Temple of XXXXgula

She wondered if he had noticed the mirrors on the ceiling, she doubted he had. He was intent on her, under him, on his neighbors, on the gawkers in the bead-strung doorway; she caught it all in the mirrors up above. She saw her face, staring back at her, her double trapped in the polished surface up above, presenting her with lifted eyebrows and a quizzical expression as she saw him moving all around her. Her knees kept knocking on the wall as she felt him pleasuring her with his hands, his mouth. She closed her eyes in the hopes of shutting out the world and sinking into the moment, despite herself, despite the eyes that stared back at her from the ceiling.

There were loud moans emanating from the settee that was perpendicular to the one they were on, each one louder than the last and she also thought she heard a spanking or slapping noise somewhere. She wondered why she was always silent as she heard the moans sounding in unison, in a room where four amorous couples were at various stages of their journeys across eleven minutes of ecstasy. For her there was the mirror, a bizarre tableau of frenzied activity and an attention span divided between receiving the pleasures of the flesh and inquiring into its manifestation in such a setting. Soon enough she was the fortunate recipient of an expertly delivered climactic moment that sent several minor tremors surging through her insides; her line of inquiry now morphing into the relationship between the stimulation and titillation of a few handful of her nerve endings and this state of extreme emotional detachment from her surroundings.

When climactic moments aren’t concurrent there is always the matter of payback and a state of emotional detachment from ones surroundings doesn’t make for fair quid pro quo, especially when there is an audience; an accusing audience expecting a diligent lover’s efforts to be reciprocated in kind. But the missionaries had provided the solution a very long time ago. The missionary solution allowed for considerable latitude in the maintenance of emotional detachment; a state of detachment that she often felt in her dreams when she was walking around naked, in streets, in subways, in offices and unable to find a way to clothe herself. She wasn’t sure whether the faces in these dreams glared and mocked or whether she was simply detached enough to feel immune to them; life went on in these dreams, even without clothes.

It was all over, for everyone, within a few minutes. She heard him ask their neighbor on the adjoining settee what was to be done if one hadn’t remembered to bring in a towel on their way in to the room and the neighbor who was still being pleasured by his partner in the cheerleader skirt, answered mid-moan, with ease, that the used sheets could be used as a towel since all the linens were headed for the hamper anyway. He then went back to moaning and grimacing. The ones who were done were scrambling for shoes, wallets and missing underwear, some couldn’t even find the ones they had shed.

That was how the night ended.

How it began was people trickling in, two at a time, checking in their BYOB drinks at the bar and then staying seated while the TV screens showed amazingly bouncy and acrobatic women sliding up and down erect phalluses to a thumping beat…she marveled at their agility. If that was the universally acknowledged means for getting people in the mood, it did surprisingly little for her. They looked so mechanical, so robotic.

The place was spread over three floors, each floor distinguished by the level and intensity of activity. She felt tortured sitting around waiting for the midnight hour, for two hours, not knowing what to do with herself. All around her people were being shown around by the hosts, being told where the private rooms, the semi-private rooms, the bars, the hot tub, the hampers for used sheets and towels and the condoms were. For two hours people just kept walking up and down, scoping each other out while she whined about leaving, she was bored out of her mind and a little nervous about the activities that would transpire at the midnight hour.

He refused to leave, of course. There was no escape. And then the pole dancing contest started. The hostess came over and asked her if she would like to be a contestant. She stared dumbfounded for a few speechless seconds and finally said, “Me? Noooooo! I’ll watch.” So she watched as Shannon, Cindy and Betty took turns romancing the pole in various states of undress, being asked to take it all off.

The winner was announced and presented with a gift after which various ‘poles’ started converging upstairs for several minutes of being similarly romanced.

The next morning things were the same, nothing was different. Was she different now, or was she just different? Things didn’t seem to touch her or affect her in generally expected ways. Her life felt like a movie, she felt as though she was following a badly written script.

They discussed the experience of course. He seemed to agree with some of what she was saying, especially when she said, “This is a meaningless sham when it’s devoid of emotional attachment. How can people just sit around waiting, doing nothing, just thinking in their heads when does the sex start, when does the sex start? How is such a thing exciting?”

But the experience was admittedly exhilarating for him, he had put on a performance, it had felt exciting, doing it in public. It must not be a problem for men to get from zero to 100 mph in zero seconds flat.

She wondered what could have made the experience equally exhilarating for her. Getting sexually involved with someone needed to start with an initial attraction, an attraction that encompassed several points, not just physical appearance. She might want to get to know the person over several meetings and conversations; she would need to ensure that there was nothing about a person that mentally or physically repelled. It couldn’t happen at a place like this where she was saying hi one moment and bucking and moaning the next. Sex without an emotional connection was as dry and abrasive as sandpaper.

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