The Sweetest Swing

I received an Evite for my friend Lisa and her hubby’s annual “Sex and BBQ in Suburbia” shindig. That night in honor of Jude’s fiftieth, the swing party became a birthday bash with Trader Joe's chocolate cake and chocolate Liquid serving as the naughty games hostess, presiding over spin the bottle and “dirty dice” (one die had commands such as “eat” and “blow” inscribed, the other body parts both specific, “breast,” and subject to interpretation like “below the waist”). An adorable, young, black bi couple proved the most adventurous with the huge boob female half devouring pussy and locking lips while everyone else shyly did a lot of kissing of knees and backs (though I did manage to “eat” Wilson’s “breast”). Liquid dribbled candle wax over her cunt, peeled it off and offered the mold as a present to Jude. Even so it was way more sweet sixteen than debauched swing.

That is until the master and his slave girl showed up. Jude had met them at a party awhile back so she knew that the master was a Russian in his forties, his slave a bit younger – and that she lived five blocks from Jude! Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to meet them as the master immediately got naked and forced his peek-a-boo lingerie clad slut to suck him off in the middle of the lounge. Soon several other men began to saunter over to grope her tits and ass. Her eyes were closed and I knew she was floating high above on another planet, her physical form safe in the hands of her master. I couldn’t help but become nostalgic for David.

Luckily a tall muscle boy wearing a baseball cap to the side, Eminem style, appeared to jolt me out of my reverie. I plopped myself down on the arm of the chair he was sitting in and introduced myself, asked what he did, where he was from. He was a construction worker from Brooklyn but the accent wasn’t. “I’m Polish,” he disclosed. It seemed Jude wasn’t the only one with a neighbor at the party. We started talking about Greenpoint, about my landlady’s penchant for elaborate ornamentation and kitschy Polish eagles (“Did drag queens design your building?” my friend Derek once asked me), and about the local nightclub Europa – which made me nostalgic for all the men I’d met there, flirted with, screwed, and wished I hadn’t. “Those buildings are so ugly!” he complained about my landlady’s taste, and “The crowd’s too young!” about Europa. “How old are you?” I wondered. “Twenty-nine.” He asked what I did so I told him I was a dominatrix. “Oh, boy,” he sighed, shaking his head with a look that said he thought I beat people up for a living. Minutes later he was up wandering the room. C’est la vie, I thought. I wasn’t about to go backwards, pretend to be a normal straight chick. I’d already learned my lesson long ago – that bad sex comes in even the most incredible packages.