Party Gals

In the later 1980s one July 4^th arrived with me camped on Lake Lanier, above Atlanta. I'd vowed to put some money into my pocket, together with the pocket of the artist, by selling the hell out of some cheap airbrush diptychs. Some galleries dove for them; others retched: and wouldn't take anything else I showed them seriously. But as always happens after a few days of it, soon as a weekend comes, soon as I'm camped somewhere, the writing compulsion took over: and I stayed poor as poor. I know I put huge stints in on my journal at that time: and was about to go whole hog into my third novel.

Lake Lanier is an engineered lake: Army Corps of Engineers, and, much as I hate such things, was interestingly conceived. Land and water wove fractally. Every camp site was on a finger of land surrounded by lake. Late June and the first days of July I had the place to myself, but as the July 4^th weekend ensconced itself, I noticed equipment for a battalion appearing on a series of sites next-door. Then suddenly the campers were also there — in numbers, and they were all women.

That was a first for me. Boys do outdoor things in groups, organized or spontaneously, and of course men are famous for it. Women also do things in groups, but in my awareness those things had been indoor things. The next thing I know my flank is dense with gals: partying as avidly as ever my friends and I did as apprentice teen alcoholics.

I noticed guys arriving, uninvited, and leaving in silence, swiftly. To this day I do not know if these women were all dykes — though certainly sub-groups of clear dykes visited the main group over the next several days. What was clear is that they were used to each others company, enjoyed themselves, and drank an awful lot of beer.

When I was a kid, fifteen and up, our parties were all male. but once we were eighteen or nineteen, dates started to infiltrate. Indeed, SybaRight was the first to show up at a party with an unannounced date: a gal I'd met on Fire Island who'd used a shoe horn to squeeze her sleek rump into her toreador pants.

I went about my business, type-type-typing on the Toshiba. But toward dusk the first evening of their presence, there was a knock on my pop-up's screen door. Several of the gals had come to invite me over. I went. Enjoyed myself. Tried to behave: a forty-five year old man with dozens of gals twenty-three, or twenty-seven.

As it got late, I left. And the next morning a deputation of two invited me back for breakfast. And so it went, through the long weekend.

These gals all soon adopted their party costume: a tee shirt and their bare panties. They were all decent looking, some of course better looking than others. One gal in green panties any guy would die lusting for. Her mons was simply scrumptious, her buttocks puckered and puffed, her bosom was a cartoon of fullness, and her face was damn nice too. The gal I liked best was skinny, shy, definitely "working class": and had a hole in her pants I liked to stick my finger into. But once there, I didn't do anything with that finger beyond poke her as a joke: "You've got a hole in your pants." One of the clear dykes who visited on the 4^th itself was a drop-dead gorgeous blond, a face perfect as a ceramic; but hard, cold: a cop. I did tell one bawdy story about myself over the weekend. It was received, well, and with humor, but as though I'd told it to a bunch of guys. "Oh, to be young again," one young gal said.

As a teen, when my beer-party friends would move the party to the Dune Road beach in the Hamptons for a few days (again, I was the first to intrude a coed), we guys would piss wherever we would: move no more than a dozen steps off from the group and piss in the sand. That seemed natural enough for guys; but I was astonished at the ease (and frequency) with which these gals stepped away from the table, dropped their panties, and squatted. One evening I was walking about in the dark and stumbled on my skinny gal in a squat. I froze. "Don't worry," she said. "Just don't look. Or look away: it don't matter."

Hmm. Not good news really for a heterosexual. For a heterosexual it should matter. I want the gal to be making an exception in showing herself to me: as I'm making for her.

Then one morning I wake up and find the neighborhood deserted once again. I wish I could remember their names. Page was the leader of the core group. The gal in green panties may have been Nancy. I particularly wish I could remember my skinny gal's name.

One things these gals had done beside drink beer was zoom around in a ski boat, zooming and water-skiing. Of course in the south water-skiing is just 'skiing. Where I come from skiing means snow, it means mountains. Filled with hilarity a bunch come back from a jaunt. The story of the hour was how my skinning gal, sitting in the back, would drift off into her own reverie. "Hey," they'd call to her. She'd look up: and all the other gals in the boat were topless. Oh, she was so embarrassed. Then she'd drift off again. "Hey." And this time they'd be bottomless.

So, it doesn't sound like they were exactly dykes; but nothing like what was normal for the girls I grew up around. But this was the 'eighties, not the 'fifties.

After they'd been gone for a couple of days, I'd been up writing through the night once again. I'm awakened by a knock. It's a platoon of my gals, come to take me 'skiing!

Oh, no. I have to pee. I've had no coffee. I need a shower. Actually, I have to shit. By the time I stumbled back from the wash house, they were gone.

Elsewhere I've said how my fantasies tend to limit themselves to females I'd never really touched (mainly because they were too young!) I occasionally fantasize about my Atlanta faux-dykes. About the whole group of them: they lead me to one of their big tents. They take my pants off and lie me on my back. My pole in the air for all to admire, they take turns sitting on my face. Trouble is: I can't get the one in green panties clearly into the fantasy.

Actually though, I don't think these gals were all too big on fucking. None I'm sure were virgins. A couple I know had been married. They liked their own company, they liked to drink beer, and they liked to speed around in the 'ski boat. I really don't think much all-gal sucking went on once they retired to their tents.

Hmm.