Porn stars do it. Legendary figures did it. Even “normal” women supposedly fantasize about it. And I find myself increasingly intrigued by the idea of it.
“It” is a gangbang. The word sounds harsh, even vulgar and crude, but I find myself unable to stop thinking about it, gradually becoming as seductive and enticing as an ad for the latest hair care or makeup product.
My imagination starts working overtime: to be the center of such undreamed-of male attention. Not just one but many males, all wanting me and only me, the star, the sun around which they orbit. Me! — or is it just my willingness to please? — excites them all. For an hour or two, I’m their raison d’être. I’m the life of the party. Yes, I’m the center of a gangbang. Mmmmm….
I research the topic: The gangbang record is said to be 620 men within a 10-hour period, held by a porn queen named Houston. In ancient Rome, Messalina, the young wife of old and doddering Emperor Claudius, challenged the most famous prostitute of the time, Sylla, to a gangbang competition. Messalina lay on one couch, and Sylla on another couch nearby, as each took as many men as she could. Accounts vary about who won.
But I’m not in any kind of competition, so why in the world would I ever entertain the idea of doing it? Do I need to keep score, to prove my sexual prowess? Am I neurotically obsessed with making men (the more the merrier) hard? Do I need to prove that I don’t have to be a man to boast of my sexual conquests? That my gangbang would thus be proudly proclaimed as a feminist act?
Is my quest ultimately then a philosophical one: to quantify and thus to scientifically measure something (sexual desire and excitement) that is so subjective it can’t be measured any other way? It’s the difference between apparent and absolute magnitude, as astronomers might explain it.
But I doubt that’s why suburban housewives, even soccer moms, do it. Surprisingly, they have a number of upcoming “events” posted on the various gangbang sites and online groups I visit. Sometimes, they’re announced as “birthday parties” — husbands wanting to shower their birthday girls with men, or some wives wanting to give themselves as a surprise party for their husbands. The “birthday boy” is obviously a voyeur, a secret only his good and loving wife would know.
My reasons are different, however — more noble. For I have the excuse of being a writer. It’s my ultimate excuse for just about anything, even the most sinful, outrageous behavior. I am on a quest for knowledge, the more forbidden, the better. But, still, I’m worried.
What if I announce myself available for a gangbang, and no one comes to my party? What if only one or two men want to sign up for my event? One of the male members of the group sex online group I join offers to hold my virtual hand; he will be the “Organizer” of my very first gangbang. Although no money will change hands, “Organizer” sounds just like another name for pimp. Or more benignly, I decide to view the Organizer as a kind of butler, taking care of all the little administrative details for which the star of the performance (Me!) won’t have time. I’ll be too busy making myself pretty, psyching myself up for my Big Event.
Okay, I tell him: Maybe. Let’s see what happens.
I propose my set of ground rules: All the men must use condoms. He agrees, no problem. I will offer only one orifice to service the multitude of cocks — my mouth. An oral gangbang is just fine, he says, as long as it can be combined with bukkake. This means that when the men are about to cum, they peel off their condoms and shoot their spunk all over my face and body. I limit number of participants to five.
“Twenty-five,” he e-mails back.
“Ten,” I counter.
“Twenty-five.” He’s adamant. “Since it’s bukkake, there’s got to be tons of cum. If a bukkake event is advertised for only 10 available spaces, nobody will bother coming.”
“Advertised?” I ask, suddenly nervous again. Mr. Organizer explains the procedure: how my event will be posted on the group’s website. When group members express interest in my event, I’ll be able to check out their profiles and select who Mr. Organizer actually invites to attend.
“Cumslut7,” he suggests, should be my member moniker. That should get everyone’s attention, yet distinguish me from others. And attention is what a gangbang is all about, isn’t it? Not too different from a writer craving bylines. I laugh to myself. It’s nervous laughter.
I laugh. I rationalize. Offering myself up to be gangbanged will be not much different from trying out a new hair salon, I tell myself. Naturally nervous, I don’t know quite what to expect and will go ahead in a spirit of good faith and trust. But if anything bad happens, it’s not my fault. I can blame it on the stupid stylist — or Mr. Organizer.
I try to make contact with other women who’ve “had their hair done.” But only a couple of my inquisitive, chatty messages to female members of the gangbang group are answered. The answers I do get are so vaguely worded they might as well be in some closed society’s secret code: “Don’t worry, hun, you’ll love it. Hugs….” “Your first Event will be a great success. BTW, I adore your Event’s description!”
Ah, yes. My announcement, as posted by my Organizer: “Gangblow/Bukkake. 7 p.m. Sunday. Hotel location to be announced. Cumslut7 needs more than a few good men to satisfy her incredible oral urges. Cumslut’s fantasy is to suck and deep-throat as many cocks as possible. Then she wants you to cum all over her face and/or give her pearl necklaces to complement her little black dress. All the cum will then be gathered in a crystal wine goblet for Cumslut7 to drink while you watch. Organizer will videotape the event, but participants’ faces will of course not be recorded. Available spaces: 25.”
Over and over again, I go to the gangbang site to read my advertisement. I’m worried about that drinking cum part, but Organizer assures me I won’t really have to do it. It’s just part of traditional bukkake and not including it in the announcement would keep attendance low. I can just make believe I’m drinking and then gag. I can promise the attendees I’ll keep the cum-filled goblet as a kind of trophy, to savor later.
I’m feeling more and more alone as I re-read the words about me, Cumslut7. But all star performers feel this way, right? It’s lonely at the top. It’s the price I must pay for being the center of attention. I have nowhere to turn except inward. I swear I can feel my heart beating against my ribs as I see my laptop screen filling up with applications of the men who want to attend my event.
I check each applicant’s profile, which includes lots of details about his penis. Then, after I’ve digested the information, I give a thumbs up or thumbs down. With an instantaneous click of my computer’s mouse, I can either deny the poor guy’s application or make the lucky fellow’s dreams come true. Ah, what power!
I don’t know if the 50 or so applications I receive are a valid statistical sample of the male population, but I can tell you this: Almost all the applicants’ cocks are claimed to be at least eight inches. Could they all be liars, I wonder? A slim, but surprising, majority are “uncut.” The ages range from teenagers to a man in his sixties. Some of the applications include little personal messages, like an optional essay for extra credit: “I’ll be saving up my load for you, baby.”
Two days before the scheduled event, I’m so anxious that whenever I eat, I feel like throwing up. But if I don’t eat? Cum, like alcohol, is probably not good on an empty stomach.
I try to distract myself. In flipping through old newspapers and magazines, which I hoard like a packrat, I come across a story about a Pakistani woman’s being sentenced by a tribal court to a gangbang! Her crime: adultery — not even committed by her, but by her brother!
I think I should volunteer to take her place.
Instead, I email Mr. Organizer and post a new message on the gangbang site. I cancel the Big Event. It’s better to cancel, instead of just not showing up. Will everybody hate me now? I can’t help thinking about all the men’s weekend plans I’ve spoiled. What if I really decide to do it one day, will I ever be believed? My cancellation note gives me an open option, just in case.
“I so want to be filled with your cock and cum, but my allergies are acting up, and I’m afraid I can’t breathe through my nose, and you don’t want me to suffocate, do you? Let’s plan on another Event soon, okay? Hugs, Cumslut7.”
This story of my gangbang that never happened — not yet anyway! (or did it?) — is the third in my series exploring the sexual frontier:
My (Oh, So Brief!)Time as A Streetwalker.
What’s It Like to Be the Object of a “Tribute Picture.”