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by Loraine Hutchins
Six of us scrunched in that little bursting car together, waiting out the storm. Giddy from beer and smoking, throbbing with eros after that film, kissing and fondling randomly, glad for the excuse of the rain, the film, weaving and releasing us.
Went back to Rob's place, his tiny apartment all full of rugs and pillows to cuddle in. Magalita started, pressing soft large breasts over each to reach another, giving large french kisses, then pulling back, saying she was sorry, she had to leave to get up for work the next day. Somehow that was the signal, we all pulled her down to us and made her stay.
Mass massage. Shedding. Exquisite thrill of 3 tongues intermingling in one's mouth, then 4, then 5, dissolve in giggles trying 6.
Sisters watch brothers touch each other for the first time, shyly, then with increasing passion and possession. Discover ourselves, our own salty womb essences, hot yearning pockets of tendernessess. Sucking, sucking, coming, coming. Coos, groans, and explosions. Something real, fragile and beautiful; a group-creature emerges. Intoxicating, frightening, touching so deep. Safe and cradled in a whole group's loving arms. Satiated. Running from it like addiction. So sweet, you'll never want anything less again. Strutting to the bathroom, showering in pairs, falling back on the floor interwoven again. Feasting on mingled essences, getting up for thirsty drinks, caressing sweat off friends dear brows, pushing the limits back again.
Something had been moving us all toward one union that year. We'd worked the summer together, politically, professionally, building our trusts and linking up our fates in some national coalition crises that came down, that we took part in and guided around us.
The six of us. Ollie loved men, revelled in them all over the country in his many gay movement organizing travels. He looked like a burly brown football player and a sweet teddy bear rolled into one. Always laughing, always hugging, loving, room in his big big heart for an ex-wife he still loved, her lovers and his, and three children they shared together too. Mojo was all undulation and rapping, a brilliant beauty, leader of the DC Black Gays, kept-man of an academic fop, a dancer and a dreamer himself, accountant on the side when he could stand it. Rob, born of a Greek immigrant and a hillbilly, had spent time being a Jesus freak rock musician himself, before claiming his own sensuality and intellectual freedom and helping to build the anti-draft and latin american solidarity movements in Washington. A true revolutionary and mystic, the kind moved by intense love, the kind that never quits, that lives his life with a passion the movement directs. Magalita came to us as secretary at the national coalition office where we all worked. Blonde, radiant, unassuming, exuberant farmgirl practicing vocal scales in the elevators, in the office cubicles, trilling her ecstasy unabashed, out loud. Jay was Rob's girlfriend and still lived at home with her parents but was looking for a way out fast. A hot agitated Scorpio with flashing brown eyes, long brown hair, round beating hips, always in motion, always changing clothes and poses, looking for something new. And then there was me, earth mama, cool convener, bewildered energy conductor underneath. A shy outrageous woman with too much weight around her, great ambitions, great guts, great abilities too.
The whole group never got together again, orgasmically, like that. But little ripples, little permutations, kept on happening, playing out until our imaginations and desires were exhausted, until we realized how far we'd travelled and retreated to safer corners again. Rob and Ollie made love on their lunch hours, Rob and Mojo sometimes too. Mojo's jealous lover called us up to complain that Mojo wasn't coming home anymore, was always staying late at the coalition office mesmerized with us. Magalita fell in love with her yoga teacher and decided to get married. And Jay and Rob and I formed a triad which held us in its spell for over a year.
One of the things our triad and larger circle communication was built on was respect for love and energy, however expressed, no physical or genital tyranny. During that time we each experienced energy-builds and releases, i.e. orgasms, through the tops of our heads, or coming out our fingertips or eyes linked with another -- as powerful and as pleasurable as any coming before or since. I was honored by this group and learned to honor myself, FOR myself, not for any particular sexual interchanges performed. And yet the energy passed between us as a conducting ring was sexual, sacred, trembling with all our dreams.
Jay and Rob had a stormy time and I soon tired of trying to keep them together, and of trying to love each of them separately, without taking sides. Jay found an older man with two teenage kids to love her and Rob went through many changes, many lovers, many jobs, jumping back and forth, leaving town and coming back again, going in and out of relationships. But always, he and I remained special soulmate friends.
I still don't know why the circle died. I don't accept the superficial explanation of jealousies or competitions, or conflicting priorities and confusions over leadership. These things were all there. Yet also, I think we just took it as far as we could, got a full bewildering charge and had to pull back for deeper, more solitary processing at a much slower pace.
Though we dispersed, the savoring the urge to create this lingers wherever we build our families. May these circles continue. Blessed Be.