I cannot think of a good title for this.

Please bear in mind that I was very drunk during the events I am about to describe.

On realising that the masked girl who had opened the door for us was wearing nothing but that mask, the previous surprises of the night fell into insignificance. She emerged from behind the door with a welcoming-sounding onslaught of foreign words. My companion, whose name I as usual had long forgotten, answered those words with a gushing stream of her own and then there was laughter. I pulled my mouth into as wide a smile as possible directed at the white mask, and the mouth, not covered, gave a smile back. I smiled on for as long as possiblye, several seconds, her naked body a skin-coloured blur in my peripheral vision, until I perceived my staring overdone, and then I turned my eyes in an over-deliberate motion to an oil-painting hanging on the wall. Wild brushstrokes in pinks and reds showed two bodies merged in violent passion. The reality of this night's end seemed to me only indirectly related to my expectations of it; the details were desperately wrong.

One such detail was the picture I was beginning to build of the scene in the next room, the slightly darkened one beyond the half-closed door through which the hallway we stood in seemed inevitably to lead. There were noises coming from it. Some might make comparisons to animals--baboons for example--but it is easier and more accurate to describe the noises as what they unmistakably were: the sound of loud sex. And please understand this crucial point: the noises came from many more than two people. I turned to my companion with a questioning face. She was beaming. "Come!" she said, holding her hand out. And so, seeking protection, hoping to be lead to safety, I gave her my hand. She led me straight into the noisy room; superimposed on that noise I could no longer ignore the sound of my pulse banging loudly at my temples.

I will admit, please forgive me for this, that the masked girl at the house entrance did give me some little excitement, for despite the impossibility actually looking at her exposed body, I did get the idea that she was beautiful. That beauty, however, was not aproached in this next room; here the dimmed lights were not dim enough to hide bodies that I didn't want to see. There were several groups in action. I briefly watched a moustached man of middle age swing his hips repetitively to a bent woman of considerable size. With each swing the man gave out a rough grunt. The woman moaned in answer. I moved my eyes on to the table in the centre of the room. Two pizzas lay in opened cardboard boxes: one Hawaiian and one with salami. And a whole pallet of tubes of K-Y jelly. While in a sober state I might have wondered why so many tubes of lubricant were necessary, I was, as previously mentioned, really quite drunk and as you would therefore expect entirely focused on pizza. There were no slices missing. Did that mean I shouldn't take one? Were they waiting for a particular time? How could I be sure that I would be welcome to take? When I turned to ask my companion, she opened the button of my jeans, pulled down the zip, got onto her knees, pulled away my boxer shorts and before I could ask about the pizza she had me in her mouth.

But here's the point, the point I'm trying to make: I was not at all turned on and that was definitely not going to change. I looked down at the cause of my presence there. She was sucking hard. Her ash-coloured hair was in fine plaits at the roots of which it became clear that her natural hair colour was really much darker. And what I thought in the club was incredibly smooth and unblemished skin was even in this low light recognisable as a thick and all-covering layer of makeup. She was still dressed, in a tight white sleeveless top and tight jeans of pale blue and by now I was wishing for her to keep her clothes on for something about her appearance seemed haggard. All the same, I increasingly regretted and even feared my lack of arousal. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it become that arousal was utterly impossible. I glanced around at the others in the room--to my further shock many of them were looking at me. Down below the girl was becoming increasingly frantic in her motion. I could think of nothing to do but close my eyes.

It was then that I began to think of you. That may sound ridiculous, but that's the way it happened. I stood in the middle of the room and thought of you, or rather, I thought of us. A night in a bar lounge. It's full and we're crammed in next to each other on a sofa. I'm sitting on my hands. You know why? I'm sitting on my hands because touching you is all I can think about, but I don't want to screw it up. We're talking. About last time we met, how long ago it was, how stupid drunk we got. I tell you you look fantastic. You do. I can't believe how good you look to me now, your eyes so bright, your skin so soft. It looks so soft but I can't touch it. The words have stopped. You look forward and I notice you're breathing heavily. Your chest rises and falls and you've noticed I'm looking at you but you can't control your breathing, can you? I smile. And then suddenly you turn to face me and our mouths rush together on an impulse and meet in the middle. The weeks that followed were euphoric. Until we had to part again.

I was thinking of being with you, and then I realised that I was still standing in the middle of that cage full of monkeys. The girl below me was now undressed. A change had come over me since I had allowed myself to drift away. A physiological change. And as soon as I looked down at myself being devoured with such relentless rhythm, I felt an increasing and unstoppable rush of feeling overcoming me in wave that didn't seem to have an end. The end did come though and it finished me completely. I staggered for a free spot on a sofa and collapsed onto it, able to keep my eyes open just long enough to see my would-be benefactor still on her knees, but now with her hands firmly on her hips and giving me a bemused smile. I'm still amazed at how soundly I managed to sleep there.

I think you get the point. I don't want to go on like this, floating around in overrated freedom. I want you. Among other things, whether this realisation really came to me during a blowjob at a swinger's party, or whether I'm just trying to make you laugh, is for you to decide.