Sometimes the word “crush” made perfect sense. It felt like that, like being crushed, like being pressed under the weight of want, the density of desire. Sometimes I thought about Caitlyn and my chest swelled. She was just so pretty and kind and charming.
Maybe we all had a friend like that. Someone gorgeous, with a smile that lights up the room. Someone who had that combination of sweetness and almost painfully intense sexual charisma.
Still, as powerful as my attraction was, I don’t think I was her type. Our lives were very different. We moved in different circles, we had different needs. Still, it was nice to have a crush. It just brightened my day to see her and to get a hug from her. My heart swelled when she laughed at my jokes. Maybe that’s how I wanted to organize my life and my heart. I let myself be madly infatuated with my friend.
Sometimes the beauty in someone’s face, the charms of their body, seem indelibly tied to their personality. Caitlyn was sweet and soft-spoken and thick thighed and honey lipped and possessed an infectious laugh and a gloriously huge ass. It all seemed part of the same thing. It was Caitlyn, perfect Caitlyn. Thick and sweet as syrup.
So when David told me Caitlyn was going to be behind the wall at his next party, I surprised him by saying I wanted to attend.
Usually, I didn’t go to David’s Friday night parties, his “Wall” parties. The parties he had every other Saturday were a bit more to my taste. On those Saturdays, he hosted elegant little soirees at his loft, with nice cocktails and hors d’oeuvres and spankings and kissing and maybe some finger fucking and oral sex, tastefully done under a table or pretty blanket.
There was a line, difficult to explain fully to someone outside of our circle of friends and lovers. There was a line in the Saturday parties where we would play and beat each other and even fuck, but not overtly, not obscenely. There was a line of decorum that we all agreed on that made the Saturday parties somehow elegant.
The Friday parties were something very different. There was a line there as well, but it was a very different line. The Wall parties were held in Brooklyn, in an industrial warehouse. David set it up so that there would be something like a glory hole, only someone’s whole torso and legs would stick out of a hole in a big wooden wall.
It was very elaborate, with a sort of door built into the wall and a little padded table on each side for the person to lay on. Some people did it face up, other people face down. Sometimes their legs were up in the air, suspended with ropes or straps.
You didn’t go to that party to chat and catch up with friends. You didn’t go for a few hours to flirt and tease and linger. You went to fuck the person with their head in the hole. You went to use someone who had put themselves in a very specific position to be used. Or, you went there to be used, like a toy or a tool. Then, usually, you left to go somewhere else, to fuck someone else, to do Friday night things. That or you stayed around to watch like a pervert.