It is not like it is on the movies, but I guess nothing really is. Life isn’t staged as a visual representation of emotions, life is to be lived.
Cerys and I had travelled across London to go to a party in an industrial estate. She had met a guy in a pub who had told her about the party. A beautiful man, looks like that rugby player, but probably a lot smaller, like they look on TV. Cerys wanted to meet the guy again and I was her wallflower.
It was a lovely summer evening. Warm enough not to worry about wearing more than party clothes. I wore a T designed by a friend, a cherub with an AK47, and jeans. Cerys wore a little dress. She was really hot, the little dress was a wonderful combination of colour and sparkle in an abstract pattern based on the nude. The kind of dress that gave the metrosexual an excuse to check out her booty. I carried her heels in my bag. We set out from her flat after nine, I love the way sun setting late in summer creates a different feel in London. London definitely had a party atmosphere that evening, not a football crowd hard drinking party, a sophisticated dignified party. A tube, a train and a bus then a stroll through a council estate before we got to the empty street of the party. An art studio, or an IT startup, a little difficult to tell as the place had been transformed into a venue. It was a big space, dozens of people chatting on the one side, a gaggle dancing about a dj stage decked out with flashing lights and in the distance a collection of sofas. It should have been the moment for an enthusiastic launch onto the dance floor with a plastic disposable cup of white wine. I always dance with white wine, hell, if I spill my wine I don’t want to ruin someone’s outfit.
It should have been a dance moment but instead came the toilet debacle. My tummy was tight and I felt a rumble and left Cerys with Jeremy and his friends to join the long line for the toilet. I tried not to show my growing discomfort in a queue that didn’t seem to be getting shorter. Cerys joined me for a little in the line, Jeremy had gone round the back of the building… Why don’t you go round the back, all the guys are pissing there… I don’t need to piss… oh… She left when Jeremy came back and I waited.
The toilet was nice, when it was my turn, a large room more suited to an IT startup than an art studio. As I squirted jets of soft shit into the toilet I worried about the smell I would be leaving for the next person in the line so I took my time. When I tried to flush the toilet just filled and filled my shit floating about in the swirl. For a moment I thought about sticking my hand into it to avoid the embarrassment of facing the women in the queue behind me but fuck it. This was a party. This is probably what it is always like for women at parties. I washed my hands and slipped out as unobtrusively as possible heading straight for the sofas. They were nicely empty and only dimly lit; I could sit, relax, give my tummy a break and watch Cerys for the sign that I could leave.
A loud drunk man scooped up a woman and lurched towards the sofas. For a moment I panicked, thinking she was the woman in the toilet queue behind me but as she got closer I realised it was a different woman. The couple crashed into my sofa and sprawled. I folded myself into the corner. I gave them room but I was cornered by the woman’s rather shapely naked legs as the couple canoodled.
I don’t think she even realised I was there.
I felt a little awkward as the man’s hands wandered over the woman’s arse, lifting her skirt to reveal sexy, silky knickers. His fingers pushed aside the knickers disappearing into her hidden pussy. It was hidden, too dark and obscured by his hand, it was not like the pornos with their gynaecological cinematography. This was about knowing what was going on, right next to me a couple were getting it on and I was the only person at the party that knew what was happening. In a weird way I felt part of it, I was a prop in their production, a paid extra. The couple pulled apart for a moment as he lifted his bum to pull down his trousers. His cock flopped out. It was surprisingly thick, circumcised. It was quite a beautiful thing resting against his leg in the half light before disappearing behind the woman’s head. The woman was now kneeling on the sofa, her arse pointed at my face. The man’s fingers delved beneath her knickers again. Surprisingly, it was still not like the pornos. All I could see was the back of his hand.
My private voyeurism did not last long as the couple’s friends soon noticed they were not at the bar. They were all drunk too, crashing across to the sofa area with comments like: Bazza’s got his cock out again and go Trace. And suddenly I was surrounded. I was really trapped now, to get away I would have had to push past the rowdy friends. I couldn’t imagine doing that without attracting comments, this was worse than the toilet debacle. I could only sit and wait it out. Wait until the couple were done, or until the friends got bored.
The man stood the woman up in front of him, he pulled down her knickers and threw them at one of the women in the friends group. He spun her about, sitting her where he had been sitting a moment before, stepped out of his trousers and placed them, neatly folded, on the sofa between them and me. There was no drunken wavering about it, his actions were as precise as a practiced performer, in a whirr he was between her legs the friends cheering and encouraging but nothing to see as the man’s face hid her pussy and his shirttails hid his arse. The rest of the party drifting across in dribs and drabs to see what the commotion was. Some of them taking a photo before drifting away; hiding their curiosity beneath a facade of nonchalance until they are alone with their confidants and able to giggle at the video clip. Some of them might say: doesn’t that guy on the sofa look horrified?
I felt horrified. Not at the couple next to me. I enjoyed the next little snatched intimacy as the man donned his condom, I could view that in detail. His cock was as fabulous erect as it had been flaccid. It was bigger than my cock but not as long as I had thought it would grow to. The head was nicely large and pointed, almost aerodynamic and the shaft with its bulging veins proclaimed his potency. Her pussy looked ripe, wet with his saliva and her juices. Then he was ready, his cock looked silly smoothed into a cigar shape by the rubber of the condom. And it was gone, all that could be seen of him was a bum shape jerking in time to the music hidden by his shirttails. All that could be seen of her was two legs poking out and her hands running through his hair as they kissed.
The friends lost interest. Though they didn’t walk away, they stayed in the sofa area and chatted or danced. The rest of the party was no longer interested in finding out what was happening on the sofas. It seemed that I was the only person there who was still aware of the couple fucking at the party. They fucked for a long time, I have no idea if they had great orgasms, or, indeed, if either of them orgasmed at all. They seemed to slow down and stumble to a halt rather than reach a noisy crescendo. He sat next to her, sorted out his condom and slipped his trousers back on without much of a show. She smoothed down her skirt.
And I remained folded into the corner of the sofa. I most certainly didn’t feel like I had watched my own personal porno sex show. I just felt awkward.