We were not strangers who met on a plane, no one’s apartment blew up, and not a one of us had six-pack abs or chins sharp enough to cut glass. Other than that, and the whole fighting and end-of-society-explosions-stuff, yeah, I could see how everyone says it’s a lot like Fight Club.
We did start in a parking lot, though in a suburb-shitty bar and not a urban-wasteland-shitty bar. There was lots of drinking first, and a walk out to cars and a goodbye that became a one more thing that became us standing in the night long enough that we felt at home leaned against cars that weren’t ours talking about lives we wished we had. Every ten minutes, someone would look at a watch a phone and talk about how they needed to go soon.
There were three of us.
There was me, and I was Glasses, and there was Skirts and there was Boots. There were the three of us, standing amongst the cars as a thin blanket of karaoke floated harmlessly above. We talked about house projects and home security, about how we should all retreat to an island or farm, and then how that was a bad idea. We talked about childhood and how light your shoulders must be when you’re ten, and how they’re suddenly heavier by twelve even though not a single interesting thing has happened in your life yet.
We tried to mark down the significant moments, and found the ones that were supposed to meaningful, like graduations, always felt hollow. We talked about how some moments, like the time Skirts’ parents told her the star of the 70’s re-run she was watching was dead now, stick with you forever. We talked about how we wished we could do our first kisses again, now that we know what we’re doing.
There was this awkward, drunk, dark silence, like the volume of the night we were having had slowly crawled to its peak and then was suddenly muted, suddenly naked around us. Skirts, who is never quiet for long, announced to both of us, “Fuck it. Let’s kiss.”
We stood in the summer night, pressed against one another, mosquitoes devouring our ankles and knees as we relaxed into the goodness of kissing like we didn’t know we shouldn't.
The first rule of Fuck Club is you do not talk about Fuck Club
Meetings are Wednesday nights, generally. Sometimes we chip in for a hotel or someone arranges for their house to be suitably empty.
We call ourselves Fuck Club because we’re funny people, and because as we tried to figure out some general rules, we found we couldn’t do much better than Chuck. We also call ourselves Fuck Club because we have a club where people come and fuck and get fucked. We define “fuck” pretty loosely to include many things that feel good.
Of course we were supposed to talk about it. After the parking lot did what the parking lot did, we almost immediately starting making lists of who else would be fun. By the first real meeting, there were seven of us, and a lot of our talk revolved around how we could talk a few more into coming. We didn’t really talk all that much though.
Fuck Club started, in its very first night, as a place where people got together to only worry about what was happening in the walls that surrounded it. Skirts and Boots were the first, and though everyone knew they were among the founders, I think everyone assumed they wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic about each other. Wrong. Very wonderfully wrong.
There are two appropriate reactions to two beautiful women kissing with their hands up each other’s shirts and skirts and down pants. You can watch, which is not bad, or you can find someone close to do something similar with.
This was not supposed to be Watch People Fuck Club, so people paired and grouped up quickly once Boots and Skirts started making each other moan. Everyone came to Fuck Club because fucking is good and nearly everyone needs more of it.
The second rule of Fuck Club is you DO NOT talk about Fuck Club
More people showed up to the second meeting, and by the third, following chains of friends of friends of “this one friend”s, there were almost as many people there whose names I didn’t know as people I did.
The third meeting was the first time I fucked someone without talking to them at all first. There were eyes that passed over Swoopy Bangs going down on Sideburns, eyes that met and said, “why not?” I remain a firm believer that “why not” is one of the strongest arguments out there to do a great many wonderful things.
We met at the couch against the wall between us and started kissing. We watched Swoopy Bangs suck cock, we fell to the couch next to each other, our hands introducing ourselves to each other’s most fun places.
Her shirt came off as she straddled me, kissing down my neck and up behind my ear. I took her nipple between my teeth as my hand moved up her leg, under her skirt. She rocked her hips against my fingers, buried her face in my shoulders. I watched Swoopy Bangs jack off Sideburns onto her chest while Ponytail kneeled behind her, reaching around to rub her clit.
Ponytail and Swoopy Bangs, coworkers, don’t even like each other, not that it matters really. Swoopy Bangs had her head backwards on Ponytail’s chest as she came. Ponytail was rubbing Sideburn’s come into Swoopy Bangs nipples with one hand, was working quick circles with her other. They would probably go back to not liking each other by the next day, but for now were both smiling recklessly.
It’s unbelievable, the amount of smiling that happens at Fuck Club.
The third rule of Fuck Club, if someone yells stop or taps out, the Fuck is over.
The third rule adapts loosely from fighting rules. It means, mostly, that no one does anything they don’t want to do, and anyone can stop anything at any time. It also means we keep condoms and dental dams and lubricant and saran wrap in ample quantities wherever we’re fucking.
We don’t use the third rule that much. In fact, there’s a few rules in a row after that that we blatantly dislike and ignore.
Number four: Two guys to a fuck.
Nope. I mean, there can be two guys in a fuck, but there can also be eight girls or four boys or any combination of anyone who is there.
Number five: One fuck at a time.
Nope. Unless someone is showing off a new trick, which happens ocassionally. In fact, we’re a bit more like a book club than a fight club. People come dressed neatly, for one, and don’t generally go home with any marks that will last, plus we usually have snacks.
A book club is where a lot of us say that we go, and is code around a few offices to talk about Fuck Club. “Going to book club this week?” “Wouldn’t miss it!” “I hope that guy with the tattoos and the big cock shows up again.”
Occasionally a fuck is spectacular enough to draw pause from everyone around them. Skirts and I, the first time we fucked, were show-stopping. We’d been building that fuck piece by slow piece over years of flashing looks and jokes that risked real intent. We kissed awkwardly because we are both the same kind of awkward person, and things seemed stalled without Boots there to even us out, but with Skirts, hair pulling works like an on switch. Within moments she was pulled down to all fours in front of me while I kneeled behind her. We fucked like we just discovered sex, we fucked hard until we broke every little piece of everything we had built. We fucked until we wrecked each other for the night.
People come to fuck and share fucking, and since it’s not so serious and there’s lots more fucking for everyone to have, no one feels shy about pausing something to ask questions or give pointers. And yes, sometimes, one girl will serve as volunteer while a few people talk about the best way to give oral to women, each trying different things and showing their best moves. These volunteers are not difficult to find.
Also, one time there was a blowjob race, because it’s Fuck Club, damnit, and that’s how we roll.
Number six: No shirts, no shoes
Well, right. And no socks.
Number seven: Fucks will go on as long as they have to.
This is a great rule that has, on occasion, required some team work. Team work is okay.
Number eight: If this is your first time at Fuck Club, you have to fuck.
The last rule is one we’ve never needed to enforce, since people generally come to Fuck Club more for the Fuck and less for the Club, and we’re a bit more discerning in our invites than fight clubs must be (though I don’t know why they’re not, since who would want to fight with a bunch of weirdos and assholes?).
Book club has blissfully resisted evolving into something other than a place for fun people to have fun. People leave their lives at the door and take a few hours of vacation from everything other than the things they spend most of their lives wishing they could do. Why wouldn’t you have more sex more often with more people if you could?
Still, we feel it’s important to let people know that this is not a club for spectators. This is a club for fuckers.
We did start in a parking lot, though in a suburb-shitty bar and not a urban-wasteland-shitty bar. There was lots of drinking first, and a walk out to cars and a goodbye that became a one more thing that became us standing in the night long enough that we felt at home leaned against cars that weren’t ours talking about lives we wished we had. Every ten minutes, someone would look at a watch a phone and talk about how they needed to go soon.
There were three of us.
There was me, and I was Glasses, and there was Skirts and there was Boots. There were the three of us, standing amongst the cars as a thin blanket of karaoke floated harmlessly above. We talked about house projects and home security, about how we should all retreat to an island or farm, and then how that was a bad idea. We talked about childhood and how light your shoulders must be when you’re ten, and how they’re suddenly heavier by twelve even though not a single interesting thing has happened in your life yet.
We tried to mark down the significant moments, and found the ones that were supposed to meaningful, like graduations, always felt hollow. We talked about how some moments, like the time Skirts’ parents told her the star of the 70’s re-run she was watching was dead now, stick with you forever. We talked about how we wished we could do our first kisses again, now that we know what we’re doing.
There was this awkward, drunk, dark silence, like the volume of the night we were having had slowly crawled to its peak and then was suddenly muted, suddenly naked around us. Skirts, who is never quiet for long, announced to both of us, “Fuck it. Let’s kiss.”
We stood in the summer night, pressed against one another, mosquitoes devouring our ankles and knees as we relaxed into the goodness of kissing like we didn’t know we shouldn't.
The first rule of Fuck Club is you do not talk about Fuck Club
Meetings are Wednesday nights, generally. Sometimes we chip in for a hotel or someone arranges for their house to be suitably empty.
We call ourselves Fuck Club because we’re funny people, and because as we tried to figure out some general rules, we found we couldn’t do much better than Chuck. We also call ourselves Fuck Club because we have a club where people come and fuck and get fucked. We define “fuck” pretty loosely to include many things that feel good.
Of course we were supposed to talk about it. After the parking lot did what the parking lot did, we almost immediately starting making lists of who else would be fun. By the first real meeting, there were seven of us, and a lot of our talk revolved around how we could talk a few more into coming. We didn’t really talk all that much though.
Fuck Club started, in its very first night, as a place where people got together to only worry about what was happening in the walls that surrounded it. Skirts and Boots were the first, and though everyone knew they were among the founders, I think everyone assumed they wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic about each other. Wrong. Very wonderfully wrong.
There are two appropriate reactions to two beautiful women kissing with their hands up each other’s shirts and skirts and down pants. You can watch, which is not bad, or you can find someone close to do something similar with.
This was not supposed to be Watch People Fuck Club, so people paired and grouped up quickly once Boots and Skirts started making each other moan. Everyone came to Fuck Club because fucking is good and nearly everyone needs more of it.
The second rule of Fuck Club is you DO NOT talk about Fuck Club
More people showed up to the second meeting, and by the third, following chains of friends of friends of “this one friend”s, there were almost as many people there whose names I didn’t know as people I did.
The third meeting was the first time I fucked someone without talking to them at all first. There were eyes that passed over Swoopy Bangs going down on Sideburns, eyes that met and said, “why not?” I remain a firm believer that “why not” is one of the strongest arguments out there to do a great many wonderful things.
We met at the couch against the wall between us and started kissing. We watched Swoopy Bangs suck cock, we fell to the couch next to each other, our hands introducing ourselves to each other’s most fun places.
Her shirt came off as she straddled me, kissing down my neck and up behind my ear. I took her nipple between my teeth as my hand moved up her leg, under her skirt. She rocked her hips against my fingers, buried her face in my shoulders. I watched Swoopy Bangs jack off Sideburns onto her chest while Ponytail kneeled behind her, reaching around to rub her clit.
Ponytail and Swoopy Bangs, coworkers, don’t even like each other, not that it matters really. Swoopy Bangs had her head backwards on Ponytail’s chest as she came. Ponytail was rubbing Sideburn’s come into Swoopy Bangs nipples with one hand, was working quick circles with her other. They would probably go back to not liking each other by the next day, but for now were both smiling recklessly.
It’s unbelievable, the amount of smiling that happens at Fuck Club.
The third rule of Fuck Club, if someone yells stop or taps out, the Fuck is over.
The third rule adapts loosely from fighting rules. It means, mostly, that no one does anything they don’t want to do, and anyone can stop anything at any time. It also means we keep condoms and dental dams and lubricant and saran wrap in ample quantities wherever we’re fucking.
We don’t use the third rule that much. In fact, there’s a few rules in a row after that that we blatantly dislike and ignore.
Number four: Two guys to a fuck.
Nope. I mean, there can be two guys in a fuck, but there can also be eight girls or four boys or any combination of anyone who is there.
Number five: One fuck at a time.
Nope. Unless someone is showing off a new trick, which happens ocassionally. In fact, we’re a bit more like a book club than a fight club. People come dressed neatly, for one, and don’t generally go home with any marks that will last, plus we usually have snacks.
A book club is where a lot of us say that we go, and is code around a few offices to talk about Fuck Club. “Going to book club this week?” “Wouldn’t miss it!” “I hope that guy with the tattoos and the big cock shows up again.”
Occasionally a fuck is spectacular enough to draw pause from everyone around them. Skirts and I, the first time we fucked, were show-stopping. We’d been building that fuck piece by slow piece over years of flashing looks and jokes that risked real intent. We kissed awkwardly because we are both the same kind of awkward person, and things seemed stalled without Boots there to even us out, but with Skirts, hair pulling works like an on switch. Within moments she was pulled down to all fours in front of me while I kneeled behind her. We fucked like we just discovered sex, we fucked hard until we broke every little piece of everything we had built. We fucked until we wrecked each other for the night.
People come to fuck and share fucking, and since it’s not so serious and there’s lots more fucking for everyone to have, no one feels shy about pausing something to ask questions or give pointers. And yes, sometimes, one girl will serve as volunteer while a few people talk about the best way to give oral to women, each trying different things and showing their best moves. These volunteers are not difficult to find.
Also, one time there was a blowjob race, because it’s Fuck Club, damnit, and that’s how we roll.
Number six: No shirts, no shoes
Well, right. And no socks.
Number seven: Fucks will go on as long as they have to.
This is a great rule that has, on occasion, required some team work. Team work is okay.
Number eight: If this is your first time at Fuck Club, you have to fuck.
The last rule is one we’ve never needed to enforce, since people generally come to Fuck Club more for the Fuck and less for the Club, and we’re a bit more discerning in our invites than fight clubs must be (though I don’t know why they’re not, since who would want to fight with a bunch of weirdos and assholes?).
Book club has blissfully resisted evolving into something other than a place for fun people to have fun. People leave their lives at the door and take a few hours of vacation from everything other than the things they spend most of their lives wishing they could do. Why wouldn’t you have more sex more often with more people if you could?
Still, we feel it’s important to let people know that this is not a club for spectators. This is a club for fuckers.
0 comments:
Post a Comment