Why I'm Not Attending That Other Orgy Anymore, Either

It’s all married men. We get together once a month in a motel room. A decent one, not that bedbug palace off exit 9. Everyone’s there by noon, then I lock the door and turn off the lights. After that . . . anything goes.

Anything? I remember replying. This was on Manhunt, several years ago, back in the day when Manhunt was a service that people actually logged into and used.

Fucking, sucking, you name it. Nothing illegal. No drugs. But once the lights are off? Anything your heart desires. The beauty of it is that we’re all married men. Married men know how to be discreet. Married straight dudes are just hotter and more masculine. Am I right? You’re a married man. You know what I mean? And at the end of the day, everyone goes home drained or loaded up or both, back to the wife and kids and no one is the wiser.

When my friend Bert recruited the other gentlemen in his little orgy group, this particular scenario might’ve sounded hot to the average closeted married slob in the suburb where I live—the kind of guy who would post a blurry closeup of his nipple and collarbone on Manhunt and call it a profile photo. The kind of guy who dutifully fucked his wife once a month, and spent the other twenty-nine days furiously masturbating to gay porn on the internet.

But honestly, I wasn’t really buying his particular line of bullshit. Married I might be, but I’m queer enough to know that what happens when a hotel door closes on a roomful of horny men is anything but straight. A married guy with his butt in the air taking a monster-sized dick isn’t any hotter or more masculine than a self-avowed gay guy in the same position. They’re both bitches in heat. There’s no shame in that—but at least the gay guy is the one owning up to what he wants and likes. Whatever untruths Bert’s friends want to tell themselves, individually or as a group, a bunch of married men discreetly having an orgy in a hotel room is no high afternoon tea with crumpets. It’s still a bunch of faggots getting sweaty and swapping cum. (Don’t get me wrong. This faggot is right there in the middle of it all.)

So I rolled my eyes when Bert originally approached me on Manhunt, trying to sell me on his group. I was ready to tell him that he could go shove his ‘safe’ group of ‘straight’ married men up his KY’ed asshole.

Sure. I’ll be there, my fingers typed instead.

Hey. The prospect of a steady orgy in my own backyard was nothing to sneeze at.

I ended up attending Bert’s married men orgy for several years. Once a month like clockwork they’d meet on a Monday during lunchtime. He’d rent a hotel room, accept guys through the door from eleven-thirty until noon, then lock the door and turn out the lights. And you know, the parties were, for the most part, pretty decent. Usually anywhere between six and fifteen men would attend—most of them in their thirties and forties, all sporting rings on their left hands. We’d all throw a few bucks in a jar to cover the cost of the room. Bert would lock the door. We’d all tuck our clothes into neat bundles in the closet or in dresser drawer. Then we’d fuck.

These suburban get-togethers of married men were the Golden Corral of sex parties, to be honest. That is, nothing on the buffet approached gourmet quality . . . but there sure was a whole lot of it to be had. If you wanted to bottom, there’d be a hard dick for your hole (probably mine). If you wanted to top, there would be all kinds of asses up, from which to choose. A musclebound married buddy of mine I was seeing on the side often attended with me, and we’d always put on a pretty spectacular show for everyone—growling, wrestling around, grappling to see who’d get to be on top of whom (position-wise, that is, as I was always the top when it came to fucking). One of the regulars was a local cop who would show up in uniform, which would drive some of the married guys crazy; at least he had a good sense of humor about topping guys and fulfilling their fetish fantasies while wearing his official hat.

Bert’s married group was moderately fun, but not outstanding. A lot of the guys attending simply didn’t have much experience with man-to-man sex. It showed. A few were awkward to the point that even I, who tend to be unfailingly patient with the shy in these situations, would just shrug and move on. Occasionally a guy who didn’t know any better would show up with a dirty ass—a mistake that would happen only once, as he’d taken aside by Bert for a private chat about douching out before playing. A couple of guys hadn’t been socialized well enough in these sexual situations to know when to take ‘no’ for an answer. I remember one particularly grim party in which a guy would keep grabbing my dick and grinding the head against the palm of his hand he’d licked wet. It was an unpleasant and even painful sensation, and I couldn’t get the fucker to stop.

I graduated from this particular sex party when Bert started hosting another regular orgy at his apartment in the city. The Manhattan parties were definitely a step up from their suburban counterparts. For one thing, Bert would curate his invites from a group on Manhunt that extended far beyond closeted married men. The men attending the big city orgies were bi and gay, married and single, and of such an extreme step up in sheer quality that sometimes I was a little intimidated.

Two weeks before each of the monthly parties, Bert would send out to all his invited guests an email stating the party time and the Manhunt screen names of the men who had confirmed they’d attend; he’d update the list a day or two before the actual event. Sharing the guest list with everyone gave all of us the opportunity to check out who we could expect to meet, and brush up on their likes and dislikes—which definitely made things a little easier at the parties themselves. But I’d thumb through these profiles of guys with uniformly muscular bodies and handsome, well-groomed faces and physiques, and for a few doubtful moments I’d think in the back of my mind, Man, THIS is going to be the party when everyone realizes I’M the dog.

Never happened. For one thing, I get confident enough in sexual situations that I don’t let what I’m convinced are my very modest attractions hold me back from having fun. For another, the other guys attending the parties would flood my box beforehand, begging me for cock. I’d always arrive at these parties already carrying a very full dance card.

The Manhattan gatherings were a more sophisticated affair. They’d always begin with a cocktail party of sorts—wine and appetizers. I’m maybe making it sound a little grander than it really was, since the wine came in boxes and the appetizers were usually peanuts and bags of kettle corn. Yet there’d always be a half hour of conversation of the type in which New Yorkers always seem to indulge, centered around rent prices and careers. Then someone (okay, usually it was me) would make a move on someone else, there’d be the sound of a belt unbuckling and pants dropping, and suddenly these staid uptown apartment dwellers would be getting as down and dirty as in any inner-city bathhouse.

The sex at these parties could be outstanding. Because there were usually more than twenty men at these things, and because we had the whole apartment to spread out in, as guys split off into pairs and smaller groups, there’d be ample room to get up to more athletic couplings than I’d find in a hotel room with two dozen guys jockeying for space on a couple of full-size beds. The guys were less inhibited; the asses were rounded, the holes opened up more readily. And like I said, I’d come to the parties having already promised some time to several of the men present. I’m not being immodest when I say that every time I showed up, I was very often the center of attention.

And gentlemen, it’s not because I’m spectacularly built, or because I have a hot six-pack, or because I take amazing torso shots. None of those things are true. Part of my popularity comes from the fact that I have a spectacular cock, true, but there’s way more to it than that. I’m a great love maker. I take the most nervous and shy fellow and, for the few minutes I’m eight inches deep inside his aching, stretched-out hole, I make him feel like the center of the fucking universe. I make him feel like he’s the most desirable, beautiful man on earth. It’s not faked. I don’t pretend. When I fuck, I’m not just shoving my dick into an orifice. I plunge into everything a man is. I accept him for the things that make him proud, and make him forget the parts of himself he despises. I celebrate him, and him alone. I let him know that he’s desired. I give him the freedom to feel happy, and loved. And I make damn sure to let him know how much he’s satisfying me.

That, gentlemen, is the secret of my sexual success.

At the parties I’d make love to a man while a group of a dozen naked horny fuckers were shoving around us on a rickety sofa bed, cheering us on. Even in that noisy, smelly crowd, I’d make that bottom feel like he and I were the only ones who existed. The only ones who mattered. Then, once he’d had an earth-shattering orgasm, I’d pull out, clean off, and gladly perform the same service for the next man on my dance card. Most nights I’d fuck eight, ten, fifteen asses, long and hard. I might not have shot off in all of them, but I’d damn well make sure they came from my pounding . . . and four or five lucky bastards would walk away carrying some of my DNA deep in their guts.

So yeah. I was popular at those parties. Bert knew it. He capitalized it. When he’d send out his invitations, my name would be at the top of the list. When he was trying to recruit new meat, Bert would ask guys to write me on Manhunt; I’d reply in a friendly manner assuring them that yes, if they showed up, I’d be more than happy personally to give them a good time. There were guys who would fly in from other states to attend the party—scheduling their work trips to coincide with the orgies. I was a good boy for Bert, convincing hot men to come to a hot party for a hot time. I was good to Bert, too. I’m always good to orgy hosts. I’d always save a special fuck and a special load for him, usually late in the evening when most of the men were tired and the air was drowsy and quiet. I’d ease him back onto the mattress in the master bedroom, use a couple of fingers to slide some lube up his chute, and slide right in as together we’d relive the highlights of the evening

And then I missed a party. I don’t remember why. Until I find a patron who’s willing to sponsor me for a life of orgies and naked guest appearances in porn, I’ll sadly have to keep, you know, working and stuff. That’s probably what I was doing the night I had to skip out. As usual, Bert sent out the party invitation. I RSVPed early to say I wasn’t going to be able to attend. I thought it was over, strangely enough.

But then in the two weeks before the party, I started getting a number of messages from guys on Manhunt. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday after next, they’d say. Hope you save a fuck for me. I’d have to write the guys back and tell them that I was sorry, but I wasn’t going to be available that night. But you’re on the guest list as confirmed, they’d say. Sure enough, when I checked the list, there I was, right at the top.

I wrote Bert and reminded him I wasn’t going to be able to attend. I just left you on there in case you were free at the last minute, he replied. I explained to him that if I actually were able to attend at the last minute—which I wasn’t going to be able to do—I would feel free to attend, but that I should be removed from the list until then. When he didn’t reply, I thought I’d made my point. Yet the day before, when he sent out the final reminder, there I was, still on the guest list.

That day and the day of the orgy, my appearance at the top of a list was only a minor annoyance. The day after the orgy, though, I started getting emails from men I’d never met. How come you weren’t there last night? I was expecting to spend some private time with you, said one. Another said, I flew in from North Carolina because Bert told me what a good top you were. Didn’t expect you to flake like that.

Flaking? Now my reputation was on the line.

I was pretty stern when I emailed Bert directly. I told him that leaving me on the list when I knew I wasn’t going to attend one of his get-togethers was doing me a disservice; guys who were counting on me to show up were writing me and accusing me of flaking out—which was unjust.

But you draw the guys in, he said. You’re good advertising for me.

So advertise when I’m actually going to be there. It’s not that tough! I wrote back. Again, I thought it was settled.

A couple of months later I had to skip another orgy. Same thing happened. I told Bert I wouldn’t be able to show up, yet when he emailed everyone, there I was again, right at the top of the list of attendees. This time I wrote Bert right off the bat and told him I really didn’t want to go through the same thing as last time, and would he please, please, remove my name from the guest list?

He didn’t. The emails showed up on Manhunt hours after the party. Why weren’t you there? Please don’t tell me you’re a flake.

This time around, I was infuriated. I’d asked nicely to be removed from the list. I given Bert a logical and honest accounting of why I’d prefer not to be listed as going to a sex party when I couldn’t attend. But you’re good advertising! he replied again. You bring in the hottest guys.
Bert, I can’t be your fucking mascot, I wrote back. Your parties would get on just fine without me, you know. I really don’t want guys writing me again accusing me of flaking.

Then maybe you’d better fucking show up, he replied.

Fuck this, I said. To myself. Not to him. Though I was tempted.

Sex I can get anywhere—I don’t have an issue with that. Treat me like meat, though, and dangle me as bait, without my consent? That kind of treatment I don’t need.

True story, though. After our blow-out, Bert and I didn’t talk for over a year. I didn’t go to any of his parties (which got along fine without me, of course). Mainly that was because I was no longer invited, even though at first Bert made sure to tell people to ask me why I wasn’t coming any more. (Irritating me further.) For months and months I didn’t hear from the guy. Until this week, that is, when I was part of a mass mailing on a sex site. He’s throwing a party in Manhattan, it says. Enclosed is a list of guys who’ve confirmed that they’ll be attending.

And guess whose screen name is right there, plain as day, even though he didn’t RSVP?

Yup.

And that, children, is why I don’t go to that orgy any more.

Why I'm Not Attending Your Orgy Anymore

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A Little Primer on Orgy Throwing

Not too long ago I was telling a friend of mine the reasons why I was no longer attending a semi-regular group sex session held at a motel local to me. “Do all orgies end in drama?” he asked, when I was done.

I was seriously taken aback by the question. “No!” I exclaimed, sure of myself. Then I had to think a bit.

First, a lot rests on one’s definition of drama. If my friend meant, did every group sex meetup end with slaps, recriminations, weeping, flouncing, and bitches pouring beer in each other’s weaves? Then no. There’s no drama. Have there been grudges and hurt feelings that were nursed quietly? Sure, occasionally. I’m not sure I’d call that drama, though. I’d classify it more under the day-to-day social stickiness that every adult has to deal with at one time or another.

There were actually two reasons I stopped attending this particular group. The first was a long-simmering resentment of the way the host was handling invites. He was in the habit of sending out a preliminary private email to the twenty-five or thirty guys who usually attended his parties, asking if they wished to attend on a date three or four weeks in the future. To the men who RSVPed to say that they’d like to join, he would send an email with a list of participants, so everybody could check each other out and send off emails indicating interest in hooking up at the party.

It’s a nice system, actually. I like and recommend it. The week of the party itself, the host would send out reminder emails with a final guest list and instructions of where to show up, what to bring, and all the usual information a good host provides. I had a problem, though, and it was that the host was including me every single time on the guest list that got emailed out to attendees, whether or not I was actually able to come to a particular get-together. He’d have an event in April, say, and I’d RSVP in March that I wasn’t going to be available. But then a few days later, on the roster of folks attending, there I’d be. When the finalized list went out only a few days before, there I’d be again . . . despite the fact I’d told the host I’d be out of town or busy or whatever.

I asked the host why he kept listing me and he tried to make it sound like a positive—as if I was always welcome to attend at the last minute if my plans changed or my flight was canceled or I had a change of heart. Besides, he said, attendance went up when my name was on the list, because guys would see my photos and decided they had to be there to get a piece of me.

That’s all well and good, I tried to explain to him multiple times, but putting my name on the list of attendees when I wasn’t actually going to be in attendance was really doing me a disservice; he was making guys think that I’d said “Yes! I’ll be there with bells on!” and then decided to bail at the last minute. I even forwarded him an email from one of the guys who wrote saying he’d attended twice specifically to meet me because I was on the list, and wondered why I’d been a no-show.

I might have been a giant carrot (pun intended) dangled in front of the guests’ faces to lure them to the party, I argued, but it was deceptive of him to do so when I wouldn’t be there. It gave my reputation a hit. Over and over again he attempted to assure me that wasn’t the case, but I wasn’t buying it.

Finally, I caved and went to one of his lunchtime parties at the local sleazy motel. In attendance was kind of a motley crew—a few regulars I liked a lot, a couple of new guys I had fun with, and two men I was trying to avoid at all costs. One of the guys was a married schlub I’d tricked with a year before and had such staggeringly mediocre sex that I’d had to do some unpleasant misdirection (involving jacking him to climax and then pretending I’d shot at the same time) in order to get the hell out of there. Him, I could stay away from easily enough. The other guy, though, was the host’s best friend. He’s always at every party. He’s always annoying. And at the last party I’d gone to, he’d done this, this thing with his hands on my dick that I really, really hated.

Let me digress ever so slightly here. When I was growing up, among the stacks of books my parents kept in their basement was a sex manual from the very early 1960s. I say sex manual, but this was before the sexual revolution, so my recollection is more that it had a title that never actually used the dirty word, sex. A manual for young marrieds, it was. My ten-year-old self read it with great amusement when I discovered it, marveling at the way it managed never actually to use the words penis or vagina, nor any of their synonyms. Late in the book was an entire chapter devoted to what a young wife should do when her husband failed to be in a romantic mood—or when he couldn’t get it up, I figured out. The blushing young bride, the text advised, should not at all be afraid to grasp her husband’s manhood in her hand (that’s about as close as they got to referencing actual genitalia), apply a modicum of moisture to the palm of her hand, and then rub the flat of her palm firmly and briskly in a circular motion against the glans of his manhood, thus producing an electrical sensation of such felicity that the husband would gladly meet his conjugal duties with enthusiasm and zest.

Wow, okay, my ten-year-old self thought. This sounded like hot stuff. I licked my palm and rubbed it on my cock head. OW. That shit HURT. I tried it again, just in case. FUCKING OW. Yeah, the technique produced an electrical sensation, but it felt like someone was channeling megawatts of that shit right into the most sensitive place on my body and DON’T TASE ME THERE, BRO.

And that’s exactly what the guy, the best friend, did at the party. He wet his palm up with spit or lube or something, and then while I was making out with someone and my boner was on display, he pressed his flattened palm down onto my glans and scrrrrrrrrrrrraped across it.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled in pain while I leapt to my fee. “Don’t DO that.”

Scowling, I left the best friend on one double bed and went to join the dogpile on the other mattress. I’d just made my way in when suddenly I felt a searing jolt of pain on my dick again. “What are you DOING?” I snarled at the best friend. “Stop that shit. It hurts.”

“Aw, don’t be a pussy,” he said.

Now, I’m not sure whether he thought I was joking around with him (I wasn’t), or whether I was really aroused by his torturous form of foreplay and not letting on (I really was not), or whether he was some kind of freako sadist who just enjoyed hearing me yell, but the asshole followed me around the party for the rest of the time I was there and did that thing with his palm no less than three times more. Angry that I wasn’t able really to put any distance between the two of us in a small and cheap motel room, and angry that he wasn’t leaving me alone, I finally put on my clothes, said a polite farewell to the host, and made my way out into the sunlight and home.

Then I simply declined all his invitations from then on out. The mess with the host constantly not respecting my wishes about the attendance list were grumblings I might’ve lived with. But the best friend following me around and trying to get my goat by making my dick feel as miserable as possible was the straw that broke the camel’s orgy.

But was it dramatic? I don’t think so. I didn’t toss my brush cut and issue ultimatums as I stalked out the door. I didn’t write nasty emails after to either the host or the best friend and decree that they were no longer welcome in my lives. I just politely declined to return. If that’s drama, it’s the mildest and most yawn-inducing drama there is.

My friend’s question, though—do all orgies end in drama?—really got me thinking. I’ve been to some incredibly bad orgies in my lifetime. I’ve been to group sex parties in which I and some bottom were the only ones naked and fucking, while a bunch of slobs stood still clothed around the room’s perimeter doing nothing but watching and pushing away each other’s hands. I’ve been to hotel orgies that were promoted as if they’d be sybaritic pleasure domes, and ended up being only three guys staring at each other. I’ve been to a couple of parties in which those attending were shuffling around in a meth-induced haze, unable to perform on any level. So yeah. I’ve been to some pretty damned bad group sex parties.

However, I’ve been lucky enough to attend some really excellent ones as well—and they’ve been in the majority. It’s occurred to me that all of them have a solid base of common denominators.

A good group sex party has an organizer. That is, someone steps up to take the lead and to plan the damned thing. He has to arrange for the venue—a hotel, his own place, maybe the basement playroom of a buddy. He has to send out invitations. And he has to let everyone know where and when it will take place. If there’s a hotel room involved, he gets there a little early to rent it, and let guys know what the room number is. He stays last to do a little cleanup after, and to return the key.
The guy organizing the party is doing a considerable amount of administrative work. It’s not terribly time-consuming work, and it’s not something it takes a Ph.D. to accomplish—but it’s work nonetheless. If you’re attending the party, make sure to let the organizer know your gratitude. Tell him thank you. Spend some time paying attention to him. Respect the guy. He’s doing the job that no one else wanted to do.

The best group sex parties are carefully curated. The very best orgies I’ve attended—the ones I’ll go back to again and again—have always had an organizer who is very careful in his selection of men. In fact, I’ve never attended a truly awful orgy in which the guy who put it together took his time to hand-select the bunch of guys he thought would be compatible.

Careful selection is more than just putting an ad on Craigslist for a hotel gang-bang and then picking the guys with hot photos. (I’ve been to a couple of good parties that began in this way, but the un-fun groups with guys standing around clothed and doing nothing all fizzled from this approach.) Careful selection means knowing, to a certain extent, all the guys involved. It means exchanging a couple of emails with them, at the least, and getting an idea of whether or not they’ll fit in with your other guests.

One of the best parties I used to attend had a specialized bent. It was half bareback-fuck-free-for-all, and half fisting party. It took place in the host’s playroom, a soundproofed, specially-constructed basement enclosure that featured a large shower area, a double-wide padded fuck bench, a couple of sofas, and a pair of slings hanging side by side. On a massive pegboard at one end hung all kinds of dildos and other invasive toys; there was a trough-like sink with towels and soaps for clean-up. The host would be extremely choosy in selecting an exact ratio of tops to bottoms at these parties, and would pick men who were all compatible with each other.

More importantly, since he was very heavily into fisting, himself, he’d make sure the bottoms were equally hungry for a man’s paw in their butts, and that the tops were experienced at working an arm into an ass. The result was a party in which no bottom ever went unsatisfied, and by the time the evening moved from fucking to fisting, there’d be two bottoms in the slings, two kneeling on the fuck bench, and the others bent over the sofas—each with a top’s arm inside them.

Now, that’s not to say that a good host can’t give someone new a chance, or that it’s impossible to put together a decent party from random men online. I know what’s worked for me in the past, though, and it’s always involved a little bit of curation.

A good host always sets in advance the expectations, limitations, and requirements for the party. If it’s a condoms-only party, the host needs to let everyone know. If it’s a bareback party, likewise—with the reminder that everyone needs to be comfortable enough to accept the responsibilities involved with swapping raw fluids. If the host wants people to donate ten bucks to help cover the cost of the hotel room, that should be established well in advance. If it’s a drug-free environment, or poppers-only, the host needs to notify the guests well in advance. When the host expects people to bring something—their own water bottles, or condoms, or lube, or snacks—he needs to spell it out in all the communications leading up to the day of the party.

If a host communicates all these things, and chooses guests who are going to respect his wishes, no one is going to show up surprised. There are going to be very few bad guests, in fact.

The best sex parties have a set duration, and expect the attendees to arrive at the start time. The friend of mine who’d asked the question sparking the thoughts in this post had only attended the sessions of one group. It was hosted by a guy who would put out the word for it on Craigslist and host it at the local sleazepit motel. Guests were invited to drop by anytime between noon and ten-thirty at night.

“That is not a good way to run a party,” I told my friend.

“Yeah, but it worked out for me,” he said. “There were people there when I went.”

Yes, I reminded him, but my friend had spent hours—literal hours—agonizing and strategizing and asking my advice about the perfect time to arrive in order to guarantee that people were there, the first time. He’d had to contact other people who’d been to the party in the past and ask them what time he should plan on showing. Even when he got there, he’d been in suspense up until the moment that he knocked on that motel room door whether or not he’d be stuck by himself with the host. His first-time experience might have turned out all right, but what about those guys who had chosen to show up at eight-thirty in the evening to find that everyone had left by then? They arrived disappointed.

No, the best parties are set to last a handful of specific hours. Seven-thirty at night until ten-thirty. A lunchtime quickie from noon until two. Ten in the morning until eleven-thirty. I’ve been to great orgies during all those time periods. Everyone arrives knowing that other people are guaranteed to be there. Nobody has to do any guesswork or engage in endless speculation. The party can either begin when everyone who’s been invited arrives and the host invites everyone into the play space, or guys can simply shuck their clothing and start fucking the moment the door closes.

Sure, if a person or two invited has let the host know he’ll be arriving a half-hour late, that’s fine. Likewise, if everyone’s having such a good time that the party lasts past the originally-scheduled end point, great—so long as the host is good with it. The host can always be flexible.

But it’s kinder to guests, many of whom might be nervous about meeting so many new naked people at once, to placate the fear that they might be the only one sitting around for someone, anyone, to show up.

The best guests at a sex party are those who are there for the group experience—not for themselves. There’s usually an expectation at these parties that guys are expected to mingle and fuck around with multiple men. If you are invited to an orgy and your intention is to pick out the hottest guy there, monopolize his time to keep him for yourself, and to shun the other men who want to play either with him or with you, you really should just consider staying at home. If you attend a sex party intending to have all the tops for yourself and to make yourself the center of attention, you’re missing the point of the event. (I mean, it might happen that way, but you shouldn’t plan on it.)

Have fun at a sex party, by all means. Enjoy yourself. It’s supposed to be a blast. But know there there may be moments (and there may be many of them) in which it might be best to place the welfare of the group over your own personal desires.

I’m a top with good stamina who can fuck multiple holes over the course of the evening and squirt out multiple loads. When I attend a party, it gets me noticed. I get the attention of some incredibly good-looking guys. If I wanted to go in, pick the hottest bottom there (or, let’s be honest, I could equally easily pick the hottest top with the slightest versatile inclinations), and spend the entire evening fucking his brains out while other guys watched in envy, I totally could.

But I don’t. I’ll fuck an incredibly-desirable guy long enough to let him know how I feel about him, then against my dick’s urging I’ll disengage and let him play with other people at the party. I might make a promise to come back to him later. I might exchange numbers or emails with him so that I can savage his hole one-on-one at some point. For the group’s sake, however, it’s better to move on every now and then and give pleasure to men who’ve been waiting patiently on the side lines.

The best guests are those who go out of their way to make everybody at a gathering feel comfortable and welcome. Isn’t that true of any party, and not just those where the men are naked and looking for holes to fuck or cocks to service? A guy like me of modest looks who does his best to aid the host in getting guys to swap partners and mingle is doing more for the party than two good-looking studs who keep to themselves in a corner and reject the advances of anyone else. More importantly, I’m more likely than they to be invited to the next orgy.

Likewise, the best guests are those that respect the host’s wishes. They show up on time; they let the host know well in advance if they’re not going to be able to make it. They respect the rules on protected or bareback sex and substance use. They keep the apartment or hotel room as tidy as possible. They’re courteous and friendly.

The host is there to get the party started. He shouldn’t have to police the event the entire time. He really wants to have as much fun as the other guests, after all. Make yourself useful to the host by being a good and helpful guest, and you’ll find yourself being invited to more parties in the future.
But most of all, don’t do things to a top’s dick that they don’t enjoy. That shit is annoying.

Have any more tips that you think would contribute to someone throwing a successful, drama-free orgy? Leave them below in the comments section!

Competitive Top

When a real sex hound enters a room full of men fucking, he looks around to discover one thing.

He’s not looking first for the best looking guys, the way a kid might. A real pig is seasoned and experienced enough not to need the cheap and needy kind of validation that comes from fucking around with a guy one or two grades higher on the scale than himself. Nor is he searching out the man with the best underwear, or the hottest chest, or the most worked-out body in the group. Some guys think those are the things that get a guy laid. They’re not.

No, what a real sex hound does when he enters a room full of men fucking is to study the action for a moment and size up who are the likely tops and the bottoms. Then he works from there. If he’s looking to be plugged with cock, he’ll insinuate himself down on his knees in front of one of the men who appear to be taking a more active role. If he’s looking to top, he’ll approach a guy with his cock in his hand, ready for service.

When this particular guy strode into the bedroom at The Professor’s home, one weekday morning, I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. There some something about the cocky way he held himself—furry, muscular chest puffed out, shoulders back, hips askew—that told me he was used to being the center of attention. The guy was built like a barrel: stocky, solid, gym-shaped to withstand a lot of use. I saw his eyes alight on the pair of men sixty-nining on the carpeted floor, then on the trio swapping kisses and fondling each other’s dicks in the corner. Then he looked at the low-slung queen-sized bed where I and four other men cavorted. He stood for a long time, his short fat dick sticking straight out in front of him, hands on hips, watching us there.

Watching me, I should say. I was the focus of the other men’s sexual energy. I had one sexy daddy straddling my chest as he made out with me. My cock was wedged into his ass crack, where it thrust up and down, made slippery by the mouth of the sexy bald muscle man I always fuck once or twice at this particular party. The bald guy was crouched on all fours licking my stick and my balls, hungrily gobbling the head whenever it emerged. One older man knelt at the bottom of the bed, sucking on my toes; it’s what he likes to do while other men are pleasuring me. I can’t say I objected. The feeling of a warm mouth on my feet just amplifies whatever sensations other mouths and hands create. Finally I had an Asian boy trying to insert himself between me and the man on my chest. He grabbed kisses when he could, and chewed on my nipples when he couldn’t.

The furry muscle dude looked at my cock, red and wet and big and much in demand, and looked at me, and looked at the guys competing for my attention. When his lips worked a little, silently, I knew exactly what kind of guy he was: a competitive top.

I’m not judging competitive tops, mind you. I’m a highly-competitive top myself. Are there any true tops who aren’t competitive at heart? We want our cocks to be the biggest, the thickest, the hardest—the best. We want our fucks to be the most memorable. We want to be, more than the prettiest or the biggest or the strongest, the most desired in the room. At my cockiest and my most son-of-a-bitchiest, I get it.

This guy had swagger, though. I had to give him that. After he sized me up and (correctly) determined that I was his biggest competition in the room, he made his way to the bed and hauled the bald muscle guy off my dick. The bald guy didn’t care about the rough treatment; he’s used to being manhandled. He’s got a built frame, but he’s pocket-sized and easily manhandled. His mouth was still in an O-shape from sucking me when he landed on his knees in front of the furry dude. The furry top roughly shoved him down on his dick, gave the back of the bald skull a push, and started getting the rest of the blow job I’d been enjoying myself. Then the furry muscle top looked at me without expression.

I got the hot one now, he seemed to be saying.

I wasn’t flustered. I don’t get threatened so easily. Besides, I’d already had my dick inside that hole he was currently fucking. I raised my hands up. Used them to cradle the back of my head. The daddy who’d been straddling my chest moved down to my dick and started to suck. The Asian kid took his place, eagerly thrusting his dripping cock into my stomach as he greedily made out with me. Meanwhile, the guy working my feet continued to do my thing. I didn’t look back in the furry dude’s direction, but I could tell he was watching.

He decided to escalate it. He turned his little bald bottom around and shoved him forward so that the guy started edging me off the bed. Then he pried apart the bald guy’s ass, spat in his palm, rubbed it around, and shoved his cock in. I know how to fuck Junior Mr. Clean; I’ve been dicking him for over a year. Just stabbing it into him isn’t going to do it. My bald buddy’s face was screwed up not in that sweet mix of anguish and pleasure that lets me know I’m doing my job right, but in outright pain. He was pro enough, though, to bite his lower lip, close his eyes, and power on through. Then the furry top decided to poach another of my men—the daddy on my dick. He pulled his skull off my rod and pushed the daddy’s face against his broad pec.

I found the move a little sleazy, to be honest. I’m not the kind of guy who asserts himself by showing up others. In a group situation, there’s plenty of fun to be found; when I’m on the playground, I don’t feel the need to snatch other boys’ toys just so I can climb to the top of the jungle gym. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let the guy see that he was irritating me. So I got up on my knees, turned the Asian kid around, and slowly started to lube his ass.

I squeezed out a dollop of the stuff and rubbed it in. Another clump of the cold goo went from my palm to my dick. Then I pressed the head against that hairless hole and rubbed the tip around the dark fringe of hair before I started to slip it in. I went in slow, inch by inch. The kid rested on his palms and panted and groaned. The muscle bottom stared him in the eye.

I wasn’t in a hurry. While the furry top kept humping away with little rabbit thrusts, I slid the length of my meat in and out of that tight hole. I was putting on a show. I just didn’t acknowledge the audience. The other top might have been making the bed jiggle more; he might have been making more of a ruckus and making his bottom hiss with pain, but my bottom was hitting low baritone notes of pure pleasure.

I hadn’t seen the Asian kid before; he hadn’t attended any previous parties. He was a handsome boy, though, with a faint trace of a mustache and a lean body. His butt, though . . . fucking perfection. Round, smooth, blemish-free. And he fucked like a dream. I pulled him up so that his torso reclined against mine. “You love this dick, don’t you,” I breathed in his ear.

“Yes, fuck yes,” he replied, his eyes slitted.

That’s all the validation I needed.

The other guys attending started to crowd around the bed to watch the double fucks. The daddy wrenched himself away from the other top’s nipple to kneel down and lick at my hole as best he could, while I fucked. I tweaked the kid’s nipples fiercely while I ground into him. They were as hard as pencil erasers between my fingers. The muscle bottom had reached out to jack at the kid’s uncut dick. “Crap,” I heard him say. “Oh crap.”

Cum spewed from his dick in the way a carbonated soda erupts from a bottle after a vigorous shaking. It splattered the face of the muscle bottom, landed on the pillows, hit the cabinets behind the bed. The kid yelled as he shot, shuddering in my arms.

I waited until he subsided, and fell forward, totally spent. Then I pulled out of him. My cock was wet, the skin flushed and slick from the fuck. I just let it hang there, unsatisfied. I liked the look.

So did my blade friend. Even though the furry top was still jackrabbiting away at his ass, my muscle bottom buddy had had enough. He detached himself from the top’s dick, winked at me, and then lay on his back with his legs in the air. I grabbed his ankles and slipped right in.

I don’t grab guys away from other tops. I don’t play that way. I let the bottoms do the choosing.
It didn’t take long for my bald friend to shoot. My dick reaches his prostate perfectly, and I know him well enough by now to push that button perfectly. I slammed it again and again; he lifted his butt higher for me until he was holding his own legs for support. This is how an alpha top fucks. No bad sportsmanship. No poaching. Just good old-fashioned banging until the bottom is pushed beyond the point of no return. The bald guy let loose with a small load on his stomach, panting like a dog the entire time.

I waited for him to recuperate, then slowly snake out. My dick was still wet. Still slick. Still red. Still hard. Still unsatisfied. The daddy tried to grab at it, and the Asian kid wanted to suck it, but I gently wrested myself away. I’d been at the center of the crowd for a while. I took myself to the edges, and let someone else occupy the vacuum I created.

I’m not surprised when the furry top joined me on the sidelines after a moment. He looked down at my dick.

“You know how to fuck,” he said in a low voice. He had a Long Island accent.

“Thanks man,” I said, casually leaning against the wall. My dick was still a stiff length poking out in front of me.

He licked his lips. His next question was more tentative. “Maybe you want to fuck me a little.”

I let him wait long enough to wonder if I’d heard the question, before I reply. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be hot.”

“Not here, though,” he said. I understood. He’s got his pride.

I jerked my head. There’s another bedroom downstairs that The Professor lets me use when I want a little privacy.

I don’t grandstand. I don’t poach. I stick to my own style. I let the bottoms do the choosing. I’m a competitive top, and today was the day I won.

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