Snapping, Crackling, Popping Chemistry

The first Saturday of April found me working at Chemistry, a very special party in Brooklyn thrown by some very special friends of mine. In addition to being a writer of erotica, highfalutin literary fiction, and poetry, I am also an astrologer. My friends procure all sorts of sexy, sensual entertainment at their Chemistry soirees—burlesque performers, masseurs and masseuses, live music, and a DJ guaranteed to get you into the groove, so to speak, whether you stay on the dance floor or head back to the “play” area.

For my brand of entertainment, I would focus on the individual sitting across from me and my laptop, which contains astrology software that enables me to pull up a chart in mere seconds. I decided, since I would only have about 10 minutes with each curious soul, to concentrate on—what else?—the X-rated aspects of each person's chart, including turn-ons and fetishes; the needs, wants, and fears that form a person’s sexual psyche, you dig?

The party space is a loft designed to maximize comfort and accommodate various degrees of action. I was put in the relatively quiet back room with the masseuse and masseur, who were dressed as supersexy superheroes and soon were rubbing down nude party guests on their tables. There were many lush plants and cozy couches, which were occupied by couples and single women getting to know one another, partaking of delicious hors d’oeuvres and drinks that were served at the BYOB bar.

This was the first time I’d worked as an astrologer at such a party, although in that funny way that life can imitate art, a few years ago I’d written an erotic short story about an astrologer who works at a sexy soiree and by the end of the night is taking part in a full-fledged orgy. Well, that didn’t wind up happening in real life. It was gratifying to have people visit my astrology corner and tip me for my insights, but all the same, I was sorry for not having the leisure to check out the play area; my mini-breaks were spent wetting my whistle, snacking, and schmoozing.

But you know what they say: “Be careful what you wish for.” By three a.m., the formerly laid-back back room had turned into a room in which to get laid. In this unofficial play area were two or three hot couples in flagrante delicato per couch, including the sexy superhero rubdown team. There was also some "entertainment" in the form of a guy doing “balloon bondage” on a willing, pretty, petite girl, who stood there patiently as she became more and more constrained by strategically knotted balloons.

By that time I had done about a dozen mini-readings and handed out many more business cards. I was ready to shut down my laptop and activate my inner voyeur, as it was obvious the guests had become far more interested in actually getting it on than in listening to me talk about how they like to get it on. One fellow wandered into the room, plopped himself down across from me, and asked for a reading; I started to give him one, but trailed off after only a minute or two because the most beautiful couple (whom I will henceforth refer to as MBC) in the room, perhaps at the entire party, perhaps in the entire borough of Brooklyn, was reaching a fever pitch of ecstasy barely a body length away from me.

By beautiful I don’t mean just physically attractive, although they were certainly that: she was a brunette with an hourglass figure, he had sandy shoulder-length hair and a compact, nicely toned body. What transfixed me was how into each other the MBC clearly were. “I’m sorry,” I told the hapless star-seeker, “but I just can’t concentrate on astrology anymore. It’s late, and I’m kind of… burned out.” He didn’t give me any grief, but instead watched me watching this couple. I pretended not to notice this dynamic of a camera watching a camera. Curled up in my cozy armchair, I eventually managed to shut out everybody in the room except for my MBC.

They’d started out their sofa session with her straddling him, then they reversed the straddle, and finally they took advantage of their relative space and stretched out on the couch, with him grinding on top of her. His ass was perfect. She was crying out to beat the band: “Oh honey,” “I’m coming,” “I love you,” went this sinuous loop of a soundtrack. I wasn't about to find out if I could join their party, because truly, they were a party unto themselves; I would’ve been interrupting something downright holy. All I did was applaud when it was over, which they acknowledged politely. I exchanged a few words with them after they got dressed, but it didn’t even occur to me to ask them if they’d like a post-coital reading. Anyway, I’d officially closed shop for the night.

I hung out for a little while longer, took a spin on the dance floor, had another gratis glass of wine, and watched MBC leave with a very young, pretty single girl, who had stopped by my astrology corner at the beginning of the party. I felt a twinge of envy without even knowing what the real story was—but then shrugged it off. This night had been about astrology, inspiration, and yearning. Another night would bring something else.

Are you a single girl or part of a sensual, open-minded couple, and curious to learn more about my friends’ party? Check out www.chemistry-nyc.com, and if you decide you want to get screened, tell ’em I sent you.