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DIARY 1038
4/17/70

ORGY AT STAN'S

Bob calls on Monday to say he's thinking of having a small group encounter with four, maybe six, maybe as many as eight of the people who have the small "O" for "Open" in the upper corner of their file card. I say that sounds fine, say that he can keep John in mind for one of the guests, and he says he'll let me know about it later.

So I call him on Wednesday, and he says the guy who'd shaved his cock hairs was going to be the host on Thursday, and there would be about 14-16 people there since Stan was inviting some of HIS friends (and Bob could not very well say no, since it was at Stan's apartment), and that I should arrive at 9:30, and certainly not after 10. No mention was made of John, and Bob and I exchanged the thought that we didn't know what was going to happen, but since the people were groovy, it was bound to be an "outtasight" evening.

Thursday I get my haircut, get a good reaction from Joan, when she reads my cards, get a good reaction from John and Ted when I have lunch with them, and get a great reaction from Cyndy when I stop at her place to sell her back the ounce that Bob Malchie sold to me for $18, thereby getting more money for my weekend, and I think I finally have enough. From Cyndy's I proceed to the orgy, which as Avi predicted was right around the corner from him on 75th, at 315 West End Avenue.

Up the elevator and the door swings open at apartment 4A to Carlin standing in the entrance hall with his black jeans riding low on his hips: he was nothing else on. Then the door closes behind me, and it was Bob who opened and shut it, and he was wearing only his leather trousers.

"Take everything off but your pants and hang them up," directed Bob, and he introduced me to another Bob, a giant Negro with a fairly pleasant face, but a bulk of stomach and ass which I found not at all appealing, who was disrobing, and I later found out that the smooth-faced blond that I got a glimpse of from the hall was the same smooth-faced blond who was always seen with Carlin and Arthur M. and was named Ron. Hang everything up, sweating profusely in the overheated apartment, and go past the folding screen into the living room.

The first one who struck me, probably because he was sitting with a sweater on, was a beautifully refined fellow with rose colored glasses on. I sat down next to him self-consciously and said "I'm Bob."

"David," he said, looking uncomfortable, as if he'd rather not give his name, and there was nothing more to say.

Ron was sitting on the other edge of the sofa on which David was sitting, and Carlin and Bob were on chairs across from me, while Bob hung over the back of a dining room chair, looking mainly at me. Then a hugely muscled fellow with beautiful pectorals and a graying leonine head of hair and mustache came out and threw a stack of nudie magazines on top of the stack of Screws which had been sitting on the chair next to me.

Since there was nothing else to do, I had paged through one of the Screws, and now looked at the books with great interest, thinking that the room contained some people who were equally attractive as the fellows posing seductively in the book. And when the pants came off, I could have anyone I chose. A joint was casually passed to me by David, and I just as casually took a puff and passed it back. I had drunk eight or nine gulps of red wine before leaving my apartment, and Cyndy served rosŽ at my request, and I had planned to stay off pot, but I thought to take a few puffs. Took a few more, and then a bubble pipe was lit and passed around.

When it was offered to me the first time, all thoughts of not smoking left my head and I puffed mightily each time it came around, and soon my head started getting lighter, the music more pronounced coming from the speaker just to the left of my ear beside the sofa, and I began vibrating with the music in my seat.

The next person to enter absolutely blew my mind: wearing only faded dungarees, the tall blond was completely beautiful of All-American football hero face, heavily muscled, smoothly-lined body, and an ease of movement and tranquility of face that entirely captivated me. He threw the Screws and magazines on the floor and began paging through them, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. Bob glanced over the room, laughed, and said "It looks like the reading room at the library," and I, too, began wishing something would happen.

Another muscle builder with a narrow beard edging his face came in, and though he could relax into a paunchy middle age, I still thought his lovely chest and huge arms added a nice touch to the growing group. I began moving with the music, tossing my head back and forth, wishing someone would reach out to me, but knowing that not everyone was here yet, and we should wait for the latecomers.

The narrow beard unfortunately knew the tall beauty, and they sat on the sofa after David had moved to the chair formerly occupied by the beauty, who hugged narrow-beard when he came in. Competition! He talked about his recent trip to Europe, made miserable by two hours on the customs line, where everything was thoroughly searched. I asked if he'd smuggled anything in, and he said "No" with a short explanatory sentence which ended our conversation.

Two other guys entered, possibly together, and sat around the dining room table. Carlin knew the small dark-haired boy with a roundness of musculature which looked eminently huggable, and they talked with a blond boy who had a rather Russ Tamblyn insolence about his face. Then the host came into the room and said "OK, off with the trousers, hang them in the hall."

Bob made a sigh of relief and stripped quickly, Carlin undressed completely, but the others didn't seem too quick to follow. I was being very stoned, grooving with the music, and I slowly unbuckled my belt, hoping to entice someone with my sexy movements, but my brain alternated with the paranoid thought that everyone here was so much more beautiful than I (except Bob, who kept looking at me from his chair) that everything would happen and I would be completely left out. Also, the paranoia of smoking magnified any sound from the surroundings, including sirens, into a raid where we were all going to be hauled into court and disgraced.

Then I took hold of myself and unzipped, going into the hall to hang things up, and narrow-beard and the tall blond were kissing, and I had a feeling of gratification to know that such behavior was acceptable. Dawdled on the way back to the living room, but no one paid any attention, and I sat in another chair while the lights were put out and people moved about me, and a cute blond on the sofa was reached over to by the tall blond, and it was such a beautiful picture, watching both sets of sprawled legs framing a pink cock which was growing harder and extending to the side along heavily muscled thighs, that I had the urge to sit myself on the floor in front of them and gently touch and fondle each of their lovely cocks.

I exchanged glances with others, and looking to the side saw the first rather unpleasant face undressing, but the body was still a muscle builder's dream, and I really didn't care. This was the essence of the orgy as depicted in photos and drawings: lovely people, all beautiful to look at, who would soon be entwining with the utmost of voluptuousness.

"Hey, don't miss seeing the red room," said Bob a couple of times, and since the living room was emptying out, I thought the action must be there, so I walked past the hall and turned right at the bathroom, and there in the hallway leading to a bare-mattressed room lit with a red light was a budding orgy. Four or five people stood around feeling each other, kissing, holding each other's bodies, looking down at their cocks with a hungry stare. I joined onto the end, reaching toward the Russ Tamblyn blond, who then reached out for me, and I ran my hand up and down his lovely torso, back to his fabulous ass, and he began to writhe and groan. "Do anything you want," whispered in the back of my mind. "You're free to do anything you want," and I leaned forward and kissed the muscle that joined his neck to his shoulder.

He didn't respond. He even turned his head slightly away, but kept his hand fondling my cock. From behind came handfuls of some sort of lotion or cream, and I grabbed a mess of it and transferred it to the blond's cock, and his head enlarged and stiffened, and his head turned into mine, encouraging me to move up his neck to his mouth. There was a brief flurry of response, but then a pause, a retreat, and I got the impression I was turning him off, so I stopped.

Bob reached over toward me, and someone from the side pushed in and I caressed the body without caring who belonged to it. Then more grease came in and I ran my hands up and down the body across from me, a beautifully defined olive-skinned body with black hair and a childlike face, whose eyes were closed and head was tilted slightly back, enjoying all the hands rubbing over his smooth body.

Then Carlin came up in the back with beer, and somehow the group disintegrated, leaving Bob and me facing each other for a second, and I decided to see what was going on in the other bedroom.

Couples were entwined on the bed, with watchers standing over them masturbating themselves, but their free hands reaching out to caress a nice buttock, chest, or neck. One couple was kissing, but they soon stopped and parted to find something more exciting. A fucking couple started bouncing up and down on the bed, and others kneeled closer to watch, and I felt this was completely my scene: lots of lovely bodies who were satisfied with manual stimulation, content to fondle and look and kiss. This was going to be a fantastic evening!

Yet I still wasn't aroused, but that, though it passed through my mind, didn't really concern me, since I could plainly see that others were in my situation, and I decided I could only play it cool. I knew I would get excited by someone, and I knew it was going to be a terribly sensual evening. I was high, but had very little sense of time distortion, a great sense of my own presence, except that my body was aching for contact with one of those lovely torsos. The blond came into the room and viewed the fucking, grabbing his soft cock and moving it back and forth, and I reached over to caress the body, and he moved closer, so again I tried kissing, and this time the withdrawal of the head was quick and sure. Nothing of that.

So I moved down the body and began sucking his cock, enlarging his already sizable head by drawing in on it, and he began running his hands through my hair and down my back, and finally he twisted onto the bed and I rubbed the cock up and down with the strange breathlessness which comes from poppers.

At this point there WERE poppers being passed around, and one was shoved up my nose and I felt the rush of the blood to the head, and I twisted and turned the cock in my mouth with frenzy, shoving it so far back in my mouth that I recaptured the fears I'd felt in the living room: I was so content I could just stop breathing, I could very easily suffocate myself. His cock jammed completely down my throat blocked any possible path of air to my lungs, but I rolled his cock around in my mouth, aware that I may have been nipping him with my teeth in my enthusiasm, and he writhed on the bed.

But it wasn't terribly successful, and he rolled out of the way and I crawled up on the bed, and got rather a shock to see Manuel F. walking past. My mind blew for an instant: I'd known him ten or more years ago, how could he be here unless it WAS ten years ago?

I was also going through my trips about getting a cock down my throat, thinking "THAT'S why people fear suffocation." When I was alone in the living room, and I was conscious of a candle burning in back of a sheet spread over the windows, and I thought of the chance for fire, and magnified any sounds which could reasonably be interpreted as a crackle in my ears until it was a budding fire: "THAT'S why people fear fires." Then there were pressures on the bed, people tried to do me, and I knew "THAT'S why people fear castration and mutilation."

The music began to expand in my ears, and looking to the side I saw the tall blond beauty kissing someone, but his cock was free, and I reached over to find it coated with a salve which I rubbed back and forth, and his cock was absolutely enormous: he was quite the perfect man. He squirmed around until he was squatting on the bed, and other hands reached out to his body, and I fantasized a session devoted to him, to his pleasure, hands reaching out stroking his body, exciting him so that he came in full view of everyone, spurting semen out of his tortured cock into the faces and onto the straining bodies who were so excited watching.

I reached through the space between his thigh and his waist and began doing him, but in my paranoia I thought I heard someone whisper something like "Not him again," and I sank back, again woefully self-conscious, thinking I was the lowest of the low, content only to beat my own meat. So I played with myself for awhile, amazed that I wasn't getting hard, but listening to the music build and build until I thought I could almost have an orgasm without touching myself: my entire body felt like a cock straining toward orgasm, release, easing of pressures. The music again expanded in my ears, and I threw myself into the melee, rubbing my face and nose and tongue against cocks and chests and assholes, thinking about the idea of fucking and being fucked, thinking about rimming, being paranoid about gonorrhea and pinworms and giardia lamblia, but erasing those thoughts from my mind, thinking only "I want to be stimulated; I want to do as I would wish, I want to act, I want to give and receive pleasure."

So I continued feeling about, and watched others watching, kneeling on the bed, being bobbed up and down by the fucking, listening to the sounds of others beginning to gasp toward orgasm. Manuel knelt down before me, and I caressed his body, but then someone else came up behind him, made as if to fuck him, but Manny stood up and they began kissing. They were kissing, why couldn't I?

Then as I still sprawled on my back, someone tried to feel my ass, but I determinedly stayed flat on it, thinking it was too early yet to allow myself to be fucked. The smallish dark-haired boy was kneeling on the bed in front of me then, and I reached toward him to feel his lush body, and then someone behind him caressed him, entering him from the rear, and both bodies were pushed down on top of mine, and I reached for his limp cock and my limp cock, and they felt like one mushy mass, and I looked at the truly Grecian face above me, perfect eyebrows and eyelashes, ultimately kissable mouth, and I moved my head up to kiss those lips, but he just wasn't interested, raising his head up further and being jolted back and forth from the force of the cock in his ass.

The beautiful blond was next to me, and I saw his cock free for only a moment as his own hand, covered with salve, coated his cock from head to base, and it disappeared into the waiting asshole facing him. His body, curved above the body beneath him, beautifully muscled in the midsection, intrigued me (but still didn't turn me on), and I reached around his pumping thighs to feel his large loose balls, and I pressed his yoni, thinking to finger-fuck him, but not wanting to.

"I can do what I want to do," I kept thinking. "Do I want to sit here with my face under someone's asshole?" I asked myself at some point. The answer was no, I could do better, and I moved away. I kept zeroing in on all the watchers, the narrow-bearded guy, the smaller blond, another fellow who was probably the one with the least pleasant face. They were doing it, I could do it too, and I grabbed my cock and tried to bring about the erection which would make me the center of attraction. Moved off the bed again, and I'm not quite sure what happened first, but I seem to recall going down on a guy who was sitting on the edge of the bed, and then someone else went down on him, too, and I sucked the head while he sucked the balls, and then I moved down the cock and he moved up the cock until we were sharing the tip, which was not quite stiff, and we began kissing at the same time, with this penis-impediment between our lips. This was a new sensation, and I found it rather exciting: and we began kissing more strongly, entwining tongues and teeth around the cock, passing it back and forth from mouth to mouth, and again there was the sensation of one huge sexual organ with undifferentiated parts, each part of which was capable of receiving and transmitting sensations to each other part. But that ended rather quickly as other couples on the bed knocked into us with elbows and knees and feet.

Building groans, shouts of "Shoot it, shoot it!" and a frenzied climax of pelvic thrusts showed that some people attained orgasm, and the thought passed through my mind that it would make it easier for me: if people found my soft cock, they would just assume that I had come already and would take more stimulation to come again.

Gradually the bed had emptied out, until I became aware that there was only an embracing couple next to me on the bed. I rolled onto my back, watching people come and go from the room, and the extreme highness took over. (There was a whole section I've just remembered: I looked up many times at one point and Bob was always there, and just as I was tempted to freak out completely, I would see him and feel confidence that even if I did go completely out, then reached for some kind of help or orientation, he would be there to help stabilize me. Then he was straddling me, and the cock in my mouth was his, and he began whispering "Do it, baby, DO it," and I twisted my head up and down, back and forth, with the familiar length in my mouth, until the saliva and salve were running from the corners of my mouth. As he neared orgasm, he began thrusting deeper, holding it in longer, and again the thoughts of suffocation were uppermost in my mind. Someone jammed a popper up my nose again, and I lurched into spastic sucking while the pressures built up in my spinning head. Finally I could muster no more strength in my jaws to continue sucking and bobbing, and I lay back and grabbed his cock in my hands, rubbing frantically as he tensed back and forth, whispering hoarsely, "I'm going to come all over your face, BEAT that cock." I began to count in my desperation: he MUST come before I reach one hundred, and then at 20 he thrust forward with a gasping groan, attempted to withdraw, but I followed him back and he crumpled over my head, sputtering gasps like uncontrollable farts. I could feel a momentary flurry of motion as orgasms mirrored his, and I continued to suck and manipulate his cock, and he writhed with pleasure and pain. He reached around to find me still soft, tried for a few moments to excite me, but then moved off to the side just in time for me to see Bob excite himself to orgasm, spending white threads of semen over my chest and stomach, and that was vaguely exciting so I rubbed my hands in his come on my body and transferred the lubricant to my cock. Then the group seemed to move away from me.)

The extreme highness consisted of alternating paranoia and delusions of grandeur. I had failed to be excited, I was nothing. But there was a flurry in the hall as if they were preparing a surprise for me: I was going to be the center of attention. I would get terribly excited and come for them, and they would be pleased, crowning me "King of the Evening." But that was so silly, since no one was here with me. Who did I want to see? And I thought of John.

He was the one who would come through the door, the surprise that was waiting for me. I again tried telepathy, calling out "John, John," with strength and concentration in my mind, even to moving my lips. But no one came in. Once Stan walked across the room and I wanly reached toward him, but he walked around the bed and either adjusted something or whispered something to someone whom I imagined was resting on the floor behind the bed: my special person, but when I looked around, I was truly alone in the room.

Manuel came back into the room, and I started doing something with him, but it was too much like the past: he wanted to immerse his cock completely in my mouth, and I just didn't have the skill to take it, and his uncoordinated motions pushed his delicate skin against my teeth in the back, and I feared hurting him, so I simply allowed my mouth to be used as a gaping hole, not being able to suck or use my tongue, and this seemed terribly unsatisfactory to both of us, and someone came up behind him, and he turned to them and I fell back on the bed.

I was conscious of someone asking for the time, and about 11:30 I began to realize what time it was. Then the subject of time came up again, and I was gratified to find it was 11:35: time agreed. Bob came back into the room, looking worried, asking how I was, and he sat on the edge of the bed to tell me that he had fainted in the bathroom, for the first time in his life! At first I was sure he was putting me on. He had seen how high I had been, wanted me to feel at ease, and was building up the evening to an impossible degree by lying to me. But he assured me it was true, that the pot must have been something out of the ordinary, and that he was uptight and didn't feel very well. I tried to comfort him, but still the nagging paranoia that he was lying prevented me from going out to him completely. He thought I was dirt, but then he DID come in my presence, as if I was the only one worthy of producing his orgasm, and then I forgot that I DID manage to come, clutching him to my side in a passion of kissing, jerking myself off with my straining limp cock, gasping more for others than myself. So maybe he was serious about the evening.

We moved back into the living room, and there were only a few people there, and I remembered that part of my paranoia earlier in the evening had been caused by the ostentatious leaving of a number of guests quite early in the evening. They didn't like it, they didn't like me, I was making the whole group uptight: it was all my fault!

Everyone except Stan was dressing, and I remembered that I had wanted to feel that incredible body, but he hadn't really participated in the group expression on the bed. I reached out to him and we kissed lightly, his bushy mustache being dry and soft, and there was a pleasant look on his face, but he moved away from me: he didn't want to touch me.

I stood dazed in the middle of the floor, and Ron and Carlin grouped about me, asking how I felt, and Carlin said that he and Ron were high on acid, and I looked at them in amazement: they seemed perfectly normal!

I went into the hall to get my trousers, but it seemed that everything was taking an age, and I could only defend the slowness of my actions by repeating: "Wow, am I spaced out" to whoever looked at me quizzically. Finally I got my trousers on, but I really wanted to stay: there was Bob and Ron and Carlin and Stan and myself, and I thought these five could stay around---after all, it wasn't even midnight---and have a good time. Or maybe Stan would see how zonked I was and invite me to stay. But Bob seemed anxious to leave, saying I was dressing slowly, saying now that the pants were on, the next step was for me to find my shirt, and I got the message that something was wrong: we were supposed to leave, and somewhat quickly.

Again in the hall I fell asleep over my shoes, and only someone laughing behind me galvanized me into something like normal activity. I didn't want to leave, I wanted to stay undressed, but there were all the pressures to dress that I finally stood there ready to leave. Goodbyes and thanks were exchanged, and we were out in the hall, we four, waiting for the elevator.

Carlin and Ron were looking at me with amusement, and Bob stood tense and worried, and it was only as we were standing under the lighted marquee of the building that we began to talk, and I found that the strange feelings through the evening were shared with others.

Bob immediately said "I'm sorry it turned out that way," and I with surprise said "What are you sorry about?" "It just didn't click," he said, going on to describe his feelings that the people there had their heads in the wrong place, that though he agreed with me that they were beautiful to look at, the evening wasn't unified, there WAS no feeling of excitement in the group, many people felt disappointed in the activities, there was no idea that it was a successful group. I immediately felt better, happy that my feelings of frustration and lack of excitement were shared with others. Carlin and Ron described how they sat together observing everything, but not participating because it wasn't "together."

Bob appeared undecided, but finally said he was just going home and going to bed. He couldn't invite me with him, and since he seemed so determined to go home, I very tentatively asked him if he wanted to be invited to my place, but he refused quickly and emphatically. Ron and Carlin were going home, too, so I asked if I could join them in the cab.

We talked rather sparsely, mainly they sat with amused smiles watching the expressions on my face as we went downtown, and I kept insisting I was very spaced out, and they were tripping in their own acid world. Got out in front of their building, thanked them, heard no invitation to go up to their place, and walked around the corner, being very conscious of every movement I made: caught in the paradox of coming out of a high. I now had the memory of how high I HAD been, how dangerous it would have been had I been outside, but still enough of a high to know that I wasn't NORMAL, and had to be very careful about every move: I had to move my feet to walk, watch crossing the street against traffic, keep confidence that the walk would NOT go on forever, but that I would soon be in my building, in the elevator, in my apartment, in bed. These stages passed, and I really don't remember much except that I felt very hungry and had a piece of peach pie which tasted delicious before falling into bed and sleep.

The next morning I called Bob, and he said that he and Carlin were talking about the evening, agreeing that something was dreadfully wrong with it. Again I was gratified to hear someone else sharing my opinions, and I finally got the courage to say that I regretted that there was no AFFECTION among the members of the group, and Bob snorted with disgust that there wasn't ANYTHING among members of the group. He described his originally-intended group of 8: he and myself, Carlin and Ron, Stan the host and Bob the Negro, and the rose-colored glasses David and the narrow-bearded guy. I said that I thought David was groovy looking, and hoped something would happen with him, but that he seemed distant, and Bob leaped in to assure me that EVERYONE seemed distant, and that he was very disappointed with David because he was "absolutely wild" in bed having sex with Bob himself, and he saw nothing of that action last night.

"You're wild in bed, too," he said with no apparent effort to make me feel better, merely stating a fact, "and I could see you were turned off, and I felt responsible for the evening, and I felt terrible."

Then he described his evening more in detail. "You know that my grass is very good, and we were smoking that for part of the evening, but I don't know what was in the water pipe, but I just got higher and higher until I'd never been so high. I found myself standing at the john in the bathroom, then I recognized: I didn't FEEL it, it didn't HURT, but I just was AWARE of this feeling on my shoulder and my head, and then someone touched my arm and asked 'Did you faint?' It blew my mind because I had no remembrance of falling to the floor, but from the changed perspective I had, I knew I was lying on the floor. I couldn't move, and I just lay there and the sweat just POURED from my body. I've never felt like that before, it was as if every pore was just dripping with water. I felt dizzy and felt the pain in my head and shoulder where I must have hit the wall and the floor, but it wasn't bad: the worst of it was that I PASSED OUT for a couple of seconds, and I never did that before in my LIFE."

I suggested to Bob that he and I were alike in our desires to control situations, and that he might be fearing not so much the effect of the drug, whatever it may have been, on him, but the fact that he LOST CONTROL of himself for no matter how brief a time. In his rather characteristic manner, he neither said I was right nor disagreed with me, but didn't acknowledge my idea until he brought it into the conversation somewhat later as HIS idea, and a good one at that.

"I was uptight because I organized the thing, but I wanted those eight people only. Then Stan asked if he could invite friends of his over from his gym, and what could I say, 'No, you can't invite your friends to the party in your own apartment.'?? So HE invited six more people, and sure, they were nice to look at, but their HEADS weren't in the group, and it matters where their HEADS are."

That blew my mind. Here the people had been as close as I'd ever seen to living drawings by Tom and Colt, and I had looked forward to the evening with intense anticipation of feeling and enjoying those bodies, and had been very disappointed in that, but here was Bob, agreeing that the people were good to look at, but saying that wasn't the most important thing: THE PERSON WAS MOST IMPORTANT. I almost burst into tears on the sofa at the thought: the evening wasn't ruined by me, and I had been so attuned to the evening that I had the same thoughts Bob had. I babbled to him in my enthusiasm my conviction, when I was very high, that it really WASN'T IMPORTANT what color the skin was, how big the cock was, how good-looking the person's face or body was. It all seemed to FIT IN: maybe I wasn't so different from Eddie, who didn't like the muscle builders, maybe I WASN'T so difficult to arouse, since Bob wasn't aroused either, and Carlin and Ron didn't even participate, and Stan felt very nervous, partly because it was the first time he had had so many people there. But Bob said though the Red Room was a great idea, and he thought it was a real turn-on, no one USED it through the evening. Maybe I wasn't as "queer" as I'd considered myself, self-consciously, wanting only hunks of muscle as fantasy material. Maybe that REALLY wasn't my scene, but it DID depend on "where the head was."

That would make me feel SO much better, since I felt so inferior to the bodies and faces I'd seen earlier in the evening, and now I began to feel SUPERIOR to them, since Bob was saying THEIR heads weren't in the right place, but MINE was. (Though that reminds me of Blackwood's observation: nothing ACTUALLY---IN THE WORLD---has changed, the change is only WITHIN MY MIND, so MY CHANGE OF MIND REALLY MAKES NO DIFFERENCE in the world, except as it might affect my ACTIONS in the future. Though I pause and think that I DID rather do what I wanted, though I was turned away from it. Though the argument to that would be that if I HADN'T tried to do "my own thing," that would have been just one FEWER person trying to make a good thing of the evening.)

He went on some more about how strange it was that he passed out, and he'd since gotten reports back from other people that they really thought there might have been some additive to the pot in the pipe, and that everyone was particularly zonked out. Also, to my delight, Bob postulated the idea that I'd always had about there being a point of being high beyond which ONE DIDN'T THINK ABOUT SEX, and that it wasn't any good for a group to get VERY high, since it wouldn't turn to sexual encounters. I recalled the mystical states into which I get in which bodily CONTACT and personal CLOSENESS is more than enough, and the energy involved to reach an orgasm just DOESN'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE. It's the old thing of: I could come, or not, and it wouldn't make any difference. I could jump out the window, or not, and it wouldn't make any difference (but I'd better not jump just yet), Bob could be happy or not, and it's up to HIM to display for ME to see just what his reactions are; it's not the time for ME to think that HE'S playing games and I have to exert some sort of intuitive forces (which might be wrong more often than they're right---but then again, when I'm high, they may be right more often than they're wrong, but I tend to ACT, without consideration of possible bad effects (if they don't like it, they can make it unequivocally clear to me very easily, though sometimes my paranoia enters and makes me super-inferior, though that's just as often cancelled by my super-superiority feelings, and I should PROBABLY aim to operate at a more EVEN key: being more high when I'm straight, less extremely vacillating when I'm high: I'm neither SO BAD as I fear at times I MIGHT be, NOR so good as I dream at times I MAY be) that my actions might bring about) to figure out exactly where HE is.

On one point Bob DID turn me off, and that was when he said that the activity didn't really get EXCITING as far as he was concerned, it really wasn't IMAGINATIVE. When he went into it, my paranoia told me that he meant that there wasn't enough fucking and being fucked, and he DID say "Everyone just played with themselves and jerked off, it's as if they hadn't changed their ideas of sex from when they were children." Now, it's true that I consider myself limited and limiting in my enjoyment by the FACT that I don't enjoy anal intercourse (and I do recall that I CAN get excited about the idea and fact of rimming, if I once pass over the threshold of MY forgetting about MY hang-ups and trusting the other person to show HIS pleasure or displeasure at MY rimming him, and the alternate threshold of trusting the other person to WANT to rim me, not only thinking that I WANT TO HAVE IT DONE, but that HE WANTS TO DO IT, and that a little bit of shit (as Avi puts it), isn't going to hurt anyone, and even in the rare chance that it does, modern medicine makes it not quite the fearful thing I was raised to expect it to be), and I acknowledge the fact that I would grow as an individual if I could learn to appreciate this type of intercourse (just as I'm sure I would grow as an individual if I had sex with a woman---even the unsuccessful sessions with Norma would certainly be described as a growth experience). But my old fears of pain and disease raise themselves, and I never feel SO far out, even with the kif at Richard Ett's apartment, that there's no sensation of pain at all---and then the fact remains that I still don't find it exciting.

Of course, the aim would reasonably be that I should DISCONNECT the mind from the body, enjoy what the body is subjected to or enforced upon, and DON'T THINK ABOUT IT. Though it may be disappointing to me, the only time I'll probably enjoy being fucked (or, rather, the FIRST time I'll enjoy being fucked), I won't even fully recognize, in the mind, that I've BEEN fucked, because the mind will immediately clamber to say "But it didn't hurt, it was pleasant, so they must have been putting you on, they didn't fuck you at all, they're just kidding you. They couldn't have fucked you because you ENJOYED it." But if this syndrome repeats a couple of times, I might ACCEPT my enjoyment of it, just as I've long accepted the enjoyment of doing someone, which I originally didn't like to do---or even accepted the enjoyment of kissing, though it was only with Joseph Beers May that I didn't enjoy kissing, and I certainly caught on to THAT quickly.

To Bob's ideal of a group which discriminates not according to the body, or even the part of the body, with which the person is in contact---that ideal is a good one, his ideal of a heavily FUCKING party isn't appealing to me, but I'm sure even HE wouldn't consider the ultimate turn-on one enormous daisy chain: there has to be some variety: the mere HAVING an observer, in the right circumstances, with a hard cock visible, is more exciting than having everyone's cock buried in someone else's ass.

Bob also came up with the rather bizarre idea that Carlin and Ron's ingesting of LSD could have cause a contact acid high among the group. I made the mistake of asking, "Well, have you ever taken LSD to know what THAT high is like?" and then he reminded me that he'd never taken acid, had asked my advice about taking it, and we'd agreed that it wouldn't do him any good at all. At first I pooh-poohed the idea of a contact acid high, since that's taken into the stomach, and the air isn't full of particles of the drug which people can inhale, but then when Bob continued to insist that he never felt so panicky before, with the sweat pouring from his body, with his entire being trembling with weakness and fear, I began to think that there might not be a PHYSICAL contact high, but a sort of MENTAL contact high. Just as Bob is capable of following me out on my extreme trips, without really being there himself, he may have been talking to Carlin and Ron and have found himself, in sympathy, as far out as THEY were. (Of course, I recognized that their acid high may have been one of the disintegrating factors in the evening.)

Carlin and Ron agreed with almost everything that Bob said, and I expressed my surprise that I didn't find Carlin in the orgy, since I had sort of pictured him and me together part of the time. I even had the courage to emphasize the fact that though I didn't find Carlin appealing to me as an INDIVIDUAL relationship, I thought he would be great in a group, and again Bob agreed with me enthusiastically.

So Bob was finally turned off the group idea, though I tried to bolster his confidence by saying that HIS invitation list would have had a wild time, but I thought the party was too BIG, and that helped bring it down. Bob then said his next idea would be to start very small, with maybe three or four people, as had been his original idea, and then very slowly build up the group by adding one each session, and letting everyone know that the "initiate" would be rather the center of attraction to MAKE SURE he related with EVERYONE in the group just as well as all former members had learned to relate to each other "not caring whether they have a face or a tongue or a chest or a cock or an asshole." He said he wanted to cool it for about ten days, and I said that sounded like a bad idea until he explained that Nina was going into the hospital for a cyst operation which might be like her former breast cancer, and that he was rather concerned with her and not about sex. He said that he and I and Bob, the Negro, would definitely be part of the core group, and again I felt very gratified and said he would be sure to get in touch with me, and he assured me that I was the first one he'd think of.

He did try to get in touch with me the following Monday, but I was at John's, and he DID have the first session of his new plan at his place, and everyone smoked, used poppers, used the cock-and-ball holders which turned everyone on, and got high together, everyone's head was in the right place, and it was only Bob (and not me) and Bob and Wally, someone whom I hadn't met. He and I were both sorry I couldn't be there. He asked me over that Tuesday, but I refused, wanting to stay home.

Then we started planning for next Wednesday, which would be here, and Bob and Bob would definitely be there, maybe not Wally, but maybe Stan or some other person, and I said my place was OK so long as there weren't more than six or eight here, preferably six or fewer, and he definitely agreed, saying that was the only way to go, and he wanted to develop a small core group that really grooved on each other, so that new people could be added or substituted as members of the core group weren't able to attend, but the object, it seemed to me, was to sort of create ONE PERSON of enormous sensuality who would RECONSTITUTE itself rather regularly for a really polymorphously-perverse sexual evening where EVERYONE was doing what THEY wanted, what the GROUP wanted, for an entirely satisfying evening of sex. He promised to keep in touch with me about the progress of invitations for the party on Wednesday. Hope it's GREAT! (RETURN TO JOURNALS 4/17/70).