I met A for the first time some years ago. J and I were doing our yearly summer visit to Cap d’Agde, this time just for a weekend, which meant for us a shorter stay than usual and prevented us from enjoying our first night there fully, tired as we were by the trip and the work week. It was not until the following day, after having spent the day just lying on the beach, that we could relax and prepare ourselves for the evening’s fun.
That night, however, at one of the largest clubs in Cap, feeling not particularly eager, I was starting to get worried that maybe I was getting bored of sex clubs or, even worse, that I was becoming boring myself. If the wild Cap d’Agde’s nights weren’t doing it for me anymore, surely something was wrong with me. At the time, I didn’t quite understand that while clearly plenty of people find pleasure in variety and in having a new body to explore, novelty alone wasn’t enough to get me excited. For us, arousal has always come mainly from the circumstances, and all the bodies in the world, as enticing as they might be, won’t do if the right amount and type of chemistry aren’t there and if our minds don’t get aroused first. After a while, we left the club and returned to our hotel room.
The next day, after some more morning unwinding at the beach, J and I were trying to find something different to do in Cap when we passed by a flyer just outside one of the pool parties. “Cap Mocha Foam Party: Queen of Spades vs BBC Gentlemen,” read the title on a picture of a bare-chested muscular black man next to a young blonde, playboy model-looking girl.
“We could try that,” said J, pointing to the flyer.
“Yeah…” I replied hesitantly.
It was certainly something different. Still, a pool sex party, in the middle of the day, catered specifically for white women looking for black men to have fun with them in front of their husbands -and many others, for that matter- was definitely outside of my comfort zone.
“We can just go take a look, and if we don’t like it, we’ll just leave,” added J, likely sensing my reluctance.
I felt a little bit more at ease after hearing J say that, and when we started heading to the party’s venue, I felt more intrigued than anxious about what we would find there. That feeling, however, didn’t last very long since I started feeling incredibly nervous from the moment we crossed the entrance. Several black men, wearing nothing but matching bow ties, were greeting all the newcomers. After we paid the entrance fee, the staff asked us also to undress completely, being it an all-nude “dress code”, and I started to strongly regret my decision to come as I was made to parade myself naked between the two rows of men to access the party. It was a very intimidating entrance, and I felt mortified as I walked under their bright and curious eyes. A was one of them, but I was so nervous at the time that I felt incapable of looking directly at any of their faces, and it wouldn’t be until the following day that I would meet him. I held J’s hand tightly as we walked through the group and chose a table far enough from the action to enjoy the party from a safe distance.
The party was wild. We saw those men giving pleasure to the women in every imaginable way: sometimes gently, sometimes roughly, some one-on-one and some in groups. They also danced and laughed with the women and their partners, while others played and relaxed by the pool. At some point, one of them brought out a champagne gun and went around shooting champagne directly into the women’s mouths and breasts. It was a wild party and quite different from the lifestyle parties we’d been to before.
Even now, years after that party, I can still remember vividly an attractive middle-aged blonde woman we first saw drinking cheerfully with her husband and some friends when we came in. Later, we saw her lying on her back at the edge of the pool while a very well-endowed black man penetrated her slowly but deeply. She was clearly enjoying herself, completely lost in her moans while her husband, friends, and a large part of the party -including us- looked closely. When they finally climaxed, she and the man kissed softly, still deep in each other’s eyes and still unaware of their large audience. When she eventually woke up from her sexual bliss and sat up, our eyes met, and I saw in her gaze a mix of deep joy, pleasure, and embarrassment after she realised that she was catching so much attention from us and many others. I still remember that look.
Hardly anyone talked to us during the party, as most people were already busy with their various play partners. We discovered that many of the people there either already knew each other or had met in the days before. When everything started to slow down, J and I left for dinner. It was our last night at Cap that year.
The next day we had to take our train back to Barcelona. The days spent on the village naturiste that year were fun, but somehow dissatisfying. While we waited at the train station, I was deep in my thoughts, still thinking about everything I had witnessed at the pool party, when I saw a dark, tall man passing by in front of us. I wondered if he was one of the men at the party, but I couldn’t recognise any of them even if I tried, mainly because I was too shy during the party to look at their faces.
As we still had some time before the train arrived, J and I headed to a cafe nearby to grab something to eat. When we sat down, I realized that the man at the train station was also there. I kept trying to figure out if he was one of the men from the day before, and I finally whispered to J while discreetly looking at the man, “Is he one of the…?”
“Yes, he is,” J said before I could finish.
I’ve always found it funny how scared I was to make eye contact with anybody at that party, maybe fearful of coming across as too inviting, while J watched everyone openly and carefully enough to recognise them later. I don’t think I’ve ever seen J scared or nervous in our many years together; that’s something that always amazes me about him. It also makes me feel like a little girl that hides behind her daddy when another grown-up tries to say hi.
When the train arrived, I realized with astonishment that the three of us, J, the mystery man and myself, got all inside the same train car. An incredible coincidence considering it was a packed train doing a long route between Paris and Barcelona.
Our seats were merely two rows behind him, which made the two-and-a-half-hour train trip much more interesting than our regular train journeys. I could see him from my seat, and when an American family on holiday sat across from him in the train car, I could hear their conversations. In the usual friendly American way, as soon as they knew he was also American, they started asking him why he was in such a small unknown village in South France, what he did for a living, where he was from, and so on. He replied casually to all their questions, simply explaining that he was on a euro trip with some friends. Hearing that, and knowing quite well what he was actually doing there, made me smile, and I suddenly stopped feeling scared of looking at him. From what I could hear, he sounded to me like a normal man with a normal life. A man who, as I knew well from the previous day, enjoyed sex parties and having sex with other men’s eager wives in front of them, true, but a normal man.
After that, I found myself looking at him more closely during our long train ride. From what I could hear and see, he was also from the US; he had a nice style and a soft voice; he was handsome, polite, friendly, and looked around our age, maybe a little bit older. I started fantasizing about how he would be in bed: would he be tender or more on the rough side? Would he like me, or would he favor older women like some of his friends? Would he be dominant, or would he prefer a more femme-fatale type of woman?
Soon enough, our train arrived in Barcelona. The trip felt much shorter than usual. J and I took our bags and headed home. I now had to let go of the image of our mystery man for good. I was glad to be home again, though; I was exhausted after the weekend’s long nights out, and I felt better as soon as we crossed the door to our flat. I started unpacking my things that evening, and as I did, I felt a little disappointed that we didn’t have the chance to play with some of the new outfits I had brought. I had just finished unpacking when J came to our room and told me he had found our mystery man on a lifestyle website.
“His profile says that he’ll be in Barcelona tonight and that he’s up for meets,” J said nonchalantly. I just looked at him without saying anything. “I was thinking we could invite him over… would you like that?” he added.
“Yes,” I answered, more enthusiastically than I intended, without the usual hint of doubt. My eagerness surprised us both.
“That much, huh? Such a little slut…” J teased me with a playful smile.
“Stop it…” I giggled, embarrassed.
J returned to his phone and, later that day, he told me that our train stranger had agreed to meet us that night.
“What should I wear?” I said anxiously. J smiled back at me and pointed to the bag I had just unpacked.
After some consideration, we decided on one of the new outfits I didn’t get to use on our trip. It was a dark blue Japanese school girl outfit with a very short skirt and a red bow. I wore a tiny black sheer g-string underneath, and J insisted on adding, as a final touch, a leather collar to my neck. The outfit may have been a weird choice for the first encounter with a stranger, but when I saw myself in the mirror in that little outfit, I could feel myself getting wet.
When finally the doorbell rang, I started panicking. J went to the door while I stayed in the bathroom checking my make-up. From there, I could hear J inviting our train man to come in and both chatting on their way to our living room. I could feel my heart beating, and I seriously considered locking myself in the bathroom and not coming out. I heard them talking in the living room and starting a friendly chat about the train, Barcelona, Agde, etc. After a few minutes, I finally got the courage to leave the bathroom and face our mystery man.