Message-ID: <16512eli$9810150708@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: David Wright Subject: {Bluewords} The Party (No Sex) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19981010223707.12257.rocketmail@send204.yahoomail.com> {Bluewords} The Party (No Sex) I wrote this a little while ago. It's supposed to be a non-technological representation of ASS/M/D, although you can stretch an analogy only so far. It's what I thought of things when I first contributed something here. I do like the party, though. The following text and characters are fictional and in no way reflects any known persons, situations or places. Any similarity to real life is purely coincidental. Any similarity to any "net personalities" is also purely coincidental. Permission is granted to save this story to a private computer for personal viewing or to be re-posted within this newsgroup so long as both this disclaimer and copyright of the writer and owner-(me)- remain intact. The story may be archived or linked to a web page, as long as there is no charge for access to it, it remains unchanged and I am given credit for the work. However, permission to print in book or magazine, or commercial archive this story, as well as selling this story as your own, is explicitly withheld. The Party I wasn't quite sure where I was going. I had written something up, a small story, and someone suggested that I go to the party. They told me where it was, but when I asked what time, they said "Hey, there's always someone at the party. Just show up." The instructions seemed easy to follow, so I off I went. It wasn't too far from where I lived. It was in an unassuming building. The party. Inside the front door was a large room. Cork board had been put up all over the walls, and it was covered with stories put up with thumbtacks. Anyone going by could read them. An odd sight. There was another room further in. The noise from in there was loud enough that you could probably pick up a conversation or two. There were a few large windows looking into the second room, showing the party. They had nothing to hide, it seemed. It was set up so that you could read their work, or watch what was going on inside without having to actually go in. It was an attempt to make it look safe. Come in if you want, just lurk around outside if you want, we don't mind. Feel comfortable. I read several of the stories on the wall. Some were okay, but a few were very good. One woman wrote interesting and fun stories, and her stories were posted close together. I read more of her stuff. Most of it was a series, all about the same person. Not something I would normally have looked at before that, but I was glad it caught my eye. I read pieces by other writers, some long, some short. I thought I could spend all my time just reading the postings out there. I finally told myself that they weren't going anywhere, and I would come back and read more later. I found an empty spot on the wall marked "New Contributions" and posted my story. There was a lot of space to put things on, even though a lot of it was already covered. I decided to go inside to the party. Right outside the door was a table with those "Hello, My Name Is" stickers. I was told people didn't generally use their real names at the party, so I had made up a name. I wrote it on the sticker, stuck the sticker on my chest and went on in to the larger room. I noticed the windows were mirrored and didn't look out. The people inside couldn't tell if anyone was on the outside, lurking or reading. Kind of reverse of what you might expect, but then the party wasn't your normal party. There were a lot of people at the party. They were laughing and talking and a few were even singing. There were some arguments going on, too, but for the most part they seemed good-natured. A few people stood up on boxes, telling others that gathered around what they thought about some of the stories on the wall outside. Strangely enough, almost everyone there was in costume. Some had full costumes, regal dress. Some only had masks. I could make out only a few faces that were not covered in some manner. Maybe they did have something to hide, after all. On many of the people, the masks looked like a normal face, so it was hard to tell how much they were really hiding. Or maybe, they just wanted to maintain some privacy, even in the middle of the crowd. I had been warned about the masks before hand, so I came in with a small one. Nobody really knew me there, anyway. I stood around for a long while, just listening to conversations. It was really interesting stuff. Mostly, it was about sex. People having sex, wanting sex, how to have sex, writing about sex. No one seemed embarrassed about it at all. Even the most taboo subjects were discussed. I could tell some people shied away from some of the conversations, not wanting to talk about certain things, wanting to talk about other things. I could tell that some people there were old friends, laughing and joking, swapping stories. Someone came in the front door and tried to pass fliers out, selling some odd thing or another. Everyone there ignored him. I shook my head when he approached me, and he eventually left. I wanted to join a conversation. It looked like fun, and from what I'd heard so far, everyone seemed very friendly. I walked up to a group of people and listened in. A woman who was almost as tall as I am, was speaking to an man who was just my height, about a desert island, or rather a cruise that had been shipwrecked on the island. It seemed they were very intimate with each other, although he didn't seem to be her husband. I recognized the story and her name on her name tag. She was the writer I had admired. "I really like your stories," I told her, when a break came in their conversation. I was trying not to be rude and interrupt. She had been smiling, but her smile seemed to get a bit bigger. "Really? That's so nice of you to say." "Well, you write very well, and your stories are fun to read. I like all the little touches, people seem real, the situations seem true to life, and the sex is believable, as well as unbelievable, if you know what I mean." She laughed a little, and seemed really flattered. I had to believe that other people had said similar things to her about her writings, but she was very gracious and happy about my compliments. She introduced me to some of the others there. The tall man she'd been talking to had written a few things I'd read, one was a companion to one of her stories. I hadn't read anything by any of the others yet, but vowed to look up their stories on the wall outside. "Have you written anything?" she asked me. I blushed. My effort wasn't near as good as any of theirs. But I admitted that that was why I had come to the party in the first place. "Well, let me go read it, be right back." She went out the door to look up my story. A strange thing happened. A few people wandered by, recognized my name from my tag and commented that they liked my story. They had noticed the new posting. I was astonished so many people had read it so quickly. I had just put it up. They all asked, "Will there be a part two?" At first I told them I wasn't sure, but after the third or forth came by, I started saying "probably". The tall woman came back. "That was funny. You write very well." I actually blushed again. A big smile came across my face. "Uh, thanks," was my witty reply. "Are you going to write more?" she asked. "I'd like to," I told her, "but I don't always have a whole lot of time." I checked my watch then. "In fact, I have to leave now. It has been a great pleasure meeting you. I'll be back soon." "I probably should leave, too," she said. "The kids will be home soon." I nodded, waved goodbye to all of them and left. It had been interesting, at the party. I wanted to stay there longer, the people there were so nice, the conversations interesting. It was much easier to make friends there than in the real world. I wondered why that was. People had masks, but it seemed to free them up to be more open and honest in other ways. Upon leaving, I heard one last conversation. A few people were lamenting about someone who had left, and probably wasn't coming back. She had been a regular partygoer, a lot of fun, and everyone had really liked what she'd written, but eventually she had apparently decided that she no longer liked putting on the mask all the time, of taking the time to go to the party. As much fun as the party was, it took some time to contribute, to even show up. She hadn't been the first to go and wouldn't be the last, they mused. People came and went all the time. They made friends, wrote stories or gave reviews, dropped out. Real life intruded. I could understand why. I wasn't sure I'd have enough time to write very often, and also read some of the interesting stories already there. More were posted on the wall every day. And comments, about the stories, about things in general were posted out there too. It turned out, someone regularly took the stories down, sorted them and stored them in boxes just inside the front door. Lots of boxes. Too much to read; I'd have to be selective. Only authors I thought were really good. But there seemed to be a lot of those. Then I thought, there were probably other parties going on, just like this one. Dozens, or maybe hundreds of parties, each with its own theme. Maybe people at this party left to go to the other parties every once in a while. I could imagine people who did nothing but go to these parties. I decided, for now, to stick with this one. It was a subject I liked, and was interesting to me to write about it. Before leaving, I read one of the shorter pieces there. It was quick to read, and very good. I decided to search out the author, next time I came to the party and tell her I liked it. It had been nice to make the tall woman smile, and she had made me smile in return. I wanted to try that again. The party was fun. I was definitely coming back, as often as I could afford to. The real world could wait, sometimes. Copyright (c) 1998 by David Wright. 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