Staging a Successful Orgy

My Untamed Adventure at Plato's Retreat

As I hammer out the saga that's been my life, I'm doing time travel in my head, revisiting every wild chapter through the lens of who I am now.  I've ridden some electric waves, and I don't knock myself for catching them.

We're all enrolled in the school of hard knocks. We’re supposed to chalk up the errors on the board, learn the rough lessons, and not flunk the same test twice. Some of my flubs sting like a slap, others are just face-palm moments.  Writing one’s memoirs, there’s no place to hide.

Today, I recount two youthful adventures, the kind that leave you wondering, "Seriously, did that really happen?" I'm dishing it out unfiltered, just the way I've lived it. What me worry, the statute of limitations has long expired.

There are bits I wish had gone down differently, moments when I wish I’d had a sidekick to nudge me and say, "Yo, you sure about this?" Back then, of course, with my hormones on overdrive, I probably would’ve still plunged right in. 

Once you've soaked in the raw sensuality of these stories, I'll come back with my thoughts on digesting it all in the present. Both the world and I have transformed considerably over the past forty five years.

In the bustling autumn of 1977, shortly before Labor Day and following a notable blackout in New York, I had just settled into my new bachelor apartment on the Upper West Side. During this time, I experienced a sudden medical scare – a spontaneous pneumothorax, or collapsed lung, as later diagnosed at Lenox Hill Hospital. Prior to this diagnosis, I was wandering around Manhattan, unaware that my chest was filling with an unidentified fluid. This concern escalated after an evening enjoying Dizzy Gillespie's performance at the Village Gate. A friend, noticing my condition, urged me to see my primary care physician, Dr. Jacob Bornstein, the next day. Recognizing the severity of my condition with a single glance, Dr. Bornstein immediately directed me to the hospital.

Note:  Dr. Bornstein’s son, Harold, was Trump’s physician before 2016, the individual responsible for writing the letter that proclaimed the former President in excellent health, even though that wasn’t exactly true.

Propped up in a sterile bed at Lenox Hill Hospital, the Upper East Side get well center for the rich and famous, I pondered my fate. Then my savior arrived, a lung jockey waltzed in, all smiles. He pumped my lung back up like a basketball, and stuck a chest tube in me to siphon off the crimson.  Less than half an hour later, he was off to his next pulmonary affair, promising a quick recovery.

Then my new roommate introduced himself, “I’m Alan, I’m a songwriter, I’m gay and I’m dying of cancer.”  What an opening line.  My problems were miniscule compared to what he faced.  A week later, I strutted out, back to prime form while Alan’s final curtain call came just eight weeks later.

Back in my penthouse studio at 101st and Broadway, the high life felt low.  I had recently ended my relationship with my first significant other, an artist from New York with Chinese heritage, embodying the American Dream with a unique Cantonese influence. At the moment I needed comfort; I was alone.

My inclination for diverse cultures likely influenced the varied backgrounds of my partners. My first wife was Chinese from mainland China. My second was of mixed Mexican and Yaqui Indian descent. My third partner was an African-American woman. And ultimately, I found my soulmate, a woman of Jewish heritage. It was at the age of seventy that I truly found fortune in love.

What I craved that September night was a touch of warmth, a dash of womanly affection, no matter its origin. But my dating game was on a timeout.  Not being in a relationship with benefits, I kept a photo of my right hand in my wallet, as a joke.

At the ripe age of twenty-eight, my guts churned with a cocktail of mom-induced lady-fear and a crumb of self-worth when it came to the opposite sex.  I may have been politically and culturally sophisticated, but I was totally adrift in the ocean of romance, clueless on how to anchor down with someone.  That problem plagued me for decades, but thankfully, no more.

After a spell of wallowing, I hatched a plan – ring up a pro.  Screw Magazine was on every newsstand then, a weekly tabloid featuring reviews of porn movies, peep shows, erotic massage parlors, dungeons, brothels, escorts, colonic hydrotherapists, I’ll stop there.

I scanned the ads looking for a profesional to give me some much needed physical comfort even if it would be short term.  No shame in the game, just playing the hand I was dealt.

This was the disco era – pre-AIDS, mid-sexual liberation, when hookups were as common as bell-bottoms, thanks to the magic pill. I'd had one-night encounters before, but they never led to anything.

Al Goldstein's weekly printed sermon of sin, stuffed to the gills with escort ads was a godsend – particularly for a man in search of an ebony enchantress.  I scanned Screw's smutty scriptures and found my golden ticket, a leggy former dominatrix named Sybil.

In a matter of minutes, for a mere forty dollars, around two hundred dollars in today’s currency, she was at my door, a knockout with a mind wide open. We dove in and, folks, the earth moved. I reckon she probably felt the same quake.  At least it sounded that way.

Post-game, she's eyeballing my crib, my jazz scribe life splattered all over – boxed sets, LPs, the works. Her eyes land on fresh Freddie Hubbard vinyl. "That cat's a regular of mine," she mused, revealing she’d been with Freddie just a week prior.

I could have never imagined that one of the great trumpeters in Jazz, and I, were sharing more than just a taste in tunes. Over the years, I spent some quality time with Mr. Hubbard, but that shared chapter with our raven-haired Venus was never mentioned.

After I healed, I finally kicked solo flight and dove into the neon-lit singles scene. I scored a mixed bag of rendezvous – some sizzled, some fizzled – but hey, at least I was in the game.

A year later, one serendipitous day on the steel serpent of NYC, the subway, I crossed paths with a black beauty whose gaze had enough voltage to jump-start a dead man's heart. She slipped me her digits like a spy passing a secret note. A few days out, I buzzed her up and she cut straight to the chase, telling me with little hesitation, that she “loved to suck hard cocks” and was a regular at Plato's Retreat, the infamous on premise swinger’s club. I suggested we meet. Group grooves weren't my jam, but curiosity's a wild cat.

Rahil, a Muslim maven with a body made for sin, breezed into my penthouse studio at the midnight hour, her first words a quest for chemical camaraderie. I laid out my stash, cannabis and LSD, standard issue for those days, at least in my crib. She was all in for a cosmic pregame – acid to enliven the atmosphere, grass to mellow the milieu.

We sank into my tunes, the melodies weaving a tapestry for our tongues to tango. I was flying high, snug as a bug in my own den, but Rahil's vibe was set on the full Plato's pilgrimage. She caught my hesitation, but her eyes had that 'adventure awaits' twinkle, and I knew – we were bound for a bacchanalia beyond my bunker walls.

As our taxicab maneuvered the nearly thirty blocks down to the club, the acid began to speak.  Those were days when an LSD trip could easily take you to another planet for an extended stay.  Each block we passed, the buildings on Broadway seemed to melt into the streets.

Opening the front door of the club, a former gay bathouse on Broadway and 74th Street, the humidity and heavy, musty smell hit me hard. Walking down the stairs, I felt as if hundreds of eyes were upon us.  They were. Fresh meat was always welcome.

As I surveyed the club, it was clear that the patrons of this unique spot were not the typical crowd. Most were minimally dressed, with towels as their primary attire. The crowd was a diverse mix of everyday people from various walks of life: construction workers, teachers, advertising executives, blues musicians, office clerks, and car salespeople. They were regular individuals, not particularly striking in appearance. As I navigated through the space, I pondered over these self-described "liberated, unconventional adults." The atmosphere seemed to oscillate between an emulation of ancient Roman revelry and a more subdued, introspective gathering. Initially, their expressions didn't radiate overt happiness, but as I moved deeper into the club, faint sounds of contentment and excitement suggested there was more to this place than met the eye. This was intriguing.

Before we handed over our clothes, I noted a very bossy woman scolding a young man who seemed like he accidentally disembarked at the wrong subway station. I thought about trying to help him but the Mini-Swing room beckoned. Ah, the Mini-Swing rooms, best suited for a Ménage à trois.

This was a different night than mine.

Each held a unique memory for Rahil, who enjoyed an elevated status as a regular at the club.

I suggested that just the two of us, try a room and when I sat down, she began pleasuring me orally.  Within thirty seconds a tall man entered our less than sacred space and began pleasuring her doggy style.  At that moment, I left my body and witnessed was happening from a number of perspectives, including from the ceiling.  I was both a participant and a witness.  Suddenly the gentlemen announced he was going to find his wife, and have her join our mini-party. He excitedly revealed, “you’re gonna love my wife.” And then he disappeared, never to be seen again.

By then Rahil was warmed up.  She grabbed my hand, pulled me upright, and pushed me into the Orgy room.  There must have been forty people in the twenty by thirty enclosure, with plush carpeting and a mirrored ceiling, a heap of bodies undulating, the sound of ecstasy abundant with heavy breathing and moans.

Rahil embodied the spirit of an explorer in the realm of intimacy. I observed as she moved gracefully among different individuals, spending a minute or two with each, demonstrating a clear bisexual orientation. Seated on the sidelines, I was witnessing a scene straight out of a Fellini film. The spectacle was more amusing than erotic to me. Adding to the surreal atmosphere, a naked, somewhat overweight man nearby provided a running commentary on the events, mimicking the style of Howard Cosell, much to the entertainment of his cohorts.

Costume parties with nudity were common at Plato’s.

Suddenly, a rather obese woman sat down next to me and ask if I wanted a blow job.  Before I could answer, she began the task at hand.  I was not excited and she could immediately sense my detachment.

“Is this your first time here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh don’t worry, after you come back a four or five times, you’ll enjoy it much much more.”

And she quickly departed, in search of another more suitable partner.

Finally the lights flickered to announce closing time and we were soon back in my apartment, where I was very aroused at the prospect of consummating our passion.  When Rahil, a Muslim, had an orgasm, she screamed repeatedly, Allah, Allah.  I was pleased to be the catalyst for such a religious experience.

Looking back on my life after many years, I view my past with a lighthearted perspective, acknowledging its role in my journey of self-exploration. My understanding of sensuality has evolved, now recognizing that it's deeply entwined with intimacy rather than just raw physical desire. While I don't dismiss the significance of physical attraction, I've come to appreciate that meaningful connections offer a richness and depth that surpasses the fleeting nature of my earlier experiences. Sometimes, I wish I had come to this realization earlier and focused more on building lasting, profound relationships, rather than seeing myself as an adventurer in the realm of intimacy.