Rick was narrating my sexual experience with my screaming blonde friend, like Howard Cosell calling the Thrilla in Manilla
By Shaun Costello
Excerpted from the “Seventies” manuscript:
Sex, Gangsters, and Deception in the time of ‘Groovy’
My girlfriend Ann had taken a job working for an aging literary agent named Kurt Hellmer who, because of his advancing age, had let his business slip, and had lost many of his authors. Ann, who was the best-read person I knew, was a quick reader with amazing retention, and she seemed to have a knack for spotting publishable manuscripts from the huge slush pile that came across her desk daily. My continuing porn involvement was not spoken about, and my plan to sell the golf film that Bill and I had made the previous summer to a television network seemed enough for Ann to tell her parents about, in order to justify her continued involvement with me.
She had been talking for a while about the two of us trolling a “Swingers” bar, looking for some erotic adventure. Ann considered herself to be on the vanguard of the sexual revolution – a master player in the game of erotica. But none of this was true. She was just a smart, manipulative “Five Towns” girl who had read too much Anais Nin, and derived considerable pleasure from creating embarrassing scenarios for her malleable and impressionable roommates from Long Island to play out. Ann herself however, seldom took risks, being uncomfortable in situations she did not control. Not wanting to be involved in one of her ridiculous sociological experiments, I made a series of excuses for not participating, but Ann was relentless. The more I resisted, the more she demanded my involvement, until finally, I gave in from sheer exhaustion. But I knew it was a mistake. Ann in a party full of Swingers? This had disaster written all over it.
She searched through the alternative classifieds, and came up with an ad that seemed perfect. There was a restaurant down in the financial district called “Smitty’s” that served lunch to stock brokers and, because there was no night-time business in that area, they leased the place out after-hours to groups who hosted private parties. The ad in the Village Voice suggested that these parties were attended by open-minded couples, and that no single men were allowed.
We arrived about nine on a Friday night. The price was ten dollars a couple, which seemed reasonable enough, and there were maybe a hundred people already milling about. Ann was a very attractive 23 year-old cutie, so most eyes in the room followed our every move. About half the crowd was out on the dance floor gyrating to Elton John’s Bennie and the Jets, and one by one, we were approached by couples looking to hook up. The MO seemed to be that couples met here at Smitty’s, and then gathered later on at private parties for
some intimate activities. As we met more people I became aware of an odd phenomenon. The men made all the arrangements. Women took no initiative and seemed satisfied to be included in the coupling negotiated by their male partners. Women’s lib did not seem to have affected the Swingers set. After several private-party offers we were approached by a couple named Rick and Ione. They were a bit older, and of course Rick did all the talking. They were having a few couples over to their apartment later, and maybe we might like to join them. “And Shaun, maybe you would like to dance with Ione”. Ann and I exchanged looks, and Ione led me out
to the dance floor where we slow-danced to Barbra Steisand singing “The Way We Were”. Ione made sure that our crotches were seriously grinding against each other and told me that this song always made her cry, which she proceeded to do. As we slowly did our turn on the dance floor Ione looked up at me, Streisand-induced tears running down her cheeks and said, “I saw you when you came in. I want you in my mouth. I want you in my mouth now”.
Their apartment was on West 54th Street, between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, and about ten couples had been invited. Ann, who seemed extremely nervous, was off somewhere doing god-knows-what with Rick, while Ione led me into her bedroom. Along the way she had taken a female friend in tow, and proceeded to slowly undress us both. She had closed the door, assuring our privacy, which I thought was a nice touch. Ione’s idea was to choreograph a sexual encounter between myself and her girlfriend, and participate as she saw fit during carefully chosen moments. I have to confess here that it was exciting, within limits, and that Ione, although several years older, was imaginative, and resourceful. I also have to admit to thinking, at the time, that I was living out a scene from one of my own movies. She spread me across her bed, placing her girlfriend over me but facing away. Ione was extraordinarily proficient at oral sex on both men and women, or at least she professed herself to be, and proceeded to slowly lick and suck each of her co-conspirators in this frolic, as she drew us closer together in the process, until we were joined.
Ione was at the bottom of the bed, her noisy mouth glued to our genitals, and as the motion grew faster and mutual orgasm seemed approaching on the near horizon, Ione suddenly, but assuredly,
like she had done this many times before, knelt up, reached into her mouth, and removed her teeth. Well, this was certainly a startling development. “There”, she said, “This will make it better”, and she leaned over and put them on the night table right next to my face, and resumed her oral endeavors with a new fervor. I guess it probably did feel better, but the sensation of the joined male and female genitalia, enthusiastically licked and slurped by Ione’s tongue, not to mention Ione’s gums, was just not as fulfilling when, right next to my head, were Ione’s dentures; a full set, uppers and lowers, a whole mouth full of teeth, like something you saw in a gag store that wound-up and chattered. At this point comedy overtook erotica and, although we somehow took this cumbersome adventure to completion, my heart was just no longer in it. Post-coital Marlboros were passed around, and Ione didn’t seem to need her teeth to smoke.
I wandered out into the common area of the living room, where mixed groups seemed huddled in twos and fours, touching, and munching on each other’s body parts, while others were sitting naked on the couch watching Johnny Carson. Ann was nowhere in sight, which relieved me of the responsibility of making sure she was enjoying herself, a burden she seemed to relish delegating to others, usually me, which never really worked, but that fact never kept her from trying. Ann’s happiness was my responsibility, in the world according to Ann.
A young, cute blonde girl, maybe twenty, came out of the kitchen, grabbed my hand, and led me to the other side of the room. ‘Where have you been?”, she asked, “I’ve been looking for you”. I had noticed her dancing back at Smitty’s, and thought she was pretty cute, but hadn’t seen her at Rick and Ione’s until this moment. As she started swallowing my face I realized that my intermission was over. I ate her for a long time. She was sweet, and responsive, and came at least twice before I removed my mouth from her clitoris. We seemed to have become the main attraction, as most of the party guests gathered around us in a circle. She turned over on her stomach and spread her cheeks apart. “Shove it in my ass, go ahead, give it to me, give it to me.” Well I didn’t have to be asked twice. I could sense the crowd drawing closer around us as I started fucking her harder. “Hurt me. C’mon, hurt me”. And I was fucking her much harder now, and we were soaked with sweat, and she was screaming, and all of a sudden I became aware of someone’s mouth very close to my ear softly saying, “They met in a swingers bar. When she saw him across the room she knew she had to have him. She knew he would do her bidding, no matter what she asked. Anal
sex was what she needed and she was going to get from him no matter what”. I looked to my left, and it was Rick, who was narrating my sexual experience with my screaming blonde friend, like Howard Cosell calling a Mohammad Ali fight. “She wanted to experience the shame of anal penetration. To be subjugated by his masculine will. By his strength. By the pounding of his cock”. And my partner, who seemed to not hear a word of this narrative blow by blow, was still screaming for me to hurt her, over and over again. Rick softly, but audibly continued his narration to the delight of the crowd of sweaty party goers who seemed caught up in the whole rhythmic, slamming, screaming, narrated event, until she came, and I came, and we melted into a puddle of two sweaty swingers, and all I could hear was the sound of our breathing; and of course Rick, whose relentless narration continued. “She felt the intrusion of his manhood deep within her willing rectum, burning her, scalding her into a submissive jelly. Tonight she got exactly what she needed”. Well, nothing like a good narration to put things in perspective.
In the cab on the way home I asked Ann why she was being so quiet. “Don’t even talk to me”, she responded. Evidently I was guilty of something. Crimes against Ann, no doubt. “How could you?” she asked. I remained silent because it seemed like the best course to take. “You went down on her”, she scowled at me. ‘You never go down on me. Never. And you went down on that waitress, or dental assistant, or whatever that stupid slut was”. A bit judgmental on Ann’s part. The girl might have been an astronaut. “Ann, this whole thing was your idea, remember?” An attempt at making sense got me nowhere. Ann was insistent, “A stranger. You ate out the cunt of a stranger. What about me? What about my cunt? What about me?”
We remained silent for the rest of the cab ride, and I let Ann out at her building on East 48th Street, then headed home. Why did she ever leave her husband, the Doctor? Why did I let her talk me in to doing this? Probably because I knew that something amusing would happen, and it did. I thought about Ione’s teeth all the way home.
© 2013 Shaun Costello
This entry was posted on January 14, 2013 by shauncostello. It was filed under Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello, Uncategorized and was tagged with Barbra Streisand, Bennie and the Jets, Consenting Adults, Elton John, Group Sex, Howard Cosell, Ione the Swinger, Muhammad Ali, Orgies, Orgies in the Seventies, Rick and Ione, Rick the Swinger, Seventies Orgies, Sex, Sex Groups, Sex in groups, Sex in the Seventies, Sex Orgies, Sex with multiple partners, Sexual experimentation, Smitty's, Swingers, The Way We Were, Wife Swapping.
This makes me remember the first (and, to date, only) visit to a straight swingers’ club. All the girls wanted to talk with me because I was the only non-threatening man in the building (not to mention the only man not drooling over the few girls that were in there at the time). Only two guys in the place got any kind of sex, and, not to seem indelicate, but I was one, and at that point, there were no more girls in the building.
January 23, 2014 at 3:19 am