Orgy Envy

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After much deliberation, I’ve decided that orgies aren’t really for me.

Not that I’ve ever been to an orgy, you understand. Or been invited to one. Or looked out of the window and noticed our neighbours having mass rumpy-pumpy around the barbecue.

Just hypothesising. As you do.

The Romans, it seems, liked nothing better than all you can eat suppers, followed by a little bit more, then all you can vomit. Let’s call them “more than you can eat” dinners.

And then they chucked the chariot keys into a bowl in the dining room before deciding who gets to the dirty with whom. And let’s not mention all those gods turning themselves into swans and bulls to impregnate human women. Which I have never quite understood.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a red blooded bloke with red blooded blokish needs and whatnots. But there is something about performing in public that sends shivers down my shivery bits.

First there would be the body problem. You just know that you’d be stripping off next to some male model. A twenty-something Adonis with a six pack stomach and a manhood that wouldn’t look out of place on a Grand National winner. A prime specimen with the body of Brad Pitt, the face of George Clooney and the stamina of Mo Farrah.

And then you look down at your own body and think … hmm, built more for comfort than for speed. More hair between my shoulders than on my head.

And, forgive me for asking, but what undies do you wear to an orgy? Are we talking racing thongs with quick release straps? Sporty briefs with Nike written on the waistbands? Or a gentleman’s silk boxer shorts?

Is there a dress code for orgies? Do the invitations include the words “black tie”  or similar? Black untied? Black tied up?

Then there would be the fear of rejection. One of the great things about being married is that you don’t have to suffer the shame and ignominy of being turned down. When the object of your intended affection takes a surprised look at you, gives a little squealing giggle and then says “You? Me?” before melting into a puddle of uncontrolled hysteric laughing.

As if the prospect is so utterly ridiculous that it is the funniest thing she has ever heard in the world. Funny and then … ew!

It was bad enough being turned down at the school disco. Imagine the pain and humiliation of being rejected at an orgy. Everyone is up for it. They’ve made their intentions clear. And they still don’t fancy you.

But how does that work exactly? Is it like choosing the football teams when you are a kid? The captains take it in turns to choose … and you just know you are going to be one of the last names they call out.

In an orgy is there a queue behind the good looking ones (of either gender) … and a crowd of the not so good looking ones who can’t find a partner? It’s the school disco all over again.

Then there is the $64,000 question. Do you take the missus? Or the hubby if you’re watching from that side of the fence. And therein lies another minefield…

After more than a life sentence of marriage, you would hope that their only yardstick of bedroom performance would be yourself. Can you risk exposing them to the competition? It’s a bit like owning a car. Your daily driver only seems perfectly comfortable and sporty until you test drive a Ferrari.

Would you be constantly looking over to your nearest and dearest to make sure that they were (a) enjoying themselves and (b) not enjoying themselves too much?

That wouldn’t be too bad if you were Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. But let’s face it, the odds of you being Tom Cruise or Nicole Kidman are roughly 7 billion to 2.

The other worry would be who you might meet. Your boss? Neighbour? The vicar? Your Mum and Dad? Your grandparents?

No, no, no – the thought is far too horrible for words.

So I would like to make it perfectly clear. I do not want to take part in an orgy. At my time of life, I am more M&S than S&M. Monogamy is not just an expensive wood.

But then a sneaking little doubt slithers into my mind, like the serpent in the garden of Eden. Of course, no-one has ever invited me to an orgy. It’s that rejection thing all over again. It would be bad enough to be invited to an orgy and not find a partner. Even worse to never be invited in the first place.

I will leave the last word to the wonderful Dawn French. She tells a joke about a wife swapping party that she went to, where everyone put their car keys in a bowl.

She said: “I don’t know who got my moped, but I drove around in that Mercedes for months.”

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