As my sapphic soiree approaches, I’ve been watching with bemusement my own, if not frenzied, at least slightly manic… behavior. Every element of my behavior, every element of the fantasy, has a fractal nature to it. What began as a relatively simple fantasy of a bunch of women and me first meeting in a bar and then progressing to a hotel room for a night of primarily oral fun has been expanded, blown up, into multiple constituent parts. And each of these little explosions interests me. Some are familiar, and others are new. All are fascinating.
I’m going to walk through the way the evening currently sits in my mind, as well as at least some of the bells and whistles I have attached to it, and try to deconstruct their purpose as it relates to my insanity. To begin with, recruiting. Six women have consented to participate. Five of them are known to me. We have a history. I’ve stretched with Polina, and with Saya, and with Cee, as well, incidentally, as with Serena.
Elena D, the only one I’ve never met previously, at least online, is the fruit of a bounty that I offered both Saya and Serena. I said to each of them that I’d give them a few dollars if they could deliver a guest—how they used those dollars was up to them – including possibly compensating that guest. I liked the idea of a stranger in the mix. Initially, my fantasy had been that Anastasia would generate a room full of strangers for me. Saya came through. Or at least, Saya delivered a woman who has thus far consented to participate. We shall see if she materializes.
But I love this idea. I’ve written before about how exciting I find the idea of a woman procuring a woman for me. At an earlier stage in the unfolding of this fantasy, I imagined Anastasia conjuring all the women, and holy shit, was that hot to me – it located her at the center of the fantasy. The way in which a woman’s procurement of another delivers me the reward—not just of a woman, who by the very structure of her recruitment will have consented to being used by me as I might choose—excites me. On top of that, there is the procurement itself. The fact of the procuress wanting to please me, accepting implicitly my nearly infinite appetites, and attending to them graciously, generously, serves as further excitement to me. Anastasia struggled here. So I stepped up.
Then, there’s the selection of outfits so familiar to readers of this blog, in which I delight. This seems to speak to my lifelong quest for control, power—presumably to medicate a sense of impotence and chaos that I fear and strive to avoid.
There’s the gathering of the women at a table apart from me. I can’t even begin to parse all the ways this touches on anxieties, hopes, and desires of mine. First, foremost…. I will at least partially be a (the?) subject of their conversation.
Then there’s the power that comes from simply being a nexus, the one thing all these beautiful women have in common. There’s the visual stimulation I will get watching seven beautiful women sit around a table not too far from me while I write in my notebook. There’s the exhibitionistic excitement of the others in the restaurant seeing the same view I have, not knowing that the view is mine. Not just the view, but the women. Having this powerful secret makes me feel powerful relative to everyone else in the room.
I’ve written before about how my dad‘s homosexuality was a secret from me until I was 17. No surprise then that, as an adult, I find a certain safety and compensation in having a secret of my own.
There’s the progression of the women to me, one at a time. This is harder for me to understand. I don’t know why it is that this is infinitely more exciting to me than either my joining them at their table or their joining me at mine. It suggests to me that there is something—a thrill— I anticipate in the receipt of each woman, in her arrival, in the moment in which our being separate shifts to our being together.
This is, of course, reprised in the staged ascent to a hotel room.
There’s the question of the order in which the women arrive. This is a fractal moment for me because I can’t decide which is hotter—my specifying the order or Anastasia’s determining it, and my receiving the consequences of her decisions. [pause] As I think about it, I think this latter option is better. The not-knowing is hot. Not knowing is not hot to me when it includes some possibility of disappointment. But if all that awaits me is excitement? Then the sign of not-knowing inverts—I’m not anxious, I’m eager.
In recent days, I had the idea of little gift bags for the ladies, and this too has provided a fractal opportunity. Gift bags themselves evoke birthday parties in my childhood. Also, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, and weddings. And, classy sex parties.
But first, birthday parties. I’m having a party. I’m being celebrated. Everyone’s there for me. The gift bags memorialize/indicate/establish that.
And then there’s their contents—whimsical, functional, and hot. The scrunchies that Anastasia selected to hold the women’s hair back, as in just a few minutes, most or all of them will suck my cock. The little THC chocolates, which offer the possibility of a literally intoxicating experience. The bottle of Prosecco—same, plus a touch of class. This is not a tawdry evening. I’m not a desperate, needy john to whom these women are submitting their bodies. I’m a celebrant with them of their beauty and willingness.
The lube, the condoms—those are functional. The blindfolds—they offer a tantalizing option of further submission and trust. And then, in a final fractal note, the gift certificates. Each of the gift certificates has its own value to me. Sure, they’re gifts from me, but each of them represents a gift to me as well. And, the t-shirts – well – all I can say is, they feel a bit to me like an over-the-top piece de resistance.
Finally: the administrative elements of the fantasy—the table of contents I’ve assembled, the gift certificates themselves, the gift bags themselves. I’m not just the lucky beneficiary of all this. I’m a demonstrably virtuosic organizer, convener, party planner.
