It was a pretty preposterous party. Cheesy trance played on the stereo, whiskey and gin and red wine flowed freely, the guests were dressed variously in latex and velvet, leather, harnesses or nothing much at all. Within the first couple of hours the real meaning of the ‘fur and feathers’ theme was chaotically revealed; six Ikea cushions were slashed with knives so they disgorged their contents all over the room in a thick, shifting sea. A carpet of feathers, so ridiculously soft against our skin that at first it felt like a hallucination. So she and I rolled around in the sea of feathers, with our latex pulled up and down and all around, tits and cunts on show, groping and snogging and widening our eyes at the camera flash, whispering and giggling.
And then C decided to get out a tin of golden syrup, like the delicious panto madwoman that she is, and suddenly everything was sticky and smeary. There were feathers in cunts and feathers stuck to sternums and feathers forced up arseholes by hilarious fingers. Our fringes were crusted with syrup, and our torsos glued together queasily when we hugged, and the music got louder and uglier, two tracks playing at the same time. There weren’t enough baby wipes and everyone kept losing their e- cigs and mobiles in all the feathers.
And all the time, in one corner or another, half-ignored, half on show: a skirt pulled up, a cock pulled out of a pair of silky knickers, the background noise of gasps and sighs and leather hitting flesh, yelps as a tit pump suctioned itself to another pliant mound of flesh. A gas mask, a skewiff Bet Lynch wig, a crop, clouds of glitter. There were cackles and moans and sighs and the spluttering noise of an orgasm denied as I lay on my back on the sofa with him kneeling in front of me, my legs scissoring open and shut around his hand.
But my climax was interrupted by a mouthful of white fluff thrown from the wings by some nude sticky prankster or other, filling my mouth and throat and throwing me off my rhythm at the very worst moment. I laughed, unconcerned because there’d been plenty of orgasms already, and there’d be plenty more. It was only a postponement: not a denial, not really.
At around 1am D wrapped his arms around my neck, and drunkenly informed me that he loved me, because I was such a weirdo, that we were all such weirdos, and I looked around, at the host on all fours in the sea of feathers, and C dancing around like a dying swan, hair wild and pale skin coated in patches of gluey fluff, and then over at two of them, gazing at each other in the way that made my heart melt. I hugged him closer, and told him I loved him too, that I loved what weirdos we all were, and cried with joy into his neck because I loved my life so much now it was weird and shiny, and they’d made it that way, all of them: they’d made my life so weird and shiny and sticky and full of love.
And then I sucked his cock, because it was that kind of party.
Four days later, and I’ve been advised I should try and write something about the party or the rest of the weekend. There’s too much to write about, and I’m stumped. Where do I start? Do I try and capture the whole thing? Do I drill down into the detail of one moment? I could maybe pick a moment from the early hours, when the three of us went home and tried to sleep but failed, and then stayed awake all afternoon fucking and resting and fucking again.
Should I try and capture the joy of tasting us both on his moustache, or the feeling of waking sandwiched between them, warm beneath their duvet, legs tangled and lips pressed to candied skin? Or my delight in watching her tighten the straps around her thighs and then crawl back over the mattress towards me, laughing and forcing my legs apart with her hands?
I could describe the exquisite sense of disbelief when I felt the rush of liquid as he pummelled an orgasm out of her with his fingers… or when I slid my thumb round and inside her cunt, my hand inside her to the knuckles for the first time. But how? How do I describe that? I don’t know where to start. I’m not even sure I know how to make words do any of that.
I sigh with frustration and flick away from the nine sad words I’ve managed to squeeze out. I check my email and find a zip file- photos from the party, taken by D, whose pics always have this weird, blurred otherwirldly quality. I don’t know what he does, what filter he uses, but his photos all somehow look as if his camera is on drugs.
I unzip the file, and there we are, all of us: limbs and feathers and cocks and gas masks. The lens looks coated in syrup, like his glasses when he lifts his head from between one or other of our thighs and the lenses are smeared with cunt juice. I see her tattoo and her neck, long and bared above her tits, swollen and rounded inside the tit pumps. I remember her shouts as the cups tightened and wish I’d been sitting next to her on the sofa, stroking that soft skin where baby hair meets nape, my mouth ready to dive in with comforting kisses when the seal was broken and her perfect tits were freed again, to circle the red ring left behind with my tongue.
And then there we are, me and her, rolling around in the shifting sea. I’m peeking over her shoulder with my hands possessively cupping her breasts, and then in the next lying alongside her, staring at the camera with wild joy. Our heads together, my hand on her neck, legs open, lips parted, clouds of angelic white at our waists and in our hair.
I look at the photos again and again, flicking from one to the next, my cunt throbbing as I remember the sharpness of countless featherspines digging into my flesh compared to the impossible softness of her skin, of her lips. I lie with my hand resting on my belly and think about my fingertips sliding over and around her clit, about how her cunt is maybe the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, how when I’m looking at it I just want to look at it forever but also kiss and lick it for longer than that.
And then there’s no way I can write about the party because my brain is taken up with thinking about the party. About him tying my wrists in place with the thinnest gold ribbon you’ve ever seen, and promising me dread punishment if I break the ribbon, but then shoving me against a wall, his hand warm at my throat, and forcing me to come so hard that it was impossible that I could stay conscious of the ribbon, snapping it unthinking as I jerked almost angrily back and forth beneath his hand. I try and remember the punishment, but all I remember is the orgasms that followed anyway, too many to count, randomly bestowed and with such delight, such kind and laughing and generous delight.
I look at the two remaining strands of ribbon still looping my wrist four days later. So thin, almost invisible, and yet so strong. It was a ridiculous party. The day after I spent in bed with my darlings, and we licked and sucked and fucked and laughed and they made me come until I cried. I cried into her neck with happiness just like I cried into D’s the night before, because it’s all so weird, and shiny and sticky and soaked in love. And she wiped away my tears, and then we fucked some more.
And so I give up on trying to write about the party. Because how would I even describe it all? Where would I even find the words?