foxy & the ridiculous lesbian orgy

 

Whoever finds the fox, gets to fuck the fox. These are the words written on the dry erase board of  my living room. There are twenty-five half-naked women in my apartment. It is almost two a.m., and the fox hunt is about to begin.

But I’m getting ahead of  myself.

When a friend needed an extra “girl-on-girl” story for her live storytelling event, I volunteered immediately. I’d been fucking girls long enough, so I knew there had to be a story in my past somewhere. But a week later, I was wracking my brain for a good story and coming up empty. Well, there was that time when we ran into Baptists while skinny dipping, but it wasn’t very sexy. Then there was that epic Scrabble game, but no. I did remember a great story involving my ex and a gnarly yeast infection, but if  I told that story on stage I would never get laid again.

I think the problem is that cock is always funny, all the time, but I take pussy very seriously.

I had no story to tell, but the fliers had gone out and time was short. I had no choice. For the sake of  science—nay, for the sake of  Art, I had to take matters into my own hands. I had to throw a Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. If  you construct the context for a story, are you actually experiencing the story, or are you just experiencing yourself  experiencing the story, thus negating the veracity of  the experience? If  real things happen in an artificial context, does it count as “true?” I’m a writer, these are the things I think about. Nevertheless, I figured if  the story had enough hot dyke action, no one would really care if  I pulled a bit of  a James Frey up on stage.

I’ve never read The Secret, but living in Northern California, you tend to absorb it from your surroundings. I think the gist is that you send a powerful request out into the universe, and the universe provides.

Well, I email out the invitation to the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy, and not three minutes later I hear from downstairs, “Hey Allie?”

It’s my roommate, Lydia. “Hey, Allie? My mom’s visiting this weekend. It’s cool that she stays here, right?”

My brain screams, “NO! No it’s not okay! I’m throwing a Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy! Your mom can’t be here!” But then I hear a mild, new-agey voice in my head saying, “Allison, you called this into being. You can’t just send it away.”

So instead, I say, “Sure, Lydia, that’s okay. No, in fact, I insist your mother stay here this weekend.”

I sent out the invitation on a Tuesday. On Friday night, my apartment is filled with twenty-five half-naked women, and already I consider this a success.

The ridiculous starts right away. We have Hitachi races, if  you know what I mean. And we have Hitachi Jeopardy, which is very, very difficult. Try conjugating French verbs next time you’re having an orgasm. Seriously, just try it.

If  you’ve been to an orgy or play party before, you know that there tends to be waves of  excitement. There’s the first fuck-hungry hump-fest that happens early in the evening when everyone’s nervous and excited. Then it kind of  mellows out and everyone ends up snarfing at the snack table or processing in the bathtub for a while. The next wave happens rather late, when everyone is finally asking for what they really want and fucking who they really want to.

Freshly bathed and full of  hummus, we’re approaching the second wave when my friend decides that she wants a scene of  a fox hunt. It’s the night before the royal wedding, and everyone’s feeling kind of  sentimental about Britain, so we say sure, we’ll do that.

Foxy congregates seven women and starts explaining the details of  a traditional fox hunt in her beautiful (authentic) British accent. The rest of  us look warily to one another.

“I didn’t sign up for blood play,” Dee says.

Foxy assures us that there will be no cutting off  of  tails and stamping foreheads with bloody stumps. Instead, we’ll rip off  the bandana she has stuck in the waistband of  her underwear, and then we’ll fuck her.

And we look to one another and say, “Oh we can totally do that.” “Yes, we’re in.” “Let’s go.”

She goes on to say we’ll each have a role. There’s going to be a hunt-mistress and hunters and hound dogs and horses. As she’s explaining this, Glo shouts “Wait!” and runs over to her bag and pulls out a bunch of  animal hats. There’s a bunny rabbit, a panda bear, a tiger, amazingly enough a fox, and there’s…a wolf. Now, you should know I have a penchant for wolves, specifically lesbian werewolves, since I spent the past three years of  my life writing and publishing two novels about them.

I put on the wolf  hat and it seals the deal. I’m in it, finding my inner furry and deciding that she’s a pretty rad little wolf. I start to growl and bare my teeth. My fingers curl like paws, and I pull against Tiger’s arm as she holds me in place like the good hunter she is. Foxy has us put on strap-ons, so we harness up while we whip ourselves into a frenzy, stretching and jumping, barking and cheering. At this point we’re all a little fuck drunk and drunk drunk, so we start going there...fast.

We’re blaring trumpets. I’m barking like a big ol’ hound dog. We’re shouting and making a hell of  a ruckus, when we hear a key in the front door.

We are seven women standing in my living room, in bras, panties, huge hard-ons, and animal hats.

And my roommate walks in with her mother.

We stop. We plaster on sweet smiles and call out “Hi!!!” like we’re preteens at a slumber party.

Lydia’s mom pauses in the living room, takes in the scene, and waves. We wave back. “Okay! Nice to meet you,” she says. She hurries to the kitchen, grabs two beers from the fridge, then returns to the guest room and shuts the door behind her.

We launch right back into the trumpet blares and woofing.

We sound the trumpet. Foxy gets a thirty second head start and tears off  up the stairs. We hear her heavy footsteps overhead as she tries to find a hiding spot. The footsteps clatter for a bit and then silence.

A thing you should know about my apartment is that it’s a rather big loft, but it’s not, say, English countryside big. So, Foxy gets her head start, but there’s not a lot of  places to hide.

We charge up the stairs en masse, letting the hunt-mistress, Bunny Rabbit, lead the way. She runs to the sitting room and sniffs and waits. Nothing.

Then she leads us to my office. We wait. Nothing.

Then she creeps to the door of  my bedroom. We listen, my wolf  ears rotating like little satellite dishes. There’s an intense pause. Then, with a clatter and an explosion of  dirty underwear, Foxy bursts from my hamper. She leaps to my bed to try and escape, but I’m right there and let my newly acquired animal instincts lead the way.

I grab her around the waist and drag her to the floor. She’s on top of  me, kicking and screaming and biting and punching, but I’m holding tight. The girls are screeching “Flip her over! Flip her over! Flip her over!”

Foxy elbows me in the chest as I flip her over, and I get her ass in the air and her face is buried in my tits. Bunny Rabbit rushes over, grabs the bandana from the back of  her underwear, holds it triumphantly above her head, then throws it to the ground. Foxy fights, but she knows she’s done for. Bunny Rabbit takes a condom from the top of  my bureau and slowly rolls it on her cock.

There’s a moment of  reverent silence as we all realize, “Oh my. This is a gang bang.”

Bunny Rabbit yanks Foxy’s underwear down to her knees while I’ve still got her pinned. She struggles against me, but she’s surrendering. Her face is buried so deep in my tits that all I can see of  her face is that fox hat. It’s staring up at me with these sweet, brown, mendicant eyes. I think, Oh poor Foxy, you should’ve run faster.

Bunny Rabbit lives up to her namesake and gives it to Foxy really good, her ears flopping over her face as she humps like, well, a rabbit. Then Tiger is up with her hot pink harness and dildo, and Foxy groans into my ribcage. Despite the carpet burn I acquired in my wrestling Foxy to the ground, I enjoy the massage on my back as we rock back and forth on a pile of  my dirty drawers. By now she’s given up fighting completely and is just holding on tight as the women take her in turns.

A procession of  be-dildoed women take on the fox, punishing her for her impertinent running and hiding. In the meantime, the rest of  the party goers have crept upstairs, sitting on chairs and pillows in a semicircle around my bedroom’s open door. One of  them is passing around snacks.

Finally, it’s Panda Bear’s turn. She insists we all call her Mei Sheng. The harness hits her in the right spots, and she’s moaning more than Foxy is. From my vantage, all I can see is Foxy’s little fox face staring up at me, and cresting over her shoulder there’s a little plush panda face staring at me with vacant black eyes. I wonder, is this where Red Pandas come from?

Foxy’s near her limit but it’s still my turn. I edge out from beneath her and roll a condom onto my fingers to give her a break from all the cock. I ease my fingers into her. She’s wet and gaping. As I milk her g-spot whilst all my friends watch through the bedroom’s open door, and the moans and shouts of  other women echo throughout my loft, I have one singular thought: The Secret fucking works.

Talk about declaring something powerfully. The Secret is the reason I had twenty-five naked dykes humping in my apartment. It’s is the reason I discovered my inner-furry, okay? I’m proud of  that. The Secret is the reason my besties and I strapped on animal hats and cocks and wailed on our buddy until she couldn’t take any more. The Secret is the reason I was able to get hella laid after I told the story on stage. And you know what else? I think The Secret can save the world. Seriously. Because I’ve never met anyone else who could convince a panda to mate in captivity.