parisian underground (i.)
So, the thing with orgies – and I hate the word ‘orgy’ because it brings to mind the 70’s, with the super-bush and the wah-wah pedal and, for that matter, 70AD, with the togas and the wine-guzzling, and this was neither, neither symptomatic of imperial ruin nor comically porntastic – but the thing with orgies is that they’re a lot like Twister. I’m on the padded platform in the half-light, balanced on one knee while a woman parts my legs from behind to go down on me, and I’m hovering over the second woman with my hand just beside her head, my arm locked, and my fingers dangerously close to slipping and catching a handful of that long, brown hair, and I’m trying to lower myself a little to kiss her but my arm is starting to shake, and my other leg has just been lifted by some guy – I think it’s a guy – presumably to give his girl better access to my pussy, and my one remaining free hand, which is trying desperately to find something to hang onto, something to help redistribute this weight, has just been stuffed with dick. It’s a nice dick but not supportive dick, and my body is starting to shake because I’m definitely going to buckle, definitely, and this beautiful, beautiful girl beneath me is looking up at me with her big brown eyes, and she’s stroking my cheek with her perfectly manicured hands and trying to pull my face down to meet hers, but it’s just not going to happen. It’s just physically impossible. So I pull my seized leg free, release the dick, redistribute my weight, and kneel up.
“I need to be on my back,” I say, and the woman below me immediately pulls me down on top of her.
My friend is somewhere in the shadows, watching.
*
The place is pretty amazing. The door isn’t marked, and when you first enter, you find yourself in a brightly lit vestibule furnished like a security guard’s outpost, with a simple chair and a table (presumably for the phrenologist/physiognomist), and perfectly blank, bright-white walls. I arrive in a black shift dress, thigh highs, and simple black pumps, and my friend’s in a very beautiful dark suit. The gate-keeper looks us over and then opens another door to usher us into the real vestibule, a dimly lit coat check where my coat and purse are taken, as well as my first name. The fellow asks if I’ve ever been there before and I’m distracted because the man’s stunning. Startling. Tall, slender, with dark hair and light eyes, in some gorgeous suit with conspicuous white cuffs, no tie. Gorgeous man. Probably gay. I say, “No, this is my first time.”
He leads us down a stone staircase to a restaurant with a modern, feminine design scheme, very different from the photos I’d seen. I’m picking up notes of burlesque and Audrey Hepburn – it feels like it was designed by a woman, and there’s something about that I like. Every great sexual event I’ve ever attended has been run by women, so I’m openly sexist on this: until proven otherwise, I’ll believe that women are better at orchestrating orgies than men are.
We hit the champagne pretty hard and watch other couples as they pass through, but I’m too curious to eat. We talk about our respective views of marriage, and we talk about the Coen brothers and Philip Seymour Hoffman. We hurry through the courses and then order a few hits of espresso before we venture downstairs.
We descend another long, winding stone staircase – something you’d expect to find in the depths of Parisian buildings – but the heavy, grey stone is softened with gold-framed mirrors of different shapes and sizes and tiny white lights. At the bottom, there’s a bar and a dancefloor, but nobody’s dancing. For a moment, we both worry that the place is empty.
My friend says, “I know of several others if this isn’t good.”
But we explore. And as we explore, we realize that the place is enormous and labyrinthine – it expands underground in an endless series of niches and caves and erotic spaces, all plush with cushions and pillows and padding. Some niches are nicely lit and lined with mirrors, in others it’s hard to make out the bodies. We wander through the winding stone hallways and stumble onto three couples, still dressed, undulating rhythmically, but it’s too dark to see much. We keep walking and pass a kind of ‘refreshment’ area with several large sinks and stacks of small, white washcloths. Washcloths are everywhere. And mirrors. And pillows and cushions and Parisian lounge music.
We keep walking to find another cave-like niche, this one less plush, the sort of stony environment you’d envision for a rougher dynamic. Off this niche is a better-lit room, a small one, equipped with a stripper pole and a set of handcuffs welded to the top. Like some moronic drunk girl, I go, “Hey – stripper pole!” and hop up on the platform, which prompts my friend to take interest and lock me in. He runs his hands over my thighs and starts to lift the hem of my dress, but then I glance up and see a fiercely attractive couple standing in the doorway. The woman has dark brown hair cut to a smooth bob and a very small frame, and her friend is very striking, maybe a thirtysomething in a crisp, elegant grey suit, fair skin, light hair. For some reason, I think I’m preventing them from using the pole, so I get myself unlocked and hop down. My friend and I wander back to the micro-orgy in the dark room, and when I stop at a seated area with fantastic voyeuristic potential, I notice that the couple has followed us over.
I watch two women doubled over, still dressed for the most part, but I’ve got clear view of their thong-clad asses and their bobbing heads. I turn around and ask my friend to zip me down so I can slip out of my dress, which he does, and I bundle my dress and my bra in the space beside me. I’m now sitting half-reclined on this large, padded platform, in heels, thigh highs, and a translucent pair of panties. I throw one leg up on the platform and lean back, so I can slip my hand into my underwear to stroke myself lazily as I watch, maybe to warm up a bit, or maybe because I’m a raging voyeur. Then my friend leans down and says, “Hey – look over.”
I glance to the side and see three couples, all looking at me very closely.
*
More soon.
Filed under: personal notes | 6 Comments
Tags: multiples, paris
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My life is so boring. I can’t even recall the last time I went to an orgy, much less whether it was run by women.
Le sigh.
Ditto, for your next incarnation perhaps you could be a tour guide who leads sexually curious women to exotic, erotic places around the globe.
Have just been led to your blog (on the Barbicon exhibition) through a lovely corridor lit with coffee table lamps, red carpet and a tray of iced rosee up ahead- and am enchnated. I attended my first ‘orgy’ recently- post still on the way. It certainly wasnt’ so elegant as the one you attended- but a consuming sensual pleasure. Would love to do the decor- as yes, I agree that women do have a more refined sense of sexual style,
sabine
oh my
is that real? does that exist?
oh my oh my oh my. i’m with chelsea girl, this is the kind of orgy i want to attend.
It does exist! I’ve been there twice. Kind of…
The first time, after much cajoling and pleading, I finally talked my wife into going. I treated her to a chic Parisian dinner (Le Fumoir, near Pont Neuf) with plenty of champagne and cigarettes. We arrived at Les Chandelles around 11 – early for a Paris orgy – and rang the buzzer at the nondescript door. A tall handsome man appeared, let us in, took our coats. And that’s when my orgy fantasy completely fell apart. The doorman/bouncer/screener guy looked at my wife’s clothing – knee-length black dress, stockings, conservative shoes – and said (in French), “Sorry, not sexy enough.” The look on my wife’s face sent a shooting pain through my heart. “Mais, regardez-la! Elle est super sexy, ma femme!” I stammered. I felt like a pimp trying to convince this bastard that my wife was worthy of the place. “Let’s just go,” she said. So we left and, after all the tears and the reassurances were over, have not approached another swingers club since. I later read that Les Chandelles is known for being exclusive, which, I suppose, adds to its allure. But I share Chelsea G’s fear, however, that the orgy I fantasize about is not the one I would be invited to.
My curiosity still piqued, however, I went back to Les Chandelles by myself several months later. My wife was out of town visiting her family, and I felt myself drawn to the place as if it were a giant sex magnet. It was a Sunday, I think – one of the “off” nights when they admit single men. The place is, indeed, like something out of a Stanley Kubrick sex fantasy. And when it’s in full “swing” I’m sure it lives up to its reputation. But that Sunday night there were about eight guys in the place and only one woman who remained clothed and unmolested the entire evening. Bummer. I hung around for about 3 hours, pacing the rooms with champagne glass in hand, hoping to see something memorable, but the one female customer did not oblige, and so I went home to my beer and porn collection. C’est la vie.
Chelsea girl,
I´m going to Paris next year with my boyfriend. You must tell where is this place. Pleeeeeease! We are very kinky together and are always looking for news things to experiment… Help us!