BUKKAKE BABE: THAT'S ME…OR IS IT?
by Joy James
(08/21/02)
It all starts innocently enough. A man who's read one of my erotic stories on the web starts sending me thoughtful and flattering e-mails. I reply. Buried in our now daily correspondence, he keeps making offhand references to group sex.
"Never done it," I honestly reply. But it sparks a certain curiosity somewhere inside me. I admit this as if he's my new Father Confessor. I have lust in my heart. (Who doesn't?) The very next day, he graciously offers to be "The Organizer" of my very first gangbang. My first "Event," he calls it.
My imagination starts working overtime. I'm imagining myself as the center of male attention. Not just one but many males, all wanting me and only me. I will be the star of the party. Me! -- or is it just my willingness to please? -- excites them all. For an hour or two, I will be their raison d'être. I'm the life of the party. I'm the center of a gangbang.
Gangbang. Okay, that's what it will be: a gangbang. The word sounds harsh, even vulgar and crude, but I find myself unable to stop thinking about it. Suddenly it becomes as seductive and enticing as an ad for the latest hair care or makeup product.
"Father Confessor" becomes "Organizer." Although no money will change hands, I
decide it's just another name for pimp. Objectively, one could view the Organizer as a kind of butler, taking care of all the little administrative details which the star of the performance (Me!) won't have time to. I'm too busy making myself pretty, psyching up for my Big Event.
I'm intrigued, but am I ready for this? I decide not to reply to his invitation.
Maybe I'm just playing coy. Or do I really just want Mr. Organizer -- and his
proposed Big Event -- out of my life? I can't decide. He senses my self-doubt
probably, but he doesn't just disappear. Now he's persistent. More e-mails keep
coming. I have to admire his force of will. It even feels kind of romantic,
like I'm being courted. He sends a digital attachment of a dozen red roses.
Okay, I relent and reply:
"Okay, sweetie, maybe I'll do it. Maybe. Repeat, maybe."
I propose my set of ground rules: All the men must use condoms. He agrees, no problem. I will offer only one orifice to service the multitude of cocks -- my mouth. An oral gangbang is just fine, he says, as long as it can be combined with bukkake. This means that when the men are about to come, they peel off their condoms and shoot their spunk all over my face and body. I limit number of participants to five.
"Twenty-five," he e-mails back.
"Ten," I counter.
"Twenty-five." He's adamant. "Since it's bukkake, there's got to be tons of come. If a bukkake event is advertised for only 10 available spaces, nobody will bother coming."
"Advertised?" I ask, suddenly nervous again. Mr. Organizer explains the procedure: I will join a gangbang group, and my first event will be posted on their website. Other members of the group will apply for my event, then I check out their profiles and select who he invites to attend.
When I join the group, I choose "Cumslut" as my member moniker. That should get
everyone's attention. And attention is what a gangbang is all about, isn't it? Not too different from a writer craving bylines. I laugh to myself. It's nervous laughter.
I laugh. I rationalize. Offering myself up to be gangbanged will be not much
different than trying out a new hair salon. I'm naturally nervous. I don't know
quite what to expect. I'm going ahead in a spirit of good faith and trust. But
if anything bad happens, it's not my fault. I can blame it on the stupid stylist
-- or Mr. Organizer.
I try to make contact with other women who've "had their hair done." Apparently there are lots of women who entertain this gangbang fantasy. Some even speak its name out loud. Fewer, I suspect, actually act it out; and fewer still admit it. Who are they? I want to know them. Why do they do it? I want to know. Am I different from them? I'm not sure, but I want to know.
But my would-be soul sisters don't want me to know. Only a couple of my inquisitive, chatty e-mails to the female members of the gangbang group are answered. The answers I do get are so vaguely worded they might as well be in some closed society's secret code: "Don't worry, hun, you'll love it. Hugs…." "Your first Event will be a great success. BTW, I adore your Event's description!"
Ah, yes. My announcement: "Gangblow/Bukkakke. 7 p.m. Sunday. Hotel location to be announced. Cumslut needs more than a few good men to satisfy her incredible oral urges. Cumslut's fantasy is to suck and deep-throat as many cocks as possible. Then she wants you to cum all over her face and down her cleavage. All the cum will then be gathered in a crystal wine goblet for Cumslut to drink while you watch. Organizer will videotape the event, but participants' faces will of course not be recorded. Available spaces: 25."
Over and over again, I go to the gangbang site to read my Event advertisement. I'm worried about that drinking cum part, but my Organizer assures me I won't really have to do it. It's just part of traditional bukkake and not including it in the announcement would keep attendance lower. I'll just make believe I'm drinking and then gag. I can promise the attendees I'll keep the come-filled goblet as a kind of trophy, to savor later.
I'm feeling more and more alone as I re-read the words about me, Cumslut. But all star performers feel alone, right? It's lonely at the top. It's the price I must pay for being the center of attention. But I'm still alone. I have nowhere to turn except inward. I swear I can feel my heart beating against my ribs. Why? Why do I want to be gangbanged? I realize I might as well be asking the meaning of life. Still, I wonder, why am I doing this? Why does anyone do this? And yet they do.
Porn stars do it. Legendary figures did it. I research the topic. The gangbang record is said to be 620 men within a 10-hour period, held by a porn queen named Houston. In ancient Rome, Messalina, the young wife of old and doddering Emperor Claudius, challenged the most famous prostitute of the time, Sylla, to a gangbang competition. Messalina lay on one couch, and Sylla on another couch nearby, as each took as many men as she could. Accounts vary about who won.
But I'm not in any competition. Or am I? Do I need to prove my sexual prowess to myself? I do love my ability to make men hard. Do I need to prove to me that I don't have to be a man to boast of my sexual conquests? Am I doing it to proudly proclaim a feminist act? To keep score? To quantify, to scientifically measure something (sexual desire and excitement) that is so subjective it can't be measured any other way? It's the difference between apparent and absolute magnitude, as astronomers might explain it.
Maybe that's why suburban housewives, even soccer moms, do it. Surprisingly, they have a number of upcoming events posted on the gangbang site. Sometimes. they're announced as "birthday parties." Some husbands wanting to shower their birthday girls with men, or some wives wanting to give themselves as a surprise party for their husbands. The "birthday boy" is obviously a voyeur, a secret only his good and loving wife knows.
But all this is beside the point. It's not about me. My reason is different. I have the excuse of being a writer. It's my ultimate excuse for just about anything, even the most sinful, outrageous behavior. I am on a quest for knowledge, the more forbidden, the better. But, still, I'm worried.
What if no one comes to my party? What if only one or two men want to sign up for my Event?
No need to worry. The morning after my Organizer announces my Event on the gangbang website, there are already five applications from men wanting to attend. The pace and pattern continues all week. From four to six daily, generally in the morning (when testosterone levels are highest and the applicants are on company time!). I check each applicant's profile, which includes lots of details about his penis. Then, after I've digested the information, I give a thumbs up or thumbs down. With an instantaneous click of my computer's mouse, I can either deny the poor fellow's application or make the lucky fellow's dreams come true. Ah, what power!
I don't know if the 50 or so applications I receive are a valid statistical sample of the American male population, but I can tell you this: Almost all the applicants' cocks are claimed to be at least eight inches. Could they all be liars, I wonder. A slim, but surprising, majority are "uncut." The ages range from teenagers to a man in his sixties. Some of the applications include little personal messages. Like an optional essay for extra credit, some offer: "I'll be saving up my load for you, baby."
Three days before the scheduled event, I'm so anxious that whenever I eat, I feel like throwing up. But if I don't eat? come, like alcohol, is probably not good on an empty stomach.
I try to distract myself. I flip on the television, click to the news, and the very first story I hear from a CNN anchor is: A Pakistani woman has been sentenced by a tribal court of justice to a gangbang! Her crime: adultery -- not even committed by her but by her brother!
I think I should volunteer to take her place. Instead, I e-mail Mr. Organizer and post a new message on the gangbang site. I cancel the Big Event. It's better to cancel, instead of just not showing up. Will everybody hate me now? I can't help thinking about all the men's weekend plans I've spoiled. What if I really decide to do it one day, will I ever be believed? My cancellation note gives me an open option, just in case.
"I so want to be filled with your cock and cum, but my allergies are acting up, and I'm afraid I can't breathe through my nose. And you don't want your Cumslut to suffocate, do you? Let's plan on another Event soon, okay?"
©2001 by Joy James
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Joy James can be reached at joyce.james@att.net. One of
her stories was just published in the print
anthology Best Fetish Erotica.
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