The Feast of Achelous by Rubens

Group Sex: #Fetchat update & A Dash of Nostalgic Smut

 

Hello, My Beauties,

For this week’s #fetchat we’ll be covering the subject of group sex. I’ve been meandering down memory lane while contemplating the topic. So, along with regular updates, I’ve written a dash of smut pulled from the vault of my experiences.

Pride month has come and gone. It’s strange how fast time passes. I remember folks telling me that as I got older, time would move faster, and back then it sounded absurd. Now it feels like I blink and, all of a sudden, a whole month has passed. 

If you follow me on Instagram or Twitter and are wondering, the family wedding was delightful, and the poem was a hit. 

No family drama and I only got into one questionable conversation. My life’s work includes writing and talking about sex, kink, and being queer. Unfortunately, the majority of my in-laws are evangelical republicans who go apoplectic when I talk about current events or what I do with my days. 

I couldn’t help myself. I can’t abide folks conflate sex work with human trafficking. They tend to lobby and vote as if they’re not commoditizing sex themselves, but instead of being honest about it, they’re preaching a sad gospel of purity and denial and calling it holy.

Guess what? When someone says having sex should be saved for ” committed relationships,” they are conferring value on the act of sex. It may not be monetary, but it’s still valued as something worthy of exchange. The apoplexy was kept to a minimum, although the side-eye was out in force after the fact. Oh well, as the incomparable Mae West once said, “those who easily are shocked, should be shocked more often.” 

Argh. Sex work is work. End of. 

Speaking of sex, this week’s #Fetchat is all about Group Sex. And our guest this week is Ginny James, you can find her at ginnyjames.com and @GinnyJames14 on Twitter.

Ginny is an erotic romance author, happily married for 20 years, but wasn’t always a Mrs. She’s sex-positive and can’t wait to share her group sex knowledge on #fetchat. If you’re curious about something, don’t be afraid to ask, she’s likely done it. 

Cover of Ginny James' novel
You can purchase “Need to Breathe” on Amazon or read it for free if you’ve got a Kindle Unlimited account.

Also, check out Ginny’s new book, “Need to Breathe” available on AmazonIt’s free for those with a Kindle Unlimited account, which means I just downloaded a copy. I’ll keep you posted as to my thoughts on it (once I catch up with the glut of reading I’ve assigned myself, of which I am woefully behind). 

Unfamiliar with #Fetchat?

It’s a weekly Twitter Chat I co-host with Nikki from loveisafetish.com (@loveisafetish on Twitter). We, along with our guests and the kinksters and fetishists of Twitter, explore the kink/fetish landscape. Join us every Wednesday at 5 PM, EST by either searching “fetchat” on Twitter or hanging out on the @Fet_chat feed. 

Now, on to Group sex.

I’ve wandered around the interwebs, and it seems that the accepted definition of group sex is sex involving two or more people. A threesome on up to an orgy involving folks of all gender id’ s/presentations, sexualities, and sexual expressions from singles to swingers and all that fall in between.

The Feast of Achelous by Rubens
The Feast of Achelous by Peter Paul Rubens..
See full image credit at end.

For some inexplicable reason, both my honey and I both said: “Huh, I didn’t think threesomes counted as group sex.” Our ignorance goes to show that no matter how educated you think you are, there’s always something left to learn. 

To be fair, I was only counting trysts made up of four or more folks at first. It’s not like I was excluding threesomes for any puritanical reason, it just felt like too few a number to count as a group. I’m sometimes too literal for my own good.

If threesomes count, then I’ve had group sex way more often than I supposed.

And although my group sex days are in the past (as previously mentioned, my honey tends toward the vanilla in all ways), I remember each time with fondness and dewy-eyed nostalgia. I imagine it’s like an aging athlete recalling scoring in the last seconds of a game. 

Cue the soft-focus camera. We’re going back in time. 

It was a dull Saturday afternoon in late October. The sky was overcast, swags of low-slung clouds heavy with snow. The cold was sneaking up the sleeves and down the necklines of sweaters because no one wanted to concede to winter coats just yet. 

I was curled up watching movies with two of my closest friends. Let’s call them Michael and Quinn. Both were cis-male, Michael was gay, and Quinn was bisexual. What started as a silly game of “what if,” which had turned into “I dare you,” and then everyone was stripping and grinding on each other. 

Yeah, it was dreadfully under-negotiated. 

There was no talk of consent, limits, or boundaries, which I absolutely advise everyone talk about before sex, whether you’re kink or vanilla, with one partner or many. Please remember that I was young and exploring in the darkness of the early 90s. 

We weren’t taught consent the way we discuss it now. Back then consent meant that you had either not said or had stopped saying “no.” Doubt me? Check out the movie Sixteen Candles. A young man bragging about raping his unconscious girlfriend was considered the height of hilarity. 

It was the first time I’d seen two men kiss.

They devoured each other’s mouths, yet still managed these interludes of delicacy and tenderness in their battle for dominance. Watching Quinn nibble on the shell of Michael’s ear got me wet.

When Michael sucked on Quinn’s tongue, I thought the poor guy was going to faint. I gave up any pretense of waiting and started fingering myself with one hand and plucking my nipples with the other.

They were beautiful together. It was the first time any of us had sex with more than one person and Quinn’s first time with another guy.  But for all the newness, he was magnificent at multitasking.  He alternated between stroking my clit and offering up his fingers to me so I could lick off my own slick.

Michael grasped their pricks together in his fist and stroked them both, their shafts shiny with lube. After a few minutes, Quinn asked me, voice wracked with lust, to suck his dick instead of his fingers.

I was nervous about giving a blow job.

I’d managed plenty, before this incident, yet I held no illusions about my skills. They were perfunctory at best.  Let’s recall, this is many moons ago and there was no Kinkly.com available with handy cock-sucking how-to’s. It was “grin and bear it” advice from so-called women’s magazines, trial and error, and porn.

However, during our friendship, Michael and I had talked about blow jobs ad nauseam. Michael, smirked, one side of his mouth rising in his best marauding space-smuggler impression (he knew what made me melt, the fantastical jerk), and said:

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk you through it.” 

Which, let me be honest, was way hotter than it had any right being. Quinn swung his legs over the side of his bed, spreading them wide, and Michael slid down onto the floor beside me. I reached for Quinn’s prick. My mentor clucked his tongue like a disappointed math tutor and whispered, yes whispered, with his lips against my ear: 

“Going right for his cock is your first mistake. Palm his sack and bite his thighs, sister. Make him beg for your mouth.” 


We never talked about that day once we’d all dressed and went back to watching our movie. Never fucked again, either. My silence was the result of not knowing where to put such a positive sexual experience that I perceived others would see as the height of depravity.

At the time, I carried some messed up ideas about sex and intimacy. Isn’t it funny what 20 years, a decade of which I spent in intensive therapy, will do?

Oh, and please know, Quinn begged for my mouth before it was over.

Be well, be wonderful, and above all be you.

Anne 


Image Credit: The Feast of Acheloüs, Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, Siegen 1577–1640 Antwerp) and Jan Brueghel the Elder (Netherlandish, Brussels 1568–1625 Antwerp). ca. 1615. Gift of Alvin and Irwin Untermyer, in memory of their parents, 1945. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmuseum.org.

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