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.
