The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

Those Daaaaaancing Feeeeeeet!

Nick Mamatas

Reg found it extremely difficult to choreograph an orgy in these days of Mannerist decadence and increasing ticket prices. There was the challenge, of course, of avoiding heteronormative slot-tab type things: a girl on all fours, a cock in her mouth, one in her ass, a guy under her slacking while she ground her pussy down on him. Even the formulation — one cock, two cock, fill all the holes — tended to dehumanize everyone. Then there were the “show-time”-style stunts: handstands and toes tucked into assholes, streams of semen shooting in fine arcs like an Italian fountain. Clever stuff, hard to pull off, but about as sexy as the cramped interior of a circus clown car. Well, that was probably somebody’s kink. . but Reg digressed, as he often did when amidst a forest of limbs, some hard with muscle, others flabby and warm.

“From the top,” he called out after he lost his own erection, and the twists of arms and legs and tits came undone. There were ten in all, seven men and three women, including Reg. Daniela smiled at him and walked over on her tiptoes, her back arched and little lemon tits sticking out.

“Reg,” she said, “maybe if-”

“-the genders were even, yes, I understand. But everyone does that.”

“Or more women than men!” Jose called out. He was wiping himself down, a towel under the crease of his belly.

“It’ll work fine,” Reg said. “We just need to loosen up.” He waved his arms. “Qigong, everyone.” And the players lined up and lifted their arms and began their deep breathing exercises. There was just enough room on the cramped stage for everyone, especially with arms outstretched and eyes closed, but Reg kept his eyes open. On the skin of his cast — pink and brown and dark — he could see the traces of his handiwork. Impressions of limbs and hand in the flesh. Then he had an idea.

Here is how it went. Jose on all fours, Jeanette squatted on to his back, her ass plump and back curved. Her face was buried in Lindsey’s shockingly hairy bush — shocking as Brazilians were in season; hair was the new “ethnic” and ethnic was in, Reg supposed — and her hands pressed against Lindsey’s fat breasts. Jose had Don’s odd brown cock in his mouth, and worked his throat till his nose was buried on Don’s pubic hair. Don held on to the back of Jose’s head for a moment to balance himself. He spread his feet, sunk his weight on to his heels and then bent over backwards. Little Daniela straddled Don’s gymnast torso. Reg waved his arms and the Wong twins, Lee and Henry, took up position on either side of Daniela. She grabbed their dicks and started pumping them, then turned to kiss Lee hungrily, then Henry. Reg himself slipped behind Henry and stuck his tongue up Henry’s ass, lubing it for the cock to come. Only when satisfied did the last two men — the burly bear Kenneth, all blond fuzz and beer belly, and a stocky fire hydrant of a man named Russ, take their places. They grabbed Reg’s ankles and wrists and held the choreographer up and on his side. It took a few long moments for Reg to penetrate Henry, and he nearly lost his erection, but sucking the sweat from Kenneth’s big balls helped with that, and soon enough he was in. Finally, they were all in position. Reg hummed, giving Kenneth the signal. Kenneth blinked twice.

That was the cue. Lindsey slid to the left, Jeanette still attached to her cunt. Under Jeanette, Jose grunted but his strong arms and thighs were up to the task of holding her weight. He moved from Don’s cock to his outer thigh, licking it all over and hunting for ass. Daniela put her arms around Henry and Lee and lifted herself up to spread her legs. Russ shifted Reg’s legs to his own shoulders and bent over to suck on Lindsey’s toes. The Wongs reached between that mass of bent bodies and jerked one another off. Freed from Daniela’s cunt, Don’s cock glistened with slick syrup. He lay down for a moment, but Kenneth reached down and lifted the other man up by the cock. Still on his side, wedged between several men, Reg wondered if this was still all too Hollywood, but he would only know at the final bow.

The sad fact, Reg thought to himself during his smoke break, is that people don’t come to see Broadway fuck shows for the choreography or even for the musky smell of the sex. They like the fog pouring out of the smoke machines and the beams of light arcing overhead, ones that look so solid you could reach up and touch it, hang off it. Older women enjoy the songs and the first act teases — that first flex of bicep or expense of abs. The legs or the flick of a hip. They even dig the improbable show tune rhymes: “Oh when will Mister Lee So Yung/ decide to finally have some fun/ and put my pudenda/ on his agendaaaaa!” Reg often found himself fuming by the stage door as the audience members wandered by humming that crap.

The other problem is that orgy choreography is just like driving a car or running the United States — everyone thinks they can do it, but most people who actually try are friggin’ morons. Reg liked to tell his cast, “And everyone is half right.” That would get a laugh. Competition was keen, and nobody wanted to take it up the ass any more. Prima donnas, all of ’em. Reg stubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and went back to the dressing rooms to tell Donald to go easy on the mahogany tonight. Speaking of prima donnas.

“Are you kidding?” Don asked.

“Nope. I want everyone pale.”

“Under those lights? I’ll look like a fish fillet.” Don sucked in his little belly. He was an older guy — late forties but looked maybe a decade younger. Only he wanted to look two decades younger. “What’s this all about? Are you going to tell the Wong brothers to ‘lighten up’ too, or are you just looking to make sure I don’t get any more callbacks?”

“Don’t be an asshole. Just do it.”

Don muttered something about the union and amateur-hour horseshit, but Reg just walked out, ignoring him but still nervous. About how it was going to go, not about that cocksucker’s empty threats. Soon enough the curtain went up. People laughed when they were supposed to — Daniela sodomizing Kenneth to bring out the falsetto in his voice, Russ facing down the Wongs in a three-way cock duel that ended up with all the players tumbling into the orchestra pit. They gasped at Lindsey hanging from her labia (and unseen, from her waist and ankles) thanks to clamps and string while she drank water and told a few jokes about coming to New York on a two-day bus trip from South Dakota. Lots of applause for Russ’ touching solo spoken-word piece about wishing he could invite his grandparents to see his show, but how they likely wouldn’t understand. (The audience plant, an older woman, nearly missed her cue when she rose from her seat to blow Russ kisses, but that clumsiness just gave the whole thing a bit more verisimilitude.)

Then the finale. Reg could barely get hard, not even after a bit of surreptitious frigging. Forget the peeled ginger in the bum, it was the applause that did it. He was out there and hard and so it went well. There were giggles and quiet smiles between the players as they dropped to their knees or spread dry mouths and wet snatches. It had been two hours under the lights with nothing but the occasional draft from the wings, but Reg still had goosebumps. He wasn’t the only one. And they fucked. Boy did they fuck. The Wongs coated Daniela like she was a pastry of some sort; Jeanette’s face and chin were drenched. The cunt juice ran down her neck and stomach to mix with her own perspiration. That just made the effect better though, when they all lined up to take their bows.

Yes, the effect. Ten figures, all standing hand in hand, with big smiles and bow, with the traces of one another’s bodies pressed into the skin. Impressions of arms and ass cheeks, flanks and thighs red from being pressed into the boards. Across the expanse of skin, there was left a picture — a man and a woman, too many limbs and stretched across thirteen feet of glowing actor, entangled in the act of physical love.