Thursday, August 7, 2008

Back in The Swing

After being temporarily laid off from my hostess gig at Erick’s swing parties in midtown I returned to find not much had changed in the past few months. Though the hostess turnover had inevitably produced a few new girls, Star was still monopolizing men; and save for the two black leather padded swings and the long spanking bench Erick had installed on the second floor, all else, including the curtained off beds and massage tables and scent of incense in the lounge, remained the same.

Well, except for the new “bowling for porno” playing on the TV. The big butts had been replaced with a “gangbang in a bowling alley” themed fuck flick complete with extra long shots of, well, actual bowling. As hard balls sailed smoothly down lanes, crashing into phallic pins, and close ups of guys sticking fingers inside dark holes appeared on the screen, I began to wonder if bowling was some newfangled fetish I’d somehow missed. Admittedly I’d never been a fan of bowling, but then I never knew it was an erotic sport.

Technically Erick’s party this night was S&M themed, hence my being brought back into the perverted fold, but I didn’t have time to make an equipment stop at Pandora’s beforehand so I had to borrow a leather paddle from one of the stripper hostesses (who knew strippers carried paddles?!) when the submissive chick and her co-worker kink buddy arrived. They were both newbies so I gently bent the chubby nervous woman over the padded bench on the second floor and gave a quick art of spanking demo. Then I suggested they head over to Paddles (after checking with nipple torture Johnny as to which night was the most happening) to mingle with real lifestyle players.

Returning to the lounge I found that another one of Erick’s personal trainer friends had shown up. I watched curiously as he darted about the room grabbing used plastic cups and emptying trash bins like a coked up maid, wearing a red baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a loose fitting, white knit shirt that teasingly hinted at steel muscles. Erick caught my eye. “He’s not a paying customer,” he ribbed. I introduced myself just to be cordial then plopped down on the couch to chat with an extremely laidback black guy who surprised me by saying he worked as a trader at Deutsche Bank. As the vibe in the room settled into high school basement party Erick decided it was time for some fun and sex games.

“All the guys line up on the couch!” Erick ordered and as they tentatively did all us hostesses makeshift blindfolded them with Glad trash bags in order to play “Whose mouth is that on my dick?” with a tall, light-skinned black hostess with the comic timing of a bitchy drag queen serving as emcee. After passing out condoms she and Star took part in the first round followed by a game of “Whose titty is that in my mouth?” (she and Star again) and the non-mandatory, extra bonus round of “Whose pussy is that in my mouth?” (Star). The Deutsche Bank trader won but, unfortunately, we’d forgotten to specify a prize. I suggested giving him Star.

After the sex games I finally got a chance to chat with Erick’s delicate but fiercely stylish queen friend, asked if he was a designer. He replied that yes, he was “in fashion.” I became excited as “Daddy Cool” came on over the second floor speakers then frustrated as I blanked out on Boney M. “Damn! Which group is this?” I asked impatiently. The queen shrugged. “You know, the lead singer’s all pimped out, they’re from Berlin,” I prodded. “Kraftwerk?” he guessed. “Does this sound like Kraftwerk?” I sighed and started to ascend the stairs to the lounge but was stopped by the bodybuilder. “Did you just return from vacation?” he asked, referring to my tan. “Nope, just a day at Jones Beach,” I replied from halfway up the flight. We talked briefly and I learned he was thirty-six years old, Puerto Rican and Italian, worked for David Barton’s gym – and couldn’t stand Gio because he’s “arrogant” (wasn’t that part of the personal trainer/hustler job description?)

The conversation seemed innocent enough so I was a bit startled when as I was leaving at the end of the night I again passed him on the stairs. “Can I get your number?” he wondered. “Sure, why not,” I shrugged and gave it to him. He asked to see what I look like so I flirtatiously lifted up my postage stamp print, summer mini-dress and did a silly little whirl around. “Wow, you have a great body,” he nodded then added that he already knew I had great legs. “We’re definitely going to get together, come over to my apartment in Queens, just take a cab and I’ll pay for it,” he enthused the words spilling out of his mouth. I smiled amused and told him I had to get up early. “No, not tonight but soon,” he replied. I just kept walking down the stairs as he sighed, “Now I’ve got a hardon,” and left him all hot and bothered. As I exited onto the litter strewn street I realized his voice reminded me of Javier Bardem’s in Woody Allen’s latest “Vicky Cristina Barcelona,” which I’d just seen at a press screening two days before. David’s voice had that same ring – the romance-language tinged accent on English the sound of seduction itself.

After sleeping a good seven hours I awoke the next morning to find a text message on my cell delivered at 1:47 a.m. “Good night. I cant wait 2 fuck u.” I made a mental note to call my swing party "cougar” friend Jude to ask about the latest stud. I couldn’t remember his name.

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