from
me, and maybe others, he gets a pass.
He once told me that fear and desire are one and the same.
He holds my hand and hails a taxi with his
other. “It’s the watching and
being watched that’s exciting,” he says.
Why didn’t I know that? I try to apply this information to
something that’s already passed without my awareness of it. Doesn’t that excite me? If not, why not?
But maybe if Pavel had fooled
around with other women I would have been excited, would have found him
suddenly sexier. I might have
desired him more.
“Do you like Nathan?” asks Pavel, throwing
some of the pigeon food out the taxi window. He can’t stand that any creature should go hungry.
“He invited me to another orgy at a
Holiday Inn,” I say. “I told him
maybe.”
I study Pavel. He’s told me he never feels
jealous. I want him to roar and
rage with jealousy. Then again, I
want to protect him. I place my
hand in his khaki rain jacket pocket and lean back against his arm. I am grateful that he stayed beside me
the entire time, that he didn’t make me feel jealous. If my own mother had been this supportive on stressful
occasions, including my first day of kindergarten, where I was so scared I
threw up on Ellen Povill’s new black patent leather party shoes, my whole life
might have been different.
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