Sunday, October 22, 2006

Party Girl

It was strange to drift through the party, from room to room, pretending.

I haven’t been to a black tie affair in quite some time, so I decided to go all out. I knew that this was going to be the biggest party of the year, so I took extra time and care with my dress and appearance. By the time I was done, I looked much like a Tango dancer: slender, black, red, haughty, yet all barely-contained sex.

It was one of those parties where everyone who is anyone shows, and an opportunity for the social jostling and posturing that inevitably occurs at these events. I have my own place in this hierarchy, stable grounding thanks to family, and additional prestige, albeit shaky, because of how I’ve built upon my tower. As I wander the rooms with my mother and friend, we three make the requisite air kisses with various presidents of things, politicians, and CEOs that we encounter. It is a mass gathering of the power elite, and I find it intoxicatingly hot.

Over the course of the evening, I see men with whom I am intimately familiar. It is interesting to observe the different ways they respond to my presence at this venue. I see sidelong glances, appraising me on the sly. There are those who steer themselves and their wives out of my course, only to be caught later staring at me from what they think is an unobtrusive vantage point. There are those who feign a cheerful unfamiliarity with me, smiling at me and giving me a fatherly hug as if it had been years since we last met and I was only thistall. I love the ones who while greeting me, thinking no one is looking, take that opportunity to subversively pinch my ass, brush my tit, graze my cunt.

However they choose to play our meeting, I’m game, and bear them no grudges. I’m as invested in the pretense as they. I feign demureness, shyness, meekness. The brief up-look from beneath long lashes. It would not do for your wife to be aware that while she was spending long hours planning this bash or attending those functions, I was in hard labor myself, sweating underneath you or bucking like an unbroken mustang on top of you. Coaxing musk and steely masculinity out from under years of dusty disuse.

I am supposed to be doing other things. Working (but not this kind of working). It would be a horrendous scandal if anyone knew that I was making this frequently decades-younger body available to these men who are hoping that somewhere within the Fountain of Youth springs eternal. Or to feel desirable again. Or to scratch that itch that they find the wife is no longer willing to scratch. That thing that no matter how much money you spend cannot, at the end of the day, be bought.

Here, I am the best kind of fuck. Discretion is virtually guaranteed by both parties. We see each other socially; you are long-time friends of my parents. At the same time, we have struck an arrangement in which I have been made available to be at your beck and call, ready to strip down and get on my back, spread my legs and labia wide, and beg for you to please fuck my hungry pussy, or to grasp you by the nape of your neck and pull your head roughly between my knees and order you to service me well – whichever you like. I am just as willing to let you bind my wrists to my ankles and force-feed me your swollen member as I am to put on my platform slutboots and leathers and flog your naked fleshy ass while you whine about being worthy. Neither of us will say a word, and I will always be safe, because any talk or damage would put into jeopardy our respective places on the social totem.

It is the best kind of deal. We all get what we want – you get the agility, freshness, and eagerness of a young, ready, and willing fucktoy when you want it, and I get my cunt filled as much as I like with a bit of extra reward for the risk. And the security of knowing that due to artifice and arbitrary social rules that govern the more outward parts of our lives, no one but us will ever be any the wiser.

And if my husband’s reaction to my dress at the party was any indication, my dance card will be quite full for quite awhile. I can’t wait to hear from you.


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