The party was a good one. The house was packed to capacity. The music was rattling the picture frames off the shelves. There was enough booze being consumed to intoxicate a heard of water buffalo. And everyone – everyone – was in costume.

The invitation had expressed, in no uncertain terms, that all guests were expected to dress as classic, traditional, horror monsters. This meant no crazy, zany, silly costumes. The host had a vision, was dead set on attaining exactly that.

The entire three-story home, front porch, and back porch were teeming with mummies, vampires, wolfmen, lagoon creatures, witches, wizards, warlocks, and Frankenstein monsters.

I was in the vampire camp, my lean frame sheathed in lavender and black snug-fitting Victorian-era garb, and shrouded in a vintage cloak I’d purchased online weeks in advance of the party. I had my makeup done professionally, to ensure that my fangs and hypnotic gaze were as authentic as possible. But I was by no means the best dressed of my class. Some people had really gone all out. With enough shots in belly, I started to wonder if maybe there weren’t more than a few actual vampires among us.

Like any good party of this nature, it was destined to descend in a drunken orgy at some point. Tolliver, the host, was an enigmatic and oft never-seen figure at his own suarees. Nevertheless, he had a resounding reputation for throwing the most sophisticated, and entertaining, parties in town. To be given an invite to a Tolliver Event was the equivalent of being granted admission to a prestigious social club. The unspoken price of admission was that you had to come alone, but leave together with another guest.

The implication of knowing that attending one of his gatherings assured you of getting laid that night only furthered Tolliver’s legacy as a master party thrower.

And his Halloween fare was by far his most anticipated of the year. By halfway through the evening, cloaks had been cast free. Bandages had been unraveled. Broomsticks had been cast aside. And rubber paws had given way to allow the fingertips underneath to grope and fondle at their leisure. Tolliver’s living room was a writhing mass of human decadence. Dozens of costumed men throbbing and pulsing in one huge mass, engorged cocks and puckered holes sliding around to seek each other out and match in pairs that only mother nature could dictate.

In the corner I saw three men standing, sheepishly, drinks in hand, watching the action at the center of the expansive living area. They were obviously first timers, and hesitant to get in on the action. I was always a fan of initiating newcomers. Ever since I was broken in by a 6’3” Nubian buck three years ago at New Years, I had longed to be the experienced hunk who gave some young stud the night of his life.

Of the three – a wolfman, a mummy, and a zombie – I had my eye on the member of undead. Behind his grey face paint and well-placed chunks of rotting flesh, I could make out a smooth, tight jaw and gorgeous, squinted, deep-set eyes. He was a stringy, lean fellow. Made to look taller than his height by his narrow frame. I wondered if his cock matched those attributes.

As I pawed, lurched, and climbed my way through, over, and around the writhing mass of sex-addled humanity between me and the other side of the room, I maintained