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When did sex become a group activity?

So when did sex become a group activity? I’m not asking in the historical sense. I know all about those nasty Romans and Greeks (God bless them, every one). I’m asking in the personal sense, because, as of late, for me it has all sort of stopped making sense.

In light of my years on earth, I’m something of a neophyte when it comes to group sex. It’s only in the past ten years that I have allowed myself to go to bathhouses, not that it happens with all that much frequency; nine occasions, to be precise. Those experiences weren’t all that fun (although I did manage to have fun) and at no time did I engage in group activities; I just stuck to the basics of one-one-one. Granted there were multiple one-on-one encounters during those visits, with breathers in between, but no actual group activity per se. This year I have been to three sex parties and hosted one group scene in my basement. At the sex parties I continued to play one-on-one, with the exception of a single, 20 minute scene that involved about ten guys. Even then, I only played with two out of the ten. The details of the scene I hosted were shared in a previous post:

I have done my share of three-ways, but I don’t consider them group sex because at least two of the guys know each other, whereas anonymity plays a big part in the appeal of group sex. Minus identity, we’re more likely to hand ourselves over to the experience rather than spend time worrying about what others will think of us before, after and during. Or at least that is part of the appeal for me.

The thing is, the idea of group sex kind of populates all my fantasies lately, but not in the way that I would have thought. The idea of being part of some sweaty pile of male flesh, having my orifices probed by a bunch of dudes whose faces I can’t see does not appeal to me… much. It is more the idea of being watched by others while I am being used in some manner. I imagine some dom dude taking my hole doggy-style encircled by a group of six other guys, some of whom are cheering us on while waiting for their turn at bat. In all these fantasies, my dom top is very verbal and in control of the situation, deciding who gets to use me when. This scene will never happen – not to me anyway. It only happens in porno films and to the young, buff and pretty. Still, there is part of me that clings to the hope that one day I could be the object of so many erections.

I think this scenario is at the heart of why I have been seeking out sex with more than one person. It’s like one person isn’t going to be enough. I will need more. So I put out these ads on craigslist, not promoting a group scene, but one-on-one scenarios that my little devil-heart secretly hopes will be booked too closely together and morph into a totally “unintentional” group scene with me as piggy center stage. Not that it ever works that way; at most, I have had two guys show up at about the same time. We had fun, but it’s not what I actually (secretly) hoped for, although I do enjoy the thrill of being walked in on during the middle of something.

So when did sex become a group activity, in my mind? When did one become not enough? The idea began somewhere and like a train bound somewhere fast, it has just continued to gain speed. This ideology probably has its roots in LA, although the tea room scene became part of my mode of operation during the year that I spent in Iowa prior to moving to California. However, LA would have been the first time I experienced the high that came from serialized sex. I recall one sunny afternoon in a park at a cruisy mens room where I managed to make out with and get off six guys before I lost my own load. It was crazy, but intoxicating.

This restroom was a popular place. I remember spending a number of afternoons poaching men from other dudes in the stalls, luring guys in from the tennis courts, or watching on a park bench, looking for signals as men walked into that dank abyss of sexual iniquity. The place stank and was filthy, but that did not prevent business men in expensive three piece suits or preppy looking jocks from strolling in there in search of some quick head. There were three stalls. My favorite stall was the one at the end because it was hidden from those walking in when the front entrance door was open, leaving one plenty of time to recover or move quickly into the middle stall. None of the stalls had doors, so if somebody was sitting on the can with his pants around his ankles for any length of time, you knew damn well what he was there for.

In the year and a half I played at that park, which was situated near a Jack-In-The-Box off a main drag in Santa Monica, I never saw a single cop anywhere. With no cops in sight, people, moi included, became pretty brave and foolhardy. I remember there was this gorgeous Hispanic man who claimed to be married. He was younger than me, with a full head of beautiful black hair, a great body featuring a small waist and a big bubble butt. He loved to take it up the ass and I was more than happy to oblige him. I fucked him several times behind that open door, doggy-style while standing. He would make such a racket; it was amazing that no one called the cops. On more than one occasion we actually did attract a crowd. There must have been about eight dudes crammed into that little space, most of them working their dicks while my Hispanic Bottom sang the praises of my tool ramming his tight hole. I loved putting my hands on top of each mound of his butt cheeks and pushing down with all my might as slammed in and out.

On another such occasion, a sweaty, out of breath jogger came leaping in. He apparently knew what to expect because his face registered no shock whatsoever at the sight of me porking a Hispanic dude in a mens room with a bunch of guys watching. The jogger’s body was perfection kissed by the sun. All he was wearing was his shoes, socks, a jock and a tiny pair of jogging shorts. Taking in the scene and not missing a beat, he whipped down his shorts and pulled out an already hard cock from his jock. He jerked away, his eyes wide and intent on the sight of my dick working the fuck out of that Hispanic dude’s hot ass. In a matter of moments the jogger’s cum was spewing everywhere, hitting the filthy concrete floor of that little hellhole with a satisfying series of splats. It was enough to send me over the edge and I let loose my own load, ramming and jamming at full throttle. I didn’t even have time to catch my breath before the jogger had repackaged his spent dick and vamoosed. It was definitely one of those – Who was that masked man? – kind of moments.

I’ll save the details of my day of six in Santa Monica for next week’s post; to include them now would make this piece run long and dilute my point. I mention it this week because my activities there, with all of those strange men – one after another, left me on a high unlike anything else I had ever experienced. I never had that kind of luck in Iowa, where I was lucky if I stumbled on one dude willing to play, let alone six. That day in the park in Santa Monica was the beginning of my obsession with multiple encounters. My desire for more than one followed me to downtown Minneapolis, where the skyways beckoned and visits to certain restrooms became part of my daily routine. However, I quickly discovered that Minneapolis’ attitude toward this type of fun was highly prudish, and learned to be much more guarded when pursuing sex in non-traditional places. Once I left downtown and began working elsewhere in the twin cities I discovered the various parks that I now haunt and my hunt continued.

During my recent sexual downtime I have been pondering whether some of my practices and habits should be altered. My apparent emphasis on seeking out multiple encounters and partners is one such preference that needs to be analyzed. I don’t know if it’s healthy, but then I can’t say that it’s not. Part of me asks, “Who is it hurting?” And the answer could very well be: me. As I reach the end of my self-imposed sexual exile, I tend to want to lean toward the “Why fix it if it’s not broken?” school of thought. But, as with a lot of my recently developed (within the last ten years) sexual habits, practices and preferences, I remain on the fence, unsure in which camp my foot belongs; one camp being safety and common sense and the other sexual liberation and adventure. I’m very aware of the risks involved in what I do and while I want to play it safe, I also want the thrill. It’s like that breakfast cereal commercial: the adult in me knows what the sensible thing to do is, but the kid in me wants to be sexually intoxicated as frequently as life will allow. It would seem I want my cake and to eat it, too – which is an apt analogy, since it’s the frosting that’s so damn dangerous. It’s the age old problem of: how can it be so bad when it feels so good? As adults, we all know that too much of a good thing can be bad.

Or is this not such a black and white issue? There are certainly enough polarized views out there, some of which are based on common sense, some of which are based on science and history, and some of which are based on the fact that a dick wants what it wants. My inner slut definitely has an opinion about which way I should go, but then so does the guy with the job, the guy who is responsible to his family, and the guy who has to visit his physician three times a year for STD screens.

Can I get by with a foot in both camps or am I only fooling myself? Is it simply a matter of time before I’m found out? And when that happens, can I live with the consequences? Will I be ostracized by both camps?

I know the right thing to do; I just don’t want to do it – or, more to the point, I just don’t want to stop doing it.

As the Duchess said to Alice in Alice in Wonderland: Tut, tut, child! Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.

Well, I am searching… probably in all the wrong places, but I am still searching: in the bushes, and the woods, and down by the river, and the prairie, and that parking lot, and that mall…

My inner slut probably deserves a good spanking.

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