Orgy

Posted on July 17, 2009

3


TRYING TO IGNORE ALL OF THE COMMOTION DOWNSTAIRS, I find myself staring at a bee writhing on its back. I had unconsciously swatted the bee as it flew around my head not buzzing at all. Now it lays in some terrible pain looking up at the ceiling with those bee eyes that cannot convey pain. What is it thinking? I lean my head in very close to the bee and admire its furry and glistening abdomen. I stare at the faint fabric of its dying wings. My head begins to tilt and I feel myself communing with the bee and I fall very silent.

In this moment the bee is thinking not of pollen and not of honey. The bee thinks only, only of its queen. I feel relaxed and at peace for the first time in a long time. I almost smile and I pause to take a sip of tea. How wonderful it would be to have the monarchy back.

Someone knocks on my door and the downstairs commotion floods back into my senses. The knocker does not wait and my door flies open and the terrible technological music playing downstairs blares into the room.

“There’s an orgy going on and we are both invited,” says Grunt, my shirtless college mate. His eyes are wide and hungry and his skin seems to have half a glow to it. I spin around in my chair and raise my knees to my chest and take another sip of tea.

“An orgy? Like two girls making out?” I ask.

“No,” Grunt says, “Like a real orgy where everyone is on top of somebody and small groups are sharing genitals with one another. It’s unbelievable.” Grunt’s hands shake excitedly right in my face and I can feel my blood pressure rising. I have never heard tell of a spontaneous orgy before and I am not a sexed man. In my first year of college I am still very much a proud virgin.

Still, I walk downstairs filled with hopes that tonight will be my night.

“Maybe I should go back up,” I tell Grunt.

“So you can write? So you can write your stupid fiction.”

“My novel.”

“Do you ever think what you fiction writers put in to this world? Nothing. Absolutely nothing but stupid little word dreams. Do something real for once,” Grunt says and that shuts me up real good.

The orgy is not as wondrous as one might imagine. Here and there people walk about naked, but the lights are dim and nothing very flattering bounces about. Most people seem to have found their own corners to snuggle in, though small pockets of lovers glob up on couches and sections of chairs. The first thing I spot is Don Bucket, the skinniest man alive slouched over some ecstatic fat girl;  the picture of poetry. He smiles at me as I walk by and Grunt offers Don a silent “high-five.”

The air smells of mint cigarettes and cheap men’s cologne but it’s cool enough in the building so that no one will sweat. I am happy about this. Two girls give each other massages while watching a genuine Boy-And-Girlfriend roll around in front of the TV. It is very odd to hear Charlie Rose interviewing on the television in the middle of an orgy.
Grunt sits down next to the two girls and asks me to sit with him.

“I’ll find my own place in the shade,” I tell him and he is content with that.

I wander through the first floor rooms taking in all of the sights, listening to the half muffled moans of pleasure seeping out from every direction. For a few moments I watch a girl dancing on a table as three men call out jocular remarks and attempt to throw ping pong balls into her cleavage. I wonder if I would every be able to objectify a living thing to such a low degree. Maybe only in writing.

I begin to feel very sour about the whole thing and turn to go back to my room when a small girl with pointy ears and a soft little gaze grabs me by the arm with two little fingers that make my skin feel as if it is being tickled with tinsel. She looks at me and swallows and runs her little pink tongue along her little pink lips.

“I want you,” she says to me.

“What a world,” I tell her and everyone else in the room and proceed to lead her upstairs. We find a trio of lovers rubbing right next to my door, but they have no trouble in moving to the side as the wanting girl and I enter my room. She closes the door behind her and locks it and she grabs the sleeves of my t-shirt and pulls them hard. I worry for a moment that she may stretch the shirt’s arm holes, but in the next moment her lips are on mine and our lips are moving together and soaking one another up and invoking our tongues toward one another. When we part a small beam of saliva dangles between us; a bridge formed by passion, mucous and various other bodily enzymes.

“It must be a full moon,” I tell her. She doesn’t answer she just sits on my bed. She pulls a piece of paper from underneath her bum.

The Old,” she reads. It is the title of my story. “You’re a writer?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh that is so sexy,” she says and she starts to read it aloud.

“How terrible it is to be so old, to stink and smell your piss all day. I fear I am dying from the ammonia. To know that your shit could come out any color and that the slightest move in the wrong direction could cause you to fall and shatter a bone. When the lady in blue comes in to change my diaper she is always nice, but I know my very existence plagues her. Why won’t she just die already, the nurse surely thinks. I am a sick and twisted woman with very old veins and a very weak heart. Never again will I see the bright lights of a city, or feel the passion in a lover’s kiss; gone is the sense of life and gone is my-“

The girl stops reading and she begins to cry.

“I’m sorry, that probably spoiled the mood,” I say looking for my sock filled with condoms.

“No, it’s not that,” she says. “I’m just all fucked up. Let’s just do this. Please.”
She wipes her tears from her eyes and her fingers leave black tracks of mascara along her cheeks. In that moment we both turn to the bee on my writing desk and watch as its little bee legs make one final quiver and then fall still.

She holds her arms out to me.

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Posted in: July 2009