"I'm telling you," Andrea insisted, "that guy has got some kind of super-heavy mystical power. Just look at the shit that's happened on this tub in the last three days." It was seven thirty in the evening. They had just finished dining in their cabin with half a dozen guests and now Andrea was cleaning a few peyote buttons prior to her performance at eight. "That first day when everybody came aboard people were hyped-up, pissed-off, uptight, bumping into each other and stepping all over each other, worrying about a thousand things. Now-well take an example. That old banker-type Harold-the one with the crazy wife Grace? I saw Virginia Vagina giving him an underwater blow-job in the pool today. He was standing in the shallow end smoking a joint and watching that wild-eyed young poet from Sasketchewan shove bananas from the rigging into his wife's pussy! Now you can just bet what the guys at the Club would say if they heard about that. And yesterday there was that meditation session that went for six hours and then turned into a Wesson-oil party… "
"I'm beginning to suspect you're right," Sean agreed. "Although I still have my reservations-chief among them being that mystical power, which just about amounts to magic, doesn't make any sense. I know you get tired of me trying to explain everything in terms of clever planning or hypnotic techniques or psychological knowledge or just plain old charisma, but I still hold out my reservations."
"Let's see what you think after the InterFuck Quotillion tonight. Remember the first night half the passengers split from the blind stargazing at the first mention of flesh? Well you know damned well it's become standard practice for women not to wear anything above the waist, and if someone can shove bananas by the pool side without anyone at all screaming-or even staying in their cabin-something heavy's gone on."
Joanna came into the bedroom where they'd been talking. Andrea was changing her guitar strings now and popping peyote buttons. "Hey-John's gone off with Joe to go down on that Amazon. She claims she hasn't been satisfied yet and they're going to see if a group effort can lick the problem. I'm alone and horny." She flopped down onto a bed. It had become standard policy in their suite not to wear anything at all and Joanna had not deviated from it. She spread her legs and looked casually at Sean. "Want to pop me a quick one before we go to the dance?"
"Sure." Sean kept up his discussion with Andrea, who took no more notice of the proceedings than she would have if Joanna had asked Sean to pour her a drink. He crawled up to Joanna's open cunt and dangled his dork in front of it. Joanna took the responsibility for rendering it serviceable. "Ever since you told me about that weird thing with the storm," he continued, "and what the Guru said that night at Folk City about heavy rain, I've really been perplexed. I mean that shit with the fortune cookies was weird in itself, I suppose, but coming in the middle of all that other stuff… " His voice trailed off as he concentrated on fitting his cock into Joanna's hole and getting the rhythm going.
"Mindy believes it," Andrea pointed out, "and she should know. And did I tell you Joe's been taking down some of the things the Guru says and looking at them from a philosophical point of view? He says he's started to get some idea of a coherent system out of it, but it's incredibly complex. He's getting really excited. He even told me he's thinking of changing his dissertation topic and writing on the Guru instead."
"Instead of what?" Sean asked as he gave Joanna an extra hard pump and slipped his hands under her buttocks to squeeze them and lift her.
"I forget. Something really vital like the syntax of medieval adverbs."
"Hold it a second," Sean said. "Joanna's getting off."
Joanna kicked her legs straight up and Sean reached under her to curl his fingers across her clit. That always drove her crazy. "You got it, baby," she breathed. "Right on the button. Unh… Unh… unh." She gave a quick, hard thrust, wiggled a little, then relaxed. "Wow. Thanks. That was nice. You didn't want to come?"
"No. I'm saving it up for the big event."
"That's funny," Joanna said. "I'm working it up for the big event."
Andrea looked at her watch and threw her guitar into its case. They made their way upstairs. "I hope these damned peyote buttons don't made me too sick to sing."
"Don't worry about it," Sean counseled. "If you puke into the microphone the audience'll just think it's Rod and the Staffs idea of a new kind of instrument. The barfing throat. Hell, if that shoe-shine boy can whap his pud on the top of a Shinola can and call it percussion, you could pee into the sound-hole of your guitar… "
They reached the ballroom floor and, as was her habit, Andrea took out her guitar and prepared to enter singing. Tee into the sound-hole," she repeated. "Where have I heard that before?"
"In another book."
"What?"
"Book. Book. Look, look, my heart is an open book… I… love… nobody but you." He started singing and Andrea recognized the corny old song immediately. She started strumming chords and they waded into the seething crowd of naked bodies wailing their heads off. Sean, just behind Andrea, suddenly had a flash of deja vu. Andrea was wearing just what she'd worn for their first date.
The idea of the dance was simple. Andrea played and sang danceable music; the Guru, guiding light (and lightning rod) of Rod and the Staff, stood on his head beside her leaning up against a vertical plank drumming the air with his fingers. Behind them the shoe-shine boy-actually a red-faced alcoholic of 57 culled from among the Bowery's finest-sat whapping the aforementioned pud on the aforementioned Shinola can with a microphone two inches away. He was really quite good. Then there was the kitchen hindrance; one cook beating a hard salami (a carrot; a head of lettuce…) onto a cutting board, one bottle-washer rhythmically shooting water from a hose into a colander, and one waiter rapping on crystal glasses with a wire whisk (and breaking half a dozen glasses into an ash-can at the end of each song). Out on the floor before them couples coupled and uncoupled and recoupled, the men naturally inserting their penises into the vaginas of each of their partners in turn. The object of the game (ideally) was for each male to dance with each female, or verse vicea, in the course of the Quotillian, and with that in mind everyone was provided with a little chart featuring 491 numbered squares-the number of passengers, 982, being equally divided between males and females. And each person displayed her or his own number after her or his own particular fancy. Sean and Joanna and the rest were counted among the passengers and had their own numbers. Joanna naturally had John write hers in magic marker across her right ass cheek. Sean had his in little silver paste-on stars on his chest. No one was really expected to make it to everyone else but just for fun-or so you could say "I fucked 192 people in one night," and be accurate-people were supposed to check off their partners' numbers on the charts with little pencils, also provided.
The band struck up and things were underway. Even though Sean had become inured to just about any kind of strange happening whatsoever, the sight of 982 naked bodies overwhelmed him.
The ballroom was immense. As far as Sean could see there was nothing but flesh. Near him a portly, balding man of thirty-five or so bowed to a slightly pudgy, freckle-face girl, displayed his erection, and promptly won her favors. She was nearly as tall as he was and it didn't take much knee-flexing for him to fit his rod into the delicate pink folds of her practically hairless crotch. They whirled away pirouetting elegantly. Others weren't so lucky. As couples coupled all over the place and Sean approached an almost-skinny fragile-looking blonde, he noticed a tall, rail-thin man trying to couple with a short, definitely fat woman. Friends laughed and kidded them as the man stooped, hunched, squatted and maneuvered, and she tried to climb into the air on her tippie-toes. "Why don't you get a joint put in the middle of it," one suggested. "Go down and then come up."
Sean and the blonde made contact. She was very helpful about grabbing his cock and circling it around in her hole and shoving it way up in. "Jesus," she shuddered when she stood with his rod up her quivering and quaking, "I don't know whether I can dance like this."
They took a few steps and then saw another couple composed of a tall man and a short woman-the woman a little lighter than the other one and really quite svelt, with a flat ass but enormous boobs-who'd bit on the obvious solution, which was that the man should just pick the woman up and walk around balling her. It made for a strange dance, but a great fuck. Of course it led men to decide to put the women down after a while and just go at them on the floor, but it was allowed by the rules that that was dancing anyhow.
Sean learned that the blonde's name was Clarice. He picked her up and started banging her up and down off his hips as though she were a paddle ball. He promptly tripped over a couple engaged in a sixty-nine on the floor and barely managed to descend avoiding injury to anyone. "We may as well stay here and finish up," he told Clarice, sucking on her extraordinarily wide and pale nipples. She agreed.
From the stage Andrea sang and looked down at the scene-it had to be one in a century-for about an hour. Under the influence of half a dozen high-quality peyote buttons it looked as if a bulkhead had given way and a sea of people had flowed in out of a Hieronymous Bosh painting. Everywhere she looked there were cocks slithering in and out of cunts, people locked in passionate embraces, mouths sucking tits, hands grabbing asses; there was laughing and grunting and wailing and moaning, slapping and sliding and grabbing and gliding, bopping and hopping and humping and slumping, bumping and balling and catching and calling… Finally Andrea broke off in the middle of a staid rendition of a traditional foxtrot and started rocking to the tune of the Jerry Lee Lewis song, "Slishin' and a Splashin'." "Moanin' and a Groanin', Humpin' and a Bumpin'… "
The crowd went wild. Fucks multiplied in a frenzy. Everyone was suddenly on the floor doing it to beat the band. And they did beat the band. After two minutes Andrea couldn't stand it. She chucked her guitar and dove off the bandstand with Rod and the Staff a hair and a breath behind her.
She landed in the middle of a glistening flesh-pile between the two middle-aged lesbians from Hoboken and Virginia Vagina. They were engaged in an earnest three-way conversation, mouths to cunts. Virginia immediately remembered that Andrea had once suggested cunnilingus to her-she didn't hear a word that long very often, which was why she remembered-and squirmed around to present arms. Meanwhile the lesbians made certain that Andrea's own pussy was not unattended-in fact they paid it several very flattering compliments-and a Fuller Brush man from Kieukuck rambled over to plop his rod into Virginia's mouth.
The lesbians were startled when they found themselves being entered by a pair of male organs but they were having so much fun with Andrea's puss that they didn't want to break things up. "Just pretend it's a dildo," one suggested to the other, and the problem was solved.
And so the evening went, from one fuck to the next. As time went on there were high points-points of intense group excitement, when as many as a hundred people would swarm into huge clusters on the floor-and low points when most people sat by the sidelines resting or chatting. Usually excitement was regenerated by single fucks of exceptional intensity or interest that drew crowds of spectators who sooner or later became involved. As could have been expected, many of these featured the Guru, but John Fuocoforte was in on the creation of one or two and so was Andrea.
Sean and Joanna got involved in a contest to see who could fill in more squares on her or his little card. Consequently they didn't stay with any one partner long, but started a fuck with one, worked it up with another, got to a high plateau with a third, and climaxed on a fourth or fifth.
They reached 60, 70, 80, pretty much neck-and-neck, but then Joanna started to pull away because Sean had come eight times and he was losing his erection.
They ran across Joe Lee, who had been casually sampling his way around all night and just happened to have them both beat with 96 squares covered on his card. His cock was still sticking straight out in front of him like a battering ram.
"No fair," Sean complained. "You've been holding back."
"Yeah, but when I let go, it's going to be a beauty," he predicted, patting his weapon affectionately.
It made Joanna mad to think Joe was ahead of her. She mumbled about it as she fitted the blunt, curving organ of Number 83 into her and felt it start to quiver. "Oh no," she thought, "this guy's going to want to come and he's going to take some time." And out loud she said, "How the hell could I get out-fucked by the Little Chink? I'm supposed to be the Great Wall, for cocksake!"
Number 83, a stocky guy who told her he ran a machine shop as he worked up to getting his rocks off, turned out to be more of a bargain than Joanna hoped for, because he came up with a way for her to get ahead of Joe. "No problem," he said, after he'd got off with a couple of violent attacks to her midsection. "You just stand right here. I'll get all the guys you haven't done yet and line them up. Then IT! show you how you can check off every guy in the place in under an hour."
She was a little dubious but waited for a few minutes. Sure enough, Bernie-that was the guy's name-returned with two dozen men and told her he had four friends rounding up more. He and a buddy each grabbed one of Joanna's thighs and hooked arms around her back and held her at waist-level. It was as though she was sitting in a chair. A skinny bald accountant type with a stopwatch took her chart and pencil and stood by.
"Okay," Bernie yelled, "let 'em rip! But remember-just ten seconds apiece! Let's see who can. get off!" He thought for a second. "If you're in the act of getting off when time is called you have another five seconds to finish up. But no faking!" The first guy in line, a bearded freak with a hairy chest, ran up to Joanna and while Bernie and his friend held her open he crammed it in. Joanna couldn't believe it. He must have been saving up as long as Joe; or maybe the sight of her hanging there ready to take on all comers drove him nuts. Anyhow, she could feel him coming after three or four strokes. By the time a voice in the background chanted, "… eight, nine, ten, TIME!" he'd pulled out and disappeared. His come was squishing inside her and another hot sausage was coming up.
This was undoubtedly the wierdest thing that had happened to Joanna in her life. She was reasonably stoned and pretty mellow and she didn't have to exert any energy at all. Cocks pushed up into her, pumped and humped, sometimes exploded with come, usually didn't before "TIME" was called. But after the first dozen or so she hardly felt when one left and another entered. There was just one big eternal cock constantly changing size and shape and mode of motion inside her, occasionally gushing forth and spraying her down.
After three or four minutes-eighteen or twenty-four partner changes-the Guru slipped to the scene of the action through the considerable crowd that had gathered to watch. "Go get some KY," he suggested to a nearby assistant. "If this goes on for long she's sure as hell going to need it." He took another look at the cocks fitting one by one into Joann's huge, loose hole. "Come to think of it, maybe you'd better make it 3-in-l oil-we're plainly dealing with a machine." But the assistant was fortunately already gone.
The Guru turned to address the crowd as Joanna rapidly worked her total up into the hundred and twenties. "I trust there is no one to whom the origin of the idea of interchangeable parts is not obvious?" he asked. There was general laughter. "Who was it that they say first got the idea? Eli Whitney?" More laughter. "Now perhaps we can see the bizarre inappropriateness of the strictures of monogamy with regard to our society… " He went on and on and so did the fucking machine.
The crowd around Joanna continued to grow. Men took turns holding her up as people stood on chairs and tables to get a glimpse and whispered questions to each other about how many she'd done so far and whether anyone else was likely to bag the limit.
"It really is a staggering accomplishment," a housewifely type with a British accent observed, looking at her card with a measly thirty-four squares filled in.
It was becoming obvious that Joanna was going to run through the lot. The Guru was slapping KY onto her puss every second or third shot. All around people were yelling out the numbers of the fifty or sixty men she had left to do, while behind her the men she'd done already spilled out in a pile sort of like a slag-heap from a steel mill. "Nice cunt," they told each other. "Wish all women took it like that." "Yeah. Then there'd be piece on earth for sure!" "Did you get a shot into her?" "I did." "I didn't. But then my stroke was way off. I hit one out of bounds on the"… the guy checked his card… "thirty-third hole and I still haven't recovered."
After a while the accountant was yelling out two or three numbers-"398! Number 4! 109! Where are you?" The line was dwindling. "Get the list of who has what number," he asked someone.
The list was found and the names were called. "Ronnie Strachis! Dennis James! LeRoy Potachie! Come on, men! Let's make it a clean sweep!"
"Here's DeSnis," a fat woman shouted, shoving a clean-cut boy of eighteen into the fray.
"Oh Ma, do I have tor
"Come on, Dennis, be a sport!" "Yes, you have to."
Andrea, pushing in toward Joanna, recognized the fat woman as the once she'd told the reporters was her mother. The woman caught sight of Andrea at the same time and, as though she'd been waiting for this, gave her a wave and a cheerful "thanks-a-heap-sweetie-pie" smile.
Meanwhile people were shouting, "Ronnie Strachis! LeRoy Potachie!" off into the crowd.
"Ronnie's passed out in the corner over there," someone shouted.
Three men ran to him, hauled him up, and trundled him over to the scene of the action. He was a handsome-looking artist-type but he really was out cold. Andrea enlisted the aid of a few of the Guru's young lovelies but Ronnie kept snoring soundly and nothing they could do seemed to get him an erection.
"Fuck it!" the Guru shouted, "shove it in there soft! We're going for the ultimate and we can't worry about technicalities!"
After a few seconds of ingenious work those holding Joanna and those holding Ronnie managed to get the two bodies together and cram his limp noodle into her. Despite Joanna's ten seconds of jouncing on him he didn't wake up, but unknown to him, he went down in the Eternal Record Book as having fucked her.
And now the burning question became-where was LeRoy Potachie? And even more interesting, who was LeRoy Potachie?
Nobody seemed to know anybody by that name. The cabin number listed for LeRoy was 9129. If there had been such a cabin it would have been half a mile off the boat's stern.
Suddenly a deep, rolling voice-obviously the voice of a monstrous, tough black man-boomed out over the crowd over the bandstand. "Hey, you mother-fuckin buncha honkies, I'm the one to finish this job up. What you need here is some funky soul-type style?
Everybody turned toward the bandstand. The blacks in the crowd-there were forty or fifty-glanced back and forth at each other wondering who was this brother they didn't know. And then, from behind the curtains at the back of the bandstand, emerged-the fucking Guru.
"Ha-ha, I fooled ya!"
He leapt down into the crowd and pranced up to Joanna. "I'm number 109-LeRoy Potachie by alias-and the 491st man to plow your cute little furrow tonight. But… " he held up his hands as an inspiration passed over him… "I will do it with style. You will be fucked intergalaetically! That, is from a distance. In short, I will ejaculate into the quivering essence of your echtitude from a sacred distance of three feet."
"The No Touch Shot!" the crowd gasped. "He's going to do it!" Suddenly this, already the high point of the cruise, became the highest possible point. They'd all been dying to see this.
"Please," the Guru sniffed, holding his nose. "The technical term is Thinking Off."
"Thinking Off… Thinking Off… Thinking Off… " The correction echoed to the edges of the crowd.
Andrea went up to Joanna as the Guru assumed the lotus position on the floor beneath her and someone brought a tape measure so the exact height at which she should be held could be determined. "How do you feel on this historic occasion?"
"Like I've traded in my pussy for a target in a water-pistol range."
"Ha. I'll bet you have some pretty heavy experiences before the old Guru's done." She backed off and joined Sean and the others as a hush fell over the crowd.
From various points in the ballroom the Guru's followers took up the familiar chant,
"The Is Is Not, The Not Is Is, The No Touch Shot Will Never Fizz."
They kept it up while Baalow Nee, all eyes riveted to him, took a last sighting on the target that hovered so invitingly above him and then closed his eyes. Joanna's cunt was hanging about six inches in front of his face. Her legs were held out straight and pointed one over each shoulder, so that she was facing him.
"It is my opinion," he intoned, "that everyone here should be fucking their brains out at this particular time. It will create favorable conditions on the emotional weather horizon." With that he started to meditate.
Before Sean and Andrea could work out a position in which they could fuck and watch-which ended up featuring Andrea on her knees facing the action and Sean banging away at her from behind-the Guru's heretofore limp member had started to jerk erect in definite, almost mechanical stages.
"Reminds me of a bumper jack," Sean observed.
The chanting of the Guru's followers turned abruptly to the same humming that Virginia and the Princess had used that night in Sean's apartment, only now its effect was multiplied and even more electrifying.
Somebody started burning marijuana. A lot of it. There were four pounds scattered in hundreds of huge incense burners all around the ballroom. The air immediately became thick and intoxicating; an even better medium for the sensual tension that pervaded the atmosphere.
Everywhere people were fitting cocks into cunts. Long ones into wide ones, thick ones into tight ones, skinny ones into huge ones, bent ones into straight ones, lively ones into passive ones, old ones into young ones… the squishing sounds reminded Sean of an army of cartoon characters marching through a swamp.
The Guru's cock had come completely erect. It was pointed straight at Joanna's hole. Joanna was staring down at him with an incredulous look in her eyes. Suddenly she snapped her head back-it was almost as though it had been snapped back-and rolled it around and closed her eyes.
The two guys holding her-Bernie and a friend-looked at her with alarm but the Guru said, "Do not be concerned. That is the Secondary Stage. She will enter upon the Tertiary very soon. The atmospheric tension is very high. The Monsoon Season is approaching. The Earth is in its Time of Dryness. The woman will open as at the Time of Birth."
"What?" Bernie gasped. "Does he mean she's gonna open up like she's gonna have a lad?"
"You guessed'er, Chester."
The Guru's cock jerked a few times. Nearby Sean and Andrea were fucking along easily. Andrea found herself fascinated by the eerie control the Guru had over his cock. It turned her on. And then suddenly she had a strange, familiar feeling. Wetness. Rain. The storm. The feeling was coming again.
Joanna started to groan as if in pain but a smile of pure ecstasy came across her face. Her legs shook and then went into a kind of palsied trembling. They began to part-not from the hips, but at the hips. The Guru was completely still as her cunt opened slowly, steadily, wider and wider. The moaning kept up. The humming merged with it. Everyone who was breathing was breathing pure marijuana smoke.
Things started to spin. The room moved. The smoke eddied and swirled. All the separate fucks began to merge into a single rhythm-the rhythm of the hum.
This time even Sean felt it. Everyone felt it. It was as if they had become some lower, and yet some higher, form of life: bees in a hive, each perhaps a single cell in the living organism of their society.
Interchangable parts.
Intrinsically positive impulses.
One surging moment of complete unity, total excitement, loss of consciousness, flight at impossible speed toward…
Joanna's cunt-hole was five inches wide. The outer lips, the inner lips, the clit, the pubic hair, all seemed peripheral and accidental compared to the incredible depth of the smoothly rounded cavern of her womanhood. She was wailing in rhythm with the deafening hum that carried everything with it like an incoming tide. There was one point, one spot, on the surface of her insides that cried and begged and pleaded for relief and yet danced and played and laughed at the same time.
The Guru's cock pulsed in hard, driving rhythms. The hum sped up till its softly undulating cadences piled on each other, hissing and steaming, screeching and clattering, like the sound of a steam engine plummetting full-speed toward destruction.
Sean and Andrea were right there. So was everyone else. 982 people were going to get off at the same time, the instant when Baalow Nee…
Joanna's cunt was calling wildly and the Guru's cock was answering eagerly and then a huge thick stream of come erupted up out of him like a geyser. It blasted up into her and shattered and frothed and sprayed against that one point, that perfect spot…
The combined noise of nearly a thousand people getting off shook the entire ship. It was cataclysmic. It was so deafening, so chaotic, yet so mystically harmonious, that it was almost the same as silence. It could have been lost souls screaming in agony in hell or saved souls singing for joy in heaven.
In fact it was a whole lot of people shooting their wads and collecting their dough on a very expensive and not completely ordinary cruise to the Caribbean, but no one at the time was much concerned with facts.