DarkSteven
Posts: 28072
Joined: 5/2/2008
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I was young, quite a while back. Whenever I think of my younger days, I usually think of my college days. Funny, isn't it? I can't remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday, but images of forty years ago are painted with bright, vivid colors, seeming more real at times than my present reality.
Forty years ago... I was at a party. The kind of party that all should be. No solitary wallflowers looking forlorn. No, this party was fully energized and the food, drink, music, and bodies all seemed to sway and flow together. It was in Albuquerque, but the steaminess and sensuality made me think of Bourbon Street.
The women there - all kinds. I remember the identical twin Olsen girls - blond Nordic girls that were fanatical basketball players and won athletic scholarships to college. Of course there was an assortment of Hispanic women and a few Native American ones, as well as a sprinkling of blacks. Plenty of Caucasians too, as the college crowd is the ultimate privilege - young adults that could afford a scholastic break before the real world took them in and homogenized them. We were destined to become accountants and engineers, teachers and lawyers, councilmen and business owners, mothers and fathers, husbands and wives. Our futures were bland and cookie-cutter. But tonight, we drank and shouted, danced, and mingled. And groped. Lord, how we groped.
As the night cheerfully marched along, unnecessary things were shed. It became clear that not all men were created equal. Nor women, for that matter. Despite that, we all fitted together, sliding in and out, sometimes effortlessly and sometimes with grunting and lube.
Did I have sex that night? I must have. But I'm ashamed to admit that I do not know. I can barely pick out any individual woman in my haze of memory. I know the bodies, I know the faces, but I cannot remember where they did, what they did, and with whom. And if any of the whoms may have been me.
The party got louder. And hotter. And wetter. The gods themselves put in appearances. Dionysius with his slender, almost girlish look, swallowing down amphora after amphora, and then pouring it for others. The Maenads with crazed eyes, dancing with bloody and sexual intent. Apollo, standing proudly erect and fully nude, sweltering heat emanating from his oiled body.
And then... Pan. The god of the shepherds and pagans, who never left the woodlands for lofty Mount Olympus. Pan, the link between humanity and animal nature, with a musky rutting stench that churned up darker thoughts and obliterated inhibitions as though they never were.
Pan screeched out a wild series of discordant chords on his pipes, terrifying yet beautiful at the same time. He twisted into the room in a bizarre capricious dance, unsteady on small feet. Bellowing, musky, profane, intoxicating, irresistibly masculine, he grabbed women and held them and swept them up in his dancing.
The party was at its crescendo. The air was so thick and hot that it flowed like liquid. The pounding rhythms shook everyone.
And then, quiet. We men were left alone and hung over. Empty, hollow silence. Pan had gone. All the party girls as well had left with the satyr. Because they were... pansexual.
_____________________________
"You women....
The small-breasted ones want larger breasts. The large-breasted ones want smaller ones. The straight-haired ones curl their hair, and the curly-haired ones straighten theirs...
Quit fretting. We men love you."
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Party with a pun. - 
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