When I fled my first orgy, I said something about sand in my contact lens and turned around in a hurry. There was no sand.
The second time I was brave enough to admit my fear, but not strong enough to overcome it. I still ran away.
He’d been upset when I’d first suggested it. Now that he’d come around, I was chickening out.
The third time we finally made it down the hallway of flowing scarves. We emerged into a sparsely furnished room lit by undersized sparkling bulbs. At first I could only make out waves of movement. As my eyes focused the waves resolved into backs, thighs, tangles of hair and flesh.
I grabbed Steve’s hand tight and pulled him fast toward a wall so we could regroup and develop a plan of action from a less exposed position.
“People are having sex in here,” I whispered.
“I think that’s the idea,” he said. We watched for a while.
That night we lay side-by-side chastely while I dreamed of backs, thighs, entanglement.
“Maybe we should each go alone,” I said. “Maybe it would be less awkward if there was nobody familiar in the room.”
He pouted for a week.
I showed up for my fourth orgy early. I was alone.Courtney Sherwood is a freelance journalist and winner of the 2012 Sledgehammer fiction contest. She blogs infrequently at www.courtneysherwood.com.