The Party Ch. 09

I would not be the "winner" if only I could cum in the next twenty seconds. I hoped the time delay while the vote was taken wouldn't adversely affect my ability to relieve myself of this incomprehensible burden.

The Hostess commenced counting downward from twenty and Ms. Two placed the nearly-full glass under the glans of my throbbing organ just in time to catch the voluminous liquid that escaped the tiny slit in the head of my penis. I had miraculously been saved and now could actually breathe.

Before the announcement of the women's vote, the Hostess had ordered both of us to stop stroking; now Four looked at the mess that the other whites and I had left in the glass with obvious trepidation. I could see that he was both resigned and disgusted by the act he was about to perform. He had lost by a stroke or two, at the most, and looked sickened by the thought of drinking the five loads of cum nearly filling the inside of the martini glass.

The Hostess addressed Four, with that same shit-eating grin on her face that I had noticed when she announced the "contest" to us white men in the first instance.

"We are not cruel people here and we don't want you to have a severe case of blue balls."

"You have my permission to cum, Four, if you still want to. Of course, you'll need to do it in the cocktail glass."

For reasons we all understood, Four politely declined her generous offer. I felt true sorrow for his predicament but not so much empathy that I would want to exchange places with him. He had lost and now he knew he must pay for that privilege.

Ms. Two was ordered to deliver the martini glass to Four, who grasped it in both hands, lifting it first as if to toast his witnesses, and then pulled it to his lips, showing a smile that did not reflect his true feelings, I was sure. As he poured the contents into his throat, I could see his gag reaction take over and he began to choke on the sheer volume of the cum-filled cocktail.

The Hostess exhorted him, "Don't you dare spit any of that out, boy, or I'll have the others refill that glass for you to drink."

Somehow, he was able to drain the glass and keep the contents down; the crowd applauded his Herculean effort. I appreciated the narrow escape that I had endured and said my appropriate "Thank You" to the God who must have spared me.

The contest was over; the day was nearly over; the party was certainly over.

The whites were told to reform their lines, grouped again by sex, as they had when they had first entered the room and were marched back through the dining area single-file, each man holding the man in front of him by his ball-sac; the women with one hand on the left breast of the woman in front of her.

We found all of our clothes piled in the foyer. They looked as if they had been shuffled and mixed as one might see in the aftermath of a tornado or other natural disaster. It seemed such a short time ago that Annie and I had piled our garments neatly as we had disrobed in this very room, worried about being seen by others after we disrobed. That was not a concern now.

The Hostess told us that we had two minutes to get our clothes on and to get out of the house as our usefulness to this party was over.

It was with apparently great glee that the remaining party goers watched as the six white couples pawed and pushed, pulled and groped to try to find our various clothes and shoes; we put on what we could before we were made to leave the safety of the residence.

There was no underwear in the pile and there was no explanation of its being missing; we never knew where our undergarments had gone. As we have thought about it since, we have speculated that the blacks wanted to tweak us one last time by making us ride and drive without the benefit of underwear; there seemed little other explanation.

Neither Annie nor I even tried to put on our shoes or stockings while inside the home. Dressed only in our outer clothes, we went out into the darkening twilight of the driveway area, replaced the shoes to our feet and settled into a quiet and uneventful ride back to the drugstore parking lot and to our waiting car.

As we were exiting the Host and Hostess's home, we could hear the party goers laughing and enjoying themselves at our expense. We knew that all of the day's activities had been filmed; that was obvious after they showed us the tapes evidencing our foolishness in the bathrooms. We could only imagine that they would enjoy replaying those tapes as the party continued for the remainder of the night and, probably, after that.

Neither Annie nor I said a word on the ride to the drug store, or even afterward on our short trip home, but our conversations since have often been dominated by our varied recollections of the party day, the things we both endured, in and out of each other's view, and the sheer excitement of the myriad acts themselves.

We have thoroughly discussed whether we might want to be guests again at another such interracial party. We think we would.

We wonder if the film of our party participation will ever show itself again and are curious, if it should, what would be the context of such a re-airing. We sometimes wish that film didn't exist but, at the least, we haven't been bothered by it yet.

We have come to the conclusion that the men who used Annie that day were certainly hand-picked for the exceptional size of their sexual apparatus and their ability to perform in front of a crowd. We have since become aware of at least two groups of black men who seem to host these, or similar types of parties, on a fairly regular basis, although the format seems to vary depending on the group.

Here, in California and maybe a few additional states, we have become aware of a group called "The Crew"; in Florida and Atlanta, Georgia, there may be another diverse group called the "Mandingos".

Both of those groups, we have read, have minimal penis-size requirements and we are convinced that the men of either or both groups would have fit in well at our party. In fact, our Hosts may have been members or precursors of a similar group, we will never know.

We have questioned each other, and tried to answer ourselves, about what motivated us to want to attend such a gathering in the first place: Annie and I consider ourselves to be relatively sane persons, with, perhaps, a bit of a socially liberal inclination. We support the concept that, as long as any sexual interaction is consensual and safe to all parties, there is no harm in it. Last, we are certainly open-minded and non-judgmental about the interpersonal activities of others.

In our discussions, we often attribute much of our own interest in interracial sex and play to the "forbidden fruit" aspects of those activities, as I discussed earlier in this memoir. Surely, there must also be a bit of white shame in us about the way blacks were historically treated in our country's earlier years, but neither of those factors completely answers the motivational question for us.

We also have speculated about the Hosts' and guests' reasons for wanting to participate in such a get-together. The black men benefited by gaining access to a variety of white women at the party, but that is not all that uncommon in current times.

The black women, who remained clothed and relatively safe almost the entire time we were together, present another quandary: what did they get out of the party? Their men played with other women in front of them and they were certainly limited in their use of the whites. Except for brief times, they were basically excluded from active participation and yet, there is an obvious answer, as well: these women, especially the Hostess, directed the abasement of both the white men and women; they were always in a superior position and I'm sure, came away feeling honored by both the white women, who were basically playthings for the blacks, and the white men, whose ultimate humiliation was embodied in the last game, the masturbation marathon, as I've come to view it. They were the guests of honor, in a way, and we think that may have been their ultimate reward.

Sometimes we wish we could share our experiences at the party with our friends and acquaintances, if for no other purpose, to gain feedback. We have chosen not to do so, to date.

We have come to the conclusion that we are simply risk takers and that we don't want to find ourselves on our death beds moaning about the things we hadn't experienced in this life. That seems to be as close as we can come to the real answer for us.

Annie has never spoken to me about her having, or even wanting, another black lover after that day; our relationship seems to have weathered my questions and doubts raised by what we learned at the hands of our Hosts and their guests.

Our sex life seems to be good and satisfying for both of us for the moment and, yet, we have discussed that fact that we might entertain the thought of bringing in an additional lover for Annie at some later date. After all, I reached my sexual peak in my twenties; Annie's is yet to arrive. I am intimidated by that aspect of our continued discussion but we feel our marriage is strong enough to withstand the addition of another, should that be our desire in the future.

Finally, we have wondered, as the computer age has matured, if booklets such as Best Black Swingers, even exist anymore. It seems probable that the various Adult Yahoo Groups, CollarMe, FetLife and maybe even a more vanilla medium such as POF have probably supplanted the purpose of such a magazine.

Regardless of the method of introduction, it is feasible to imagine that parties, such as the one we attended, take place periodically in cities like ours across the US and we are reasonably confident that the attendees, both black and white, find them exciting and fulfilling, as we did.

As an aside, I want to tell the readers that, as I wander the streets of our city's business district from time to time, I am certain that I hear a voice intone quietly, I guess when the speaker assumes I cannot hear, "That man was number three at the party back in September."

I sometimes try to make eye contact with the speaker but he or she, and there have been both, just smiles knowingly at me and continues on his or her previous path. It's as if they seem to feel they already know me, very well.