I Was the Belle of the Ball at the Cum-Fest. I Left Covered in Sweat and Loads.
The Boyslut shares the story of taking and giving countless loads at Gush, a Monday night sex party in Hell's Kitchen. This essay is part I of II.
Full disclosure: I’m three martinis in writing this bad boy, so this BOYSLUT is somehow even more raunchy than usual. You’ve been warned. (And a sort of NSFW pic of me below, too.)
I think everyone in the world can agree on one thing: Mondays suck. And not the wet, slow suck with eye contact or the ferocious deepthroat where the sucker emits that weird but hot gulping sound. I’m talking about that bad suck—like when he scratches your dick with his chompers or when she can’t seem to suck past your head.
I’ve tried everything to make Mondays less dreadful—but no amount of yoga, cannabis, or cartoons ever seem to do the trick. So, I figured, why not an orgy?
To be fair, I didn’t think this—but my friend John did. This is the very same John who wrote about taking ten loads at the first BOYSLUT party. Clearly, Jon does not fuck around when it comes to sex parties.
After a drink with him and his boyfriend, we headed to Gush, a Monday night sex party in Hell’s Kitchen produced by Scum. Do I want to make fun of these ridiculous names? Yes, but then my last party was titled BOYSLUT presents BISLUT, so I think all sex parties are doomed to have absurd names.
Walking through the rain, we arrived at what appeared to be an ordinary brownstone on a more residential street, but as the instructions for the party stated: quietly come through the black door and walk up to the second floor. We did, and inside was no ordinary apartment. I have to admit I love something about a sex party taking place in an otherwise residential area you wouldn’t expect. There’s something kinky knowing that vanilla families live above and below the floor where pure debauchery is taking place, and they have no fucking clue.
At the front desk, we paid the cover and proceeded to take off our clothes. I kept on my black booty shorts with a zipper in the front that went all the way to my bootyhole. Rookie mistake because they would be off and lost within mere seconds of entering—an offering, of sorts, to appease the horny space.
If you ever have been to a sex party with me, which I recommend nine out of ten, you know I have no shame. If I find someone hot, I go straight up to them and make it known that I want to fuck. If it’s a mixed-gender sex party that utilizes enthusiastic consent, I say something like, “You’re so fucking gorgeous—do you want to make out?”
When I’m at a gay male sex party that uses opt-out consent, I fucking TAKE what I want. I look them in the eyes, and if he gives me the eyes back—you know the eyes—I know I’m golden to start rubbing on him.
Upon entering, John, his husband, and I explored the space, which I thought was surprisingly big given where we were. The space was laid out in a line, all three rooms adjacent. The first room was the main room—seven queen beds, a couch, and countless men cruising. By cruising, I mean making eye contact while jacking off next to each other, yet for unclear reasons, no one’s initiating anything more. The middle room had porn on the wall with two couches, but it was dead. It seemed like more of a place one could go to catch his breath. The last room had two swings set up where the boys were taking loads. (God bless.)
Since the first larger room was where most of the action took place, I went back there. I looked around to see which of the thirty men I found the most attractive and landed on two six-foot-tall studs with juicy asses and big dicks. (I’m seldom envious, but I get annoyed when you’re blessed with BOTH a big dick and juicy booty. Pick a lane, my dude!)
One had a classic dancer’s body—lean muscle with a perky booty that aggressively bounced when he flexed. The second had more meat on his bones—a beefy dad bod with a sexy combination of muscle and fat. They both had strong Eastern European features— aquiline noses, thin lips, cut jaws, shaggy brown hair, and green eyes. When I saw them, I knew there were zero worlds in which I would leave without being the meat in the middle of that sandwich.
I went up to the two of them, who were jerking each other off. I whipped out my dick out and started jerking mine. We all stood closely together, our dicks just inches away from each other’s. The taller, beefier of the two, Maxim, squeezed my new freshly pierced nipples. It stung in the best way possible. I grabbed his jaw with my free hand and gave him an opened-mouth kiss. Ivan the dancer dropped to his knees and began sucking. I pushed the back of his head down my shaft and held him there. “Fuck,” he said when I let him up for air.
I grabbed the two of them by their arms and led them to bed, covered in a black water-proof sex sheet. Ivan assumed the position—face down, ass up. I slapped one cheek giving a loud, satisfying smack. Then the other cheek. I slapped both his cheeks until they were red and raw before spreading them apart, so I could feast. He had already taken a load, and I slurped it up out of his ass. In the words of my boyfriend, “Gross, but hot.”
My dick was throbbing. The elixir of man musk and the heat of being in a closed-off room with dozens of other naked bodies tripped wires in my brain. I became an animal with only one goal in mind: Fuck. Fuck hard. Fuck long. Get fucked every which way.
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