House of Pain
by Hal Jaffe

Me? I'm one of those easterners who's never made peace with the California freeways. But the orgy was in the house of pain, and the house of pain was in Anaheim, a stone's throw from Disney-land. Since I lived and loved eighty-something miles south in San Diego, I had no choice but to ride thefreeway.

With moist palms I maneuvered the Mazda onto I-5 north, juked and twisted into one of the center lanes, accelerated to 68 mph, slipped in one of my oldStones' tapes.

Let it Bleed, in case you're curious.

I squeezed my gens. Hard. Well, semi-hard, which isn't bad for a stressed-out easterner strapped into a fire-engine red Mazda rocketing north on I-5 destination Orange County.

"Stressed-out" is overstating it. I was feeling some freeway jitters, true, but I was also fantasizing, constructing, decon-structing, envisioning the scenario of my first orgy.

"First" might give you the wrong idea. I'd done two at a whack lots of times,and a couple times I'd done three, but it would be stretching to call any of those an orgy. So when I got that invite to the house of pain I simply could not refuse.

But that freakin' drive. Following the signs, switching lanes, de-accelerating at construction sites, viewing the bad faces of the other drivers. It was a test for any Buddhist. I'm referring to compassion, seeing the brutal-eyed drivers from the subject position, daring, even, to love them. I've been known to call myself a Buddhist, but I flunked that test.

Do Buddhists do orgies?

Simple explanation. I identified with the sensualist Buddhas and Bodhisattvas of the Tantric sects. I'm talking about some transcendental humpers.

By the time I got to the fashionable split-level stucco house of pain just south of Disneyland, it was later than I'd expected, and I was feeling edgy fromthe drive. Which had to have been a factor in what was to happen.

It seemed like everyone else was already there and into it. Naked fooks, seven and eight in a mix.

Sex toys, strap-ons, sweaty flesh-in-leather smells. The resounding clang of chains. Tattoos, cuttings. Stylish amputees. Heavy metal easy listening on the central CD. The unsurpassable smell of hash.

I felt like a kid on the Internet.

I was naked and I was prime.

Two fooks, moist and muscular, were shuffling toward me. One, with a shaved head, studded latex collar and heavy ankle chains had the sluttiest shuffle. The other displayed nasty open sores on the face, neck and chest, each sore with agold or silver ring through it, each ring adorned with a charm or pendant.

As I raised a sinewy arm to cuff them, the one with the slutty shuffle stroked my gens.

Guess what? I spritzed.

Shot my wad. Sprang a leak. Dropped the bucket in the well. Whatever you want to call it. Same result. I done came too soon.

Which provoked an ironic smirk from the slutty fook who'd stroked my gens.

I tried to play it cool, which wasn't easy.

Sure, I was still a little bit nervous from the drive and from this being my first real orgy, but premature ejac is not my deal.

I know how to hold my cream.

But, yo, I was a young and muscular fook, so I was good for another shot, right? At least one.

Four or five minutes later, or maybe it was three or four minutes later, I was hard / thick / ready to mambo.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

I swaggered toward a mix of eight in multiform embrace, gleaming asses,silver silicon dildos, long pink moist tongues, latex body bags, pumpin' peters, that sweaty leather smell . . .

A legless amp on metal crutches peeing through a majestic penis onto the pervy mix, swiveled his superb instrument on me and hosed my thighs and gens.

That's all it took. Splat. I sprayed my jizz a second time. Heavy dose too. The amp that was pissing me smirked, then swiveled back to the congregation.

What now? Dry off, get hard and try to hold my cream for a third go? Or put my tail between my legs and skulk onto the freeway?

Limp-dicked and pulsing with golden tears, I hung around for a while, viewing the action.

Then I walked into the dressing area like young Sean Connery as James Bond,s pringy, on the balls of my feet.

Saving face gesture.

I toweled off, dressed and split.

I-5 south to San Diego.

That was then.

After a month or so of working my abs another orgy reared its raunchy head.Why abs? To get that washboard tum, that six-pack look.

See, it ain't only your gens that's front and center at an orgy. You want to look hot and you want to look fit. Muscular defined abs can compensate for a host of deficiencies.

The orgy? It was the same venue: house of pain, Anaheim, Disneyland exit on I-5. Same time: 10:00 pm.

This time I left half an hour earlier. After doing twenty minutes of Tantric meditation to take the edge off.

I possess, in case you've wondered, a seemingly endless reservoir of cream, as well as the springs to hose the ceiling and walls. As Michael Jordan used to say a lot: I'm blessed.

But to make doubly sure, I refrained from having sex for five days before theo rgy. Longest period of enforced abstinence I'd endured since the Marine Corps.

I was pointing to the big O in Orange County and didn't want anything to impede me from a personal best.

Right. I pulled my fire-engine red Mazda onto I-5 North, stuck in a 9 Inch Nails tape, maneuvered into one of the center lanes, and settled back.

This time I was among the earlier arrivals at the house of pain. Some of the other early orgiasts included four midgets, three glandular giants, two aucourant shit handlers, probably half a dozen amputees, a gaggle of tattooed, pierced and cut fooks, and female triplets with ZZ Top beards.

I say female but actually they were indeterminate gendered. As were nearly all of the other participants. Gender-fast males and females were a rarity in thecircles I humped and kicked ass in.

Which was okay with me. I guess.

In any case, I didn't have a choice, did I?

I was stoked and I was confident.

But I was wearing a stainless steel cock ring, snug about my gens, as a failsafe just in case there was any urge to tip my cream.

I ambled through the two large adjoining rooms pausing at this or that presentation. One featured a chartreuse-haired loon with what looked like an advanced case of leprosy: fingers, toes, the tip of the nose effaced. Bound to a replica electric chair, or maybe it was the real deal, with a bone through what was left of the nose, the leprous loon was being fucked in four orifices with electrified dildos.

Correction: one of the dildos was an actual dick, I think, dotted with electrodes.

One of the dildo bearers was making hoarse Kung Fu noises with every thrust.

The sexy leper's name was Kim, with a shit-eating grin.

I slipped into the mix, sidling toward Kim.

Whoa. Someone snatched my ass and slid a gloved finger up me. Or maybe it was a slim dildo. Shot right up into my prostate and when I felt that final pressure, I spritzed. Cockring and all, I tipped my cream.

Separating my buns from whatever was between them, I spun around. But whoever poked me had blended with the mix. Nobody noticed my thick pool of curd, or cared.

But now I was limp-dicked.

I ambled away from leprous Kim to another mix featuring a fook on a swing. S/he possessed a real beard, pasted-on Groucho mustache, miniature cock and functioning vagina. I know it functioned because it was being fucked by a slender fook with a pig mask and a back full of knife cuts. Meanwhile something else, small and dexterous, possibly a squirrel, was sucking the miniature cock. Moreover, the seat of the swing was ripped open allowing access to the bung which was being humped by a thickly-veined double headed dildo, the other head of the 18-incher inserted deep into the brown eye of one of the ambiguous triplets wearing the ZZ Top beard.

This zany set-up made me spring up thick and hard.

Striding boldly into the mix, I snatched the left thigh of one of the midgets and scrutinized his tattoo. It took up the tiny fook's entire back, from neck to thigh, was continuous and exquisitely rendered: a vision of the Flood, the water surging as in that popular Hokusai print, but in this version it was an apocalyptic tidal wave: buildings, people, animals violently flung out away from its force.

I was so impressed with the tat that I came close to tipping my cream, controlling the surge at the last second. Composure regained, I was about to launch into some handsome sexing when--you won't believe this--the lights went out.

The blackout which would last for nearly three hours was not confined to Orange County. Evidently the Republicans, in San Diego for the Convention, liked it very bright and very air-conditioned, and the sudden excess use strained the system.

Why didn't the orgy continue under candlelight?

Because orgy fooks are into viewing / being viewed. Plus, several of the mixes depended on electrified sex toys, electrodes on the sexing bods.

Shock the Disney.

Bottom line: I'd gone to my second orgy in the house of pain, tipped my cream three times, and still hadn't got humped.

When the lights finally came on I torqued onto the freeway and home to San Diego.

People think that once they get their abs lean, hard and videogenic, they can just flash them and relax. Not so. There's no day off in the land of the washboard abs. Hence I was at it every day for about half an hour, sometimes forty-five minutes.

Someday science will supply all of us with washboard abs. Hell, they've already done it with lab mice. All it takes is a single genetic alteration to turn up our natural metabolic furnaces so that we burn more fat. We'll be able to eat as much as we want and still have great abs.

How did I know all this?

I was a junior-level executive in the muscle industry. Which was stressful but financially rewarding. Plus, I got state-of-the-art fitness equipment at cost. As well as direct access to the latest soundbites from the world of science.

Besides work and working my abs, I do (I mean: did) leisure sports. Squash, racquetball, corporate slow pitch softball, mountain biking, inline skating.

And when I found time and partners, I humped. But no orgies. Not even close.

In my mind, though, I replayed the house of pain deal many times. Had those lights not gone out, I would have been doing some transcendental humping.

Tip my cream?

Nah. That problem had been taken care of.

Then, nearly seven weeks after the blackout, I got another invite. Anaheim orgy, house of pain, Friday night, 10:00 pm.

I-5 north. Center lane. 68 mph. Metallica hitting all cylinders in thec assette player.

Back in the house of pain and naked, I sauntered to a mix featuring a 17-year-old prodigy named Skag. He had two cocks: one about 8 inches and slender; the other 6 1/2 and thick. Each was capable of full erection and copious spewing. That's not all: below his asshole, in the area of the perineum, he possessed a species of vagina, with labia and clit but no uterus. The flesh-tube was elastic; it became moist with excitement, but was hollow. You could spritz in it to your heart's content.

Skag's blond hair was cut short and he wore a monocle. He was a devotee of Germany between the wars, Weimar with its proto-Nazis and bizarre cabarets. Skaghad learned about Weimar on the Internet.

When Skag viewed me he said: "I love your abs."

"I love," I said, "your two dicks and faux puss."

He seemed to pause at the word "faux," but recovered and laughed a disarmingly high-pitched laugh.

I paused at another mix centered around a mongoose that told Polish jokes. If the jokes proved unfunny the congregation shocked the creature with electirifed probes. Cruelty to animals disgusts me. I passed that mix by.

Waddling toward me now was something pink, semi-nude, indeterminately sexed,and obscenely fat, with shaven head and protruding pierced nipples, each with a large ring and a heavy padlock hanging from it. The padlocks were connected by a thick iron bar covered with a fur or pelt.

You know Leopold von Sacher-Masoch's cult novel Venus in Furs?

Call this one Cyclops in Furs. Perfumed, too, sweet, intensely floral. Didn't do any good. I could easily smell the body and its foul secretions.

S/he resembled the barefisted boxer called Butterbean, 400 pigbelly pink pounds of maniacal aggression.

I tried to swerve but s/he trapped me against one of the Sony high-definiiton TV monitors and started to unzip my jeans with fingers the size of pickled cucumbers. And smelling about the same way.

Employing my powerful abs, I thrust away from the horizontally challenged pervert, pushed open the bathroom door then slammed it shut. Butterbean would never fit through the narrow door.

Except the bathroom was in use. One of the transsexual glandular giants was squatting over the toilet, peeing like a monsoon, the massive shaggy head almost brushing the ceiling. The other human, on his knees, with a shaved head full of ringworm and a homemade Manson swastika between the eyes, had two hands in the toilet to catch the pee, rinsing his [?] brutish, rapt face with the golden goo. Sometimes slipping one fist under and into the giant's distended bung.

Funky smells here too, but still preferable to Butterbean. I looked through the keyhole: s/he was still massively there.

At which point the glandular giant said in a hoarse voice that broke: "Use the window."

"Taking to me?" I said.

"You," the giant said. "Climb through the window, then use your muscular,v ideogenic abs to climb down the drainpipe. It ain't that high."

"But I'm naked."

"Take a towel, dummy," the ringworm human said.

Taking a last look through the keyhole, all I saw were Butterbean's pink folds, I couldn't tell whether front or back.

I snatched a towel, tied it around my waist, and moved to the window, which was narrow and two stories up. Opening it, I crawled out. I took hold of the metal drainpipe and prepared to shimmy down to the astroturf. I could feel my abs working. But with one of my legs draped around the pipe, it gave way, sliding back from the house, and I fell hard on my back onto the astroturf.

Make a boring story short: I tore the arch off my left foot and compoundly fractured my lower spine. My foot subsequently got infected and was amputated just below the knee. After eight months of rehabilitation, I was pronounced a partial amputee and semi-invalid, and sent back to work. The muscle industry corp that I worked for said they would find me an "inspirational" post but that I would have to accept a 70% decrease in salary. I accepted. What choice did Ihave?

Some fourteen months after the accident I got another invite from the orgy fooks in the house of pain in Orange County. Guess what? I went. First I had my head shaved and tattooed with a frontal nude of Kevorkian, the death doctor.

No freeway this time, since I couldn't drive. I took the train and then taxied from Disneyland.

Believe it or not, it was the best orgy I'd ever gone to. I was an amp so that I was in a sense released from having to shoot my wad. Which I couldn't do anyway because of the accident. I didn't miss it. Probed and pissed, zapped with electric dildos, burned with molten wax--it was a whole other thing.

Coincidentally, I saw Butterbean, but someone had to identify him. The whole presentation had changed. He must have lost two hundred pounds, his pigbelly pink skin was deeply tanned and he wore a Fabio-style wig: long, platinum and raunchy. He was wearing an indigo jumpsuit with a bare midriff which displayed his washboard abs. A nametag velcro'd to his belt said: Isadora.

He--Isadora--recognized me, sauntered over to the mix that was doing me and said: "Hello there. Glad you made it back."

To be honest, I was of two minds: Buddhist and non-Buddhist. The Buddhist wanted to wave genially and say: No biggie. The non-Buddhist wanted to kill his ass with the snubnosed Smith & Wesson .38 I'd slipped into my jock.

What I did was remove the Smith with my left hand, take aim with both hands and squeeze off five rounds. Isadora toppled heavily onto his side, his Fabio wigknocked askew.

Snuffing him that way raised the intensity level of my mix exponentially. Icould feel it as they did me up, down, back and sideways. I even managed to cum, first time since the accident, spritzing Isadora's corpse with long-deferred heavy cream. Which I guess is what s/he'd wanted in the first place. When s/hewas four hundred pounds and foul and a Butterbean lookalike.