I attended huge multiple clan swinging nights at Holiday Inn Banquet Halls covered by a hundred mattresses featuring private security and live bands where you entered blindfolded through a gauntlet of mouths and hands and feathers and whipped cream and more mouths and hands.

I went to intertribal non-stop weekend bashes at resorts where I learned that a sixty-three-year-old woman can be thrilling.

I went to dude ranches with 300 couples of every color, age, and perversion, where on a Sunday afternoon I would actually run out of sperm first and then the blood pressure necessary to raise the beast.

I vividly remember once being summoned into a room to service a woman who was on her knees blind folded, begging for another “gang-bang mystery fuck,” who called me “Number 35,” which I suppose was correct since she was the right person to be keeping score.

I remember once being summoned into a room to service a blindfolded woman begging for another “gang-bang mystery fuck.” She called me “Number 35.”

Two observations about orgies:

First. The wonderful Organic Equalizer at orgies is stamina, which thankfully was my strong suit. Toward the end of the evening there are always more willing women than men. It’s a simple physical reality of men needing to be willing and able and women merely needing to be willing.

That’s when guys like me who could get it up over and over and over and over really came into our own. No pun intended.

 For example. It’s the tail end of an orgy which started at 9 p.m. with fourteen couples— twenty-eight people—and it’s now 2:30 a.m. and only five couples are left. Three of the guys are sleeping or at least have a sleeping penis which leaves five active women and two guys and I am usually one of them. All of a sudden my stock goes up five points.

There are at least two women playing with each man and maybe I am the lucky guy with three. Plus, think about it. What kind of woman is still hungry for sex at the end of an orgy after getting fucked maybe six, seven, eight, nine times already? A very horny, highly-sexed one that would be pumping out the super-pheromones that a penis needs at that hour. It was self-leveling, or self-raising as the case may be.

Only the very most animalistic fuckiest women with the strongest sex scents would be up and willing to fuck in the early hours and that’s when men’s reputations were made. The shear volume of sperm I could ejaculate during rapturous copulations with a constantly changing selection of lovely females did enduring good to my neurovascular system, karma, and soul.

I know that besides the fact that I came with an attractive fox that was herself often one of those late players, I was invited to many orgies because I could be counted on to play great in the post season.

I was actually told by one host that all other facts aside I was invited to parties because of my play-off record. They wanted their end game covered.

I may come from Boston but I was the opposite of the Red Sox. I was the Reggie Jackson, the Mr. October, of orgies.

Second. The best thing about all those orgies was the access it gave me to certain kinds of womenfolk, high-class very beautiful ones particularly, that I could not score on my own.

One anecdote explains it all.

It was a Friday afternoon on Fifth Avenue and I had to call Andrea to make plans for dinner. I notice that my watch had stopped. This absolutely gorgeous lady with The Fur Coat And Lots Of Diamonds walks by and I ask her the time, and she walks right by and never even acknowledges me. And of course she heard me.

The very next night, Saturday, I’m at an orgy in a very posh apartment on Gramercy Park North done in stucco and made to look like the inside of an old English castle. Shortly after my first orgasm, I am aware, astounded, that the very same Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty is alongside me, with the most beautiful God-given B-cup tits I’ve ever seen. She is beyond luscious. Not sexy looking but just plain gorgeous. She must have been a model. If you wanted the young executive-looking model, or the girl at the country club, or the right look to show off an elegant fur coat or diamond necklace, you’d hire her. She’s on top of a dude parallel to me, riding up and down and screaming. They finish and she slides off the penis she’s just wilted and into my arms. We then make long, hot, sweaty love. She is the single most beautiful woman I had ever fucked. There is no doubt.

She kisses great, her skin is silky and flawless. Her eyes are light blue and they smile. I can’t take my eyes off her. Without asking, she sucks my asshole. When I stick my tongue in her bum she wiggles and squeals with delight. She has one of those little hairless doll anuses nestled in a cute small tushy that I don’t mind sucking.

I have to be really in love, or inspired, to suck an asshole, and her bum and knowing this was the same Lady from Fifth Avenue was suitably inspirational. I added a finger into the mix and I could tell this was one Very Anal Lady.

She relaxed and opened rather than tightened and closed.

She then asked me ever so politely to put my cock up her ass. Actually her words were “Put yours there please.” She simply refused to mention any of the parts by name.

I am under siege by a battalion of different emotions, perceptions and sensations, all of them terrific. I am conquering the unconquerable, and adoring the most perfect female physical form I have ever felt. I am master and slave. I own and am owned. Everything about her says dainty and Lady and refined and there I am with my chrome molly prong up her “there.”

I have one of those memorable orgasms that will be running, hopefully, through my mind when my whole life passes in front of me at the moment of death. (I’ve always loved that concept.)

 I never mention our outside world encounter. I hold her for a few minutes afterwards and secretly say a prayer of thanks to the Magic Goddess Of Orgy who sometimes makes the unattainable fuckable. On the way out The Fur Coat And Diamond Beauty comes over to me in the exact same fur coat, kisses me slowly and tenderly, and says she hopes to run into me again.

Sadly I never saw her again. She was the date of a funny looking Jewish Gynecologist who was one of several funny looking Jewish OB-GYNs I met on the orgy circuit who consistently showed up with the most fashion model gorgeous dates. I always wondered what magic dust they were sprinkled with or they possessed to sprinkle. Or did they do something “special” during exams?

They were asked by friends and acquaintances who were curious and had never been to one. Let's examine them.

1. “What about falling in love with someone at an orgy? Or what about finding someone that you like screwing better than the wife or girlfriend you came with?”

Although I met Andrea at an orgy, I never worried about losing her to someone else, and I never fell in love with anybody else no matter how good a fuck.

I know the irony is odd. I have no explanation for my confidence except my chutzpah and the fact that Andrea wasn’t really in love with Roger when I met her. The reason for my loyalty is that I loved Andrea. She was pretty, funny, smart, uninhibited (code for likes anal) and delighted in being naughty. I was happy to have found her and didn’t want to replace her. I just wanted to fuck other females.

People who came with “just friends,” hookers, or partners they were trying to exchange could and would meet new partners or hookers and fall in love. It happened.

But it appears, from years of seeing the same couples come to orgies, that healthy relationships were not dissolved because of swinging. I think it held many otherwise insolvent marriages together. It was something else to stay together for besides the kids.

If you wanted to fuck another woman you met at an orgy, you could legally above board meet her at another party and have her. Twice or three times in a row if you wanted to. Or if you were a female and your date/ boyfriend/ husband liked your fuckee’s date/ girlfriend/ wife you could get together with them not only at other orgies but on Sunday afternoons or a weeknight for a mini-nookie festival, which Andrea and I did often with a selection of couples.

Being able to fuck another girl that you fancied, legally, took the need to cheat out of your life and mostly disarmed whatever that device is within us that makes people have affairs. I mean, why bother?

Couples who were swinging, whether married or living together, were hot couples having the kinds of sex that people who would worry about losing their mate at an orgy don’t have.

There was the odd switch here and there and one full time divorce/ remarry real life intra-couple swap but they were rarities. Think about it: Would being able to fuck nearly anyone you want to make whatever relationship you are in more tolerable?

Relationships, at least in those days, could be more fun with the threat of monogamy removed.

Example: I met an adorable little smart girl named Amy at one orgy who liked Andrea and loved fucking me. She asked Andrea if she could come over in the mornings to fuck me on her way to work. Her schedule ran later than Andrea’s and just before Andrea would get out of our bed Amy would arrive with coffee and breakfast and jump under the covers with us. Then Andrea would get dressed, leave and kiss us both goodbye.

Sometimes we took Amy with us to orgies. An extra female is always welcome, and a guy who shows up with two girls is treated like the living Buddha. None of us ever thought of ruining the situation and if Amy was lonely and wanted to be with me/ us she just called and came over. It’s amazing what can be accomplished with both a lack of jealousy and the absence of dogmatic fidelity.

It’s what made Baby Boomer Orgiasts think we really were creating a new society and actually changing the world.

One time when I was going to leave Andrea for a week to visit my family and I knew that a week without sex wouldn’t be fun for her, I called some of our swinging friends to have them invite Andrea to join them while I was away.        

Maybe only once or twice through all those years of sex while listening to Marvin Gaye did I even have a passing thought about going home with someone other than whom I came with. Love was a relationship, orgies were for sport, and I never forgot who was on the home team.

If there was a threat it would be more to the guy who came with the hottest chick, the fashion model, the gorgeous slut and while Andrea was sexy, attractive, very desirable, a brilliant fuck, and made a good presentation, she was not The Spectacular One, The Astounding One that every man lined up for.

But even here the same rules still applied. A man who brought The Fox into the room would have to display a bravery that The Fox respected as sexy. And I guess the guys with Truly Gifted Foxes that they were afraid to bring, who could have been taken away, didn’t get brought.

During the years after Andrea and before Laura, say 1974-1980, I arrived at a few orgies with the evening’s Queen Of The Room. One time it was with an absolutely beautiful Chinese girl I was seeing, several times with a stunning giant creature I was living with, and a few times with some lovely female who just happened to be the pick of that night’s litter. The feelings of possession-threat were intensified, but it was like running through the woods on a too hot summer night’s very electrical thunderstorm, being bathed by welcomed cooling droplets while bombarded, enthralled and just a little frightened by overlapping moments of great light, big bangs and the artillery cracks of struck trees—a little scary but not to be missed.

I never worried about Andrea or anyone I was in love with falling for someone else because they were fucking them. I was twenty-three then and felt invulnerable and immortal twenty-four hours a day.

There was a small risk, and very occasionally I would hear of couples, even married ones, splitting up because one mate or the other found somebody new. However, the reward of a constantly fresh supply of unlimited pussy made this small risk worth it.