Afternoon in Seattle

Selflove among women. A novella. Drugs were involved.

Vashon Island Ferry

My best effort at reconstructing a complex trip…

My phone rang early on a Sunday morning. I was living on Gold Beach, Maury Island, which is connected to Vashon. It was Simpatico, who I knew from my masturbation events at Harbin Hot Springs during Loving More conferences. She was the perfect co-conspirator at inviting people to the big party. And she was the star of the warmup to the post-conference intensive the next night. Her role was to demonstrate extended mirror masturbating in front of the group.

People who have experienced one another relating to themselves in this way have an unusual bond and point of contact. Pretext melts away. You’ve seen the person reach for their true self. There is no mockery.

“Francisco, I need your help with something. I hope you don’t mind my asking.” That was my name on the poly and tantra scene.

The purpose of the call: she and her occasional lover Jillian were in town. They were camped out at a posh boutique hotel in Seattle. The previous evening, her lover had asked if she knew of a man who would be interested in watching them make love. I got the call. We understood this would not be a threesome; I would be observing and holding space — what I now call Thresholding.

“When do you want me?”

“How about after 2?”

I checked the ferry schedule; one boat could have me there at 1:15 and the next at 3:30. That was convenient. Living on an island without a bridge isn’t always. She gave me the coordinates. These led to the penthouse suite at the Ballard Hotel. The door would be left unlocked, and I should come in quietly and close and lock it behind me, she said. This had a “catch them in the act” feeling to it.

“This is really special for her,” Simpatico said. “Jillian wants this a lot.”

“Happy to help,” I said, understating my feelings somewhat.

“Bring a mirror,” she said.

I got myself together and packed my leather sex bag, the one I bring to the Wet Spot and conferences (toys, mirrors, coconut oil, hand towels, nail clipper, emery board, weed and pipe). And I packed a small overnight bag just in case.

The ferry ride was glorious, no line, quiet on a cool, sunny Sunday afternoon. When we reached West Seattle, I made my way through the ragged industrial area, into Seattle proper, and headed to the north side of town.

I parked near the hotel, in what seemed to be a private lot. This was not like any hotel I had ever stayed at. I resembled Buckingham Palace in miniature. I approached the desk and said who I was calling for. The clerk, expecting me, pointed to the elevator without calling upstairs. I was expected.

“They’re in the penthouse, left out of the elevator.”

The elevator seemed to take ages to ascend to the sixth floor. There were just two suites up there; the door to suite 2 was slightly ajar. I tucked inside, closed and latched the door behind me. The light was dim, the curtains pulled. I glanced around; it was a large space with several rooms.

The women were in the master bedroom, giggling under the covers. They emerged from the covers as I stood near the bed. Simpatico, her dark braids wrapped around her head, smiled and said, “This is Jillian.”

“That’s for you,” she said, gesturing to a vintage leather seat that absorbed me nicely. I kicked off my shoes and sat cross-legged. The women were now sitting up, breasts exposed, the rest of them wrapped in a duvet. Simpatico leaned in and kissed Jillian. Then she kissed her again more deeply. They made out with all the time in the world.

Jillian was a tidy-looking woman of about 45, almost a generation older than of Simpatico. She had long, raven-colored hair and a young face. Simpatico held her as they sat against the bed board, which was like a couch you could recline into. She was breathtaking as ever, a small, curvaceous woman of of about 27. Her long red hair and a warm moon-like face matched her Sun, Moon, Venus and rising sign in Cancer.

This gave her an unusual gift. At times, she could lactate. By the way, Simpatico sometimes goes by nicknames Pati and Coco. I think in different circles she’s known differently. I prefer the formality of her full name, but for casual conversation rather than proper introductions, Coco is my preference; that worked for her too.

My chair was about three feet from the bed, and next to it was a large standing oval mirror, I think called a Queen Anne style. It looked very old, old enough to be coated with reflective silver rather than aluminum as is used today. I wondered who and what it had seen in its long life.

“We have treats,” Jillian said.

“Gluten free,” Simpatico added.

Oh?

“Hash brownies…Persian hash, or something like it…are you interested?”

I knew they were going to be strong. We decided to split the brownie three ways: one-quarter each for me and Simpatico, and half for Jillian. I hoped it was not too much for her to handle. Then we sat in silence for a while.

I looked at Coco. “Jillian wants to experiment. She wants to try some things that, well, that don’t fit in her marriage. Her husband knows we get together, but it’s kind of like, don’t ask don’t tell,” she explained.

“And here we are,” Jillian said. That struck as all as so funny we were laughing uncontrollably. The hash was taking hold, in a matter of minutes. When we stopped laughing, the room seemed silent, almost supernaturally so. There were no ambient sounds except for our breathing. I had the distinct sense of being in a world apart, somehow set outside of normal space and time.

I got up to get some water. “Does anyone want any?”

Silence.

When I came back, Coco was in the leather chair facing into the mirror, legs wide and free. Jillian, crouching forward, studied her. I pulled up another chair and sat down a few feet back, with a good view of Coco, her reflection and Jillian.

A sense of privacy enveloped our space, a deep seclusion wherein were truly free. Facing herself, she dropped her knees open, feet balanced on their balls, and she explored the endless folds and layers of her yoni meditatively. Her moisture was glistening and I could smell her from the distance between us. She massaged her vulva with her full hands and them smelled her fingers thoughtfully, delighting in herself. Then she smeared her moisture on her face.

With that, Jillian stood up. She was slender and tall and now looked like she had been born on some distant Pacific island, her eyes introspective and intent. She silently stepped between Coco and the mirror and knelt down, squatting widely on the soft carpet and leaning over to bring her down to face-to-face with Coco’s pussy. She did not touch. She did not taste. Coco spread herself wide as Jillian gazed into the crypt at the heart of her being…gazed into her own reflected eyes as she was worshiped.

Among her superpowers was self-focus.

Jillian melted into the overwhelming presence of Coco’s vulva, her eyes with an amazed look and breathing deeply of the air that touched them both. I was witnessing a woman submit herself to the goddess. And as I…

An odd feeling descended upon me. I was certain we were all in the luxury suite of an abandoned ocean liner. We were somewhere in the area of…when I imagined the globe, suddenly I was spinning. Anywhere on Earth. In a kind of wrecking yard for outdated luxury cruise ships. Somehow our cabin had been preserved in perfect condition, clean and fresh. The space seemed to glow with an invisible light of renewal. I could sense the vast ship around me and also the many other vessels that surrounded us. The resulting sense of seclusion was astonishing. Nobody could ever find us. They never would. We were utterly alone.

I drifted back into the immediate present space, with Jillian kneeling before Coco, bowing to her pelvis reverently.

She then stood up and knelt down to one side of our friend, and I came over and knelt next to the other. The ship we are in began to rock a bit, as if we were on the open sea. This seemed impossible because the ship was jammed into a dock outside a scrap yard, and yet we were moving. Coco was facing herself in the mirror, fully engaged. I wished I could do that…and the voice that knows said: here’s your example…

We understood what was to happen: She was going to mirror masturbate, and take us with her. And then she was deep in, her eyes melting into her own, her face morphing into some expression unhindered by ego, and she moaned sweetly to herself. The whole room smelled like her, delightful and fresh female.

And then Jillian morphed inside her body, she was masturbating not with us and not just for us but she was allowing us to feel her. I was…inside a woman, in total and the feeling was…sensory and emotional delight…a vast pool of water…free flowing sensation…

Whatever Coco was when she contained all of us swelled with joy as she allowed us in. She wanted us to feel her bliss, her ex-stasis, and her self-given orgasms, many of them. Then I heard or felt the consciousness of Jillian say, “I am ready.”

She was kneeling in front of Coco again, with her mouth inches from her vulva. We all knew what was going to happen. We felt the tension and the sweet urgency as Coco filled up inside herself and we knew that at a certain point she would not be able to hold herself back. But that moment in time, that convergence, seemed to retreat even as its promise grew.

And then it was happening. Her body was bucking as Jillian clasped her hips and pressed her mouth deep into into Coco as the release came; and she gushed. We could all feel Jillian attempt to swallow the torrent. She was getting mouthfulls, grunting with gratitude, swallowing and drinking more even as so much spilled onto the floor. At one moment she seemed to struggle and gag — and keep gulping.

She could not get enough. As she swallowed, so too did I, tasting the distinct, slightly acrid and addictive flavor not just of her amrita but of her feelings of self-acceptance as we drank her. I looked over at Jillian, who sat up and faced both of us with her face and hair soaked and matted and a look of disoriented bliss on her face.

The room filled with a new female scent, as the space that seemed to tip and thrash on the high sea suddenly went still and quiet.

We sat on the bed, passing a pipe around. They said it was something called chongo. I was so deep into the trip that my body felt unfamiliar, like I was made of hot clay.

“We want to fuck you,” Jillian said. I knew what she meant; I was to be taken.

I knew there was nothing I could do about this. And I wanted it. “But show us your cum mirror first,” she said, giggling; Jillian had never seen it. Coco had told her about it. I swirled into chaotic embarrassment at the prospect of just showing it to her, and then I had it in my hands without remembering retrieving it from my bag.

“Ohhh, how disgusting,” she said cheerfully as her hair hung down over it. As the words entered my mind, the contradiction between the two polarities was resolved — beautiful and gross — melded into one idea. Then I was laying on my belly, on the floor, with my head in Jillian’s lap as she held the mirror and urged me on.

“That’s your beautiful, disgusting dry cum. Look at all of it. Eat it for us. Eat a lot. We want to feel you.” That was all I needed — I was melting many dried ejaculations into my mouth and into my body as they felt and understood me.

Then I was licking the small mirror facing into the large one, sobbing. I knew what I was meant to say: “This is my sex.” A wave of relief rippled through the whole space, which was now still and silent.

Coco said, “You will never fuck your mother. That is why you don’t fuck women. You will never fuck me and you will never fuck Jillian.”

I felt like they were pushing my head underwater and expecting me to draw a breath.

I knew it was time — time for me to be fucked. Because they wanted the experience, in particular, Jillian did. I wanted it too, mostly for them to see me in that state. I was placed on a standing cushion, a big chair without a back, facing upward. The mirror was angled so I could see myself and nobody else, and my knees were pulled back by Coco as Jillian penetrated me with what felt like a way-too-large, very warm dildo. Slowly, steadily, deeply.

I watched my face as this happened, the squirmy screwed up release of my fucked face, understanding how important it was that I surrender fully to the experience. I did not recognize my expression or my features. It was like I was watching someone else. Only when I focused on my eyes could I see that I was looking into my self, deep into myself, as my body was stretched and I was filled up and given something that touched the need for its existence.

Then they fucked me as I relaxed and opened myself to this basic truth, I don’t know whose hand did it; it was both of their will.

With each thrust, I was reached into by the loving hands of a woman who knew how to penetrate someone, stretched more full inside. I knew that inevitably I would burst and maybe die right there. At first that terrified me until I relaxed. I heard myself say:

“I will let it happen.” This was returned by an echo: We will help.

Then I was somehow looking into the spattered mirror again. It seemed to float within reach of my mouth and I was looking at my face distorted by my streaks and licks of previous surrender. The scent of my dry cum was intoxicating, beautiful, and wholly personal.

As I experienced this, I was sure I was hallucinating, but it was so vivid I had to count it as potentially real: the room was full of all of my previous lovers.

They had gathered to see me give into myself. To finally give up.

Then there was a vulva above my mouth. I did not know whose. I wanted dearly to know. She smelled delightful and I wanted to know her face and to lick, and suck her labia flowers into my mouth but she was just slightly out of reach. I could see her yawning, dangling lips. I could taste her scent. I could hear the other women responding to this spectacle, this treat. It seemed to stretch on…for hours…I could feel the vulva’s desire to stoke me and draw me out. All the women watched this. Suddenly the room pitched and reeled again, that open sea feeling.

Now it felt like the dildo was in my mouth. Maybe it had just come out of my ass. I did not care. But it did not feel like plastic or silicone. It felt like flesh. Had someone fucked my mouth? Was there another man in the room? When my lips and tongue clasped on the penis, I could feel it in my own body. I was fucking my own mouth. First in short strokes, then longer, then deeper. I knew what I wanted and prepared to swallow.

My orgasm shook me, unexpectedly and deeply, from all sides of every emotional circuit. I was ejaculating and my mouth was flooding and I was ready to swallow. I knew I had to open my mouth and show them…show them all…and I did, yawning out in a weird, twisted bliss of existence. By all of my beloveds, I felt so acknowledged, so seen, understood as the moment hung suspended.

Then I was looking at myself in this state, it was painful and difficult at first because I understood…that in showing this to myself and all of them, I was being initiated into myself. Into mirror celibacy…with them as my witness…all of the women I had licked out and fucked and made love to and masturbated with many ways.

Then my penis was back in my mouth as I pulsed and swallowed and thrashed, grunting with each gulp, down deeper each time, floating in an ocean of mercy, my whole body throbbing in time with existence. I swallowed a few extra times and collected a few more sips of my bliss.

I had one last vague memory. I was sitting up, my face wet and my body barely able to stay upright. Coco and Jill supported me.

“Kiss me.”

It was the voice of my first true in-love lover, Olga.

I was from that moment in a semi-lucid state. The room seemed empty except for Jill and Coco. I could not see them. I could only hear and feel them as they spread their legs and limbs and souls for one another, delighting in exquisitely lewd masturbation, facing the mirror and one another.

Then their legs clasped cunt to cunt and they held hands and pulled the tension into a deep slippery watery grind. I could experience this only in my dream-mind. I wanted to see their faces, but only they could witness one another this way, and as I felt their eyes melt into one another, I lost consciousness.

I awoke to the morning light, laying on the bed in one of the side rooms.

Jillian quietly entered, and said, “You need more.” I was still very high and barely awake. I had a vague memory of their deeply honest lovemaking through all the hours leading into daybreak. Coco followed languidly. Suddenly I was sitting up as Jill held my cum mirror between my knees. Suddenly I connected with my desire to fuck her, now, and urgently. To get into her and let all my feelings burst.

She looked at my eyes. “Here you are, your new girlfriend.” Again soaked with embarrassment but my penis was hard and willing to explore this feeling.

I knew it was time to masturbate. I looked at Coco for assurance. Her eyes met mine. I licked my hands, diving headlong into the exquisite shame, even after all we had experienced I was sizzling with the feeling of exposure and being examined; and then openly masturbated myself, asking to lick the mirror.

Suddenly I was alone with a mirror coated thickly in semen. I do not directly remember my orgasm or ejaculation — only my decision to let go and the words, spoken by an anonymous female, “Whenever you’re ready” and “good boy.”

The door to my room was closed. I was alone and…

…

naked with my cum mirror in my hands, a pool of semen collected on it, a huge wall mirror in front of me. In the other room I knew the women were making deep love. I looked at my liquid and the pattern of the streaks and spatters. I raised it to my face to smell myself and was smelling as I looked into my eyes. Eye gazing. Smelling. Anticipating…I heard both women cry out together in mutually granted bliss…knowing where I was and what I was doing…

I looked into the wet spattered glass and found my eyes again…