Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Aug 30, 2003
There are only two kinds of women in the world, I said once. Those who want to fuck me and those who don’t. With the usual cut-outs given for good friends, co-workers, and such, women in the latter group cease to exist in a way, becoming translucent, jellyfish-like in my mind’s eye. Like some sort of galactic anomaly that possesses mass yet indistinct form, they are at best tenuously connected to my dimension. This psychological mechanism has proven to be remarkably effective. Any feelings of residual anger, remorse or self-doubt I might have are soon replaced by overwhelming indifference. No hard feelings, as they say, and we move along our separate paths. After all, what kind of person would want to couple with a jellyfish?
This mechanism is not without its flaws, however. It requires a sort of forthrightness that some women find themselves unable to muster, and when I am led along by the nose rejection still carries a certain jellyfish sting. So it went with Cindy, the willowy Latina whom we had met before riding off together to the underwear party. Everything appeared to be going well. She and Leslie had met up again while I was on vacation and, verily, hit it off. Leslie made it clear that the two of us only wanted to play together and Cindy was fine with it. Cindy said she wanted to give it a try with me, which I probably should have recognized at the time as a less-than-ringing endorsement. Nonetheless she seemed sweet and sensitive, the kind of girl whom you’d ask to stick around for breakfast, and we set a play date for this evening. Les and I made some preparations for entertaining, even sending Cindy a playful questionnaire about her fantasies.
Yesterday evening Leslie came home with the news that Cindy had cancelled on us. The girl had been taking some self-improvement seminar, the final installment of which Leslie had sat through at Cindy’s request. I couldn’t make it that night but it was just as well. One of the fruits of her four-hundred-dollar investment was a newfound commitment to telling the truth. And so, crying over the phone, Cindy informed Leslie that in actuality she wasn’t attracted to me and simply couldn’t go through with the play date. Ironically, if we had met up with her a couple of weeks ago she would have gone along with everything, and, who knows, actually gotten to like me (it’s happened before). If only her little revelation had taken place in, say, July or September. It didn’t help to know that on the morning after the underwear party she had merrily cavorted with Anya and the boyfriend. But now, alas, she’s a better person. Too good for me, apparently.
I know. We’re damned good at threesomes, having received a slew of compliments in the past. (“You guys are rockin’ my world,” Katrina told us once.) I know it’s truly Cindy’s loss in almost every conceivable respect. I know she cannot hold even the smallest votive candle to the heavenly splendor that is Leslie. I know we’re on the list for Grego’s tonight. Yet yesterday evening these facts were little consolation to me.
So last night I was sort of navel-gazing and cursing myself at having been led into a trap. Nonetheless, I dragged myself out to meet up for drinks with Leslie and the nice couple, Jack and Jill, and I’m glad I did. They’ve been through it all, and it was therapeutic to commiserate with them over the capriciousness of young females. We’re taking things slowly with them, and our mutual attraction has been unambiguously established. Cindy began to fade, jellyfish-like, into the blackness of the cosmos. Soon we were all outside the bar talking politics and toking an oversized spliff with a Nigerian-born Brit and his merry, erratic friends. The jolly fellow couldn’t quite figure out what was happening between us swingers, but must have thought it indecorous to ask.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Aug 27, 2003
I’ll start with some advice to all the ladies out there in swinger couples. Take care of your man. Communicate, damn it. Too often I have seen men frustrated and sulking in the corner as their women lose themselves in flirtation and play with everything in sight. If you have decided you only want play as a couple, then stick to that plan and let other people know up front. I am not a clairvoyant. For all I know, your man simply gets off on watching you with others. And, to the men, if you want to play with someone’s girl then show the lady some genuine affection. If you’ve exchanged nary a word with her, don’t expect her to jump at the opportunity to latch onto your throbbing manhood. Dust off those old dating skills and bring some charm to bear. Personality, as they say, goes a long way. But don’t rely on your woman to do all the work. That way lies inevitable frustration and disaster.
I’m glad someone else out there seems to understand sex parties the way I do. Sex-Geek writes: “We came home around three in the morning, entirely and completely sated with sex. Dazed from it, really. Flabbergasted by it. Stuffed full of it. I just love that feeling of connection I get from a good sex party, the feeling of being part of the human tribe rather than a separate piece of it. You can’t be stuck on yourself too much in the middle of a sex party. You can’t be trying to prove anything, or shore up insecurities. It’s too late for that once you get there. You have to just be naked and let what happens happen.”
An obviously confused reader writes: “I am a ‘generously proportioned’ male (375 pounds) with a less than generous penile length (4 inches erect). I seek a vendor of quality inflatable sheep who can give away free samples as I am unemployed.” Not sure I can help you with that one, bud.
Charles Taylor over at Salon (click on the button for a free day pass) thinks men who watch lesbian porn hate themselves: “It makes no sense to argue that men can glory in their raging manhood in scenes where penises can be so easily replaced by digits or fingers or tongues. And in a way, I think that disposability is the key to why men love lesbian scenes, which has more to do with male self-loathing than male self-glorification.” Wow. All along I thought it had to do with getting off on watching hot girls lick pussy, or better yet, use anal beads on each other. Silly me. According to Taylor, it’s a cultural conspiracy that heterosexual men don’t eroticize other men’s bodies.
Continuing in that vein, a big fan of mine writes in his blog: “However, this one I think is pure fiction because the guy talks constantly about all of the sex parties and group sex events he attends but it is always two guys two gals, or one guy and two gals, or even two gals, but never two guys and one gal or two guys. I find that to be totally unrealistic and therefore I think it is fake. If it isn’t then I really feel sorry for the guy because he has reduced sex to the level of washing your car. He would even give masturbation a bad name.” By way of background, this guy is a closeted bisexual (or possibly homosexual) trapped in a sexually unfulfilling marriage. Like the honorable Mr. Taylor, this man believes it is unrealistic that I don’t feel the urge to have another guy’s peepee in my mouth or up my pooper. Well, for the record, I have yet to see man-on-man action at any of these parties, and quite honestly there’s a double standard among many swingers where female action is acceptable and male action isn’t. Female bisexuality is prevalent, but I also know a decent number of female swingers who don’t eat pussy. And, even if there weren’t such a double-standard in place, these parties are attended by couples and single females only, a situation which lends itself to the types of scenarios I’ve written about.
I find it interesting that some people doubt the veracity of my accounts. I suspect if Leslie were the primary author of this blog these doubts wouldn’t even arise. If sex for me is like washing my car, well, imagine if everyone could take so much delight in doing their chores. And if masturbating to gay internet porn is the best you can do then you have only yourself to blame. Don’t hate the player, son, hate the game.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Aug 26, 2003
Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund,
Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus deisem Bund.
Friedrich von Schiller
I’m sitting here listening to the first movement of Beethoven’s Ninth. Brooding, pensive and mature, it’s what serious music should be. Somewhere, buried in there, is the voice of the creator Himself. Beethoven, frustrated in his love life, visited prostitutes.
I should be catching up on other things rather than posting to this blog, but what the hell. I am shaking. Leslie went over to meet Cindy, Anya and the boyfriend at some event. Yes, things are patched up with Anya now and that’s a good thing. I couldn’t let Leslie leave the house without a powerful orgasm, courtesy of my tongue. Freshly showered and smelling sweet, she was prancing around the room naked, jiggling deliciously everywhere. It started out innocently enough with me simply spreading her legs and inspecting the goods. Then a few tentative licks and in short order I found myself lapping ravenously at her muff, an index finger probing her ass for good measure. My cock protruded like a saber yet I was determined to go down on her and leave it at that. Soon she was gasping in orgasmic ecstasy and pulling away from my tongue, hyper-sensitive to touch. “Do you want my ass?” she asked sweetly. How could I decline? And soon I was up her rear end, bracing myself on her spread legs as she lay on her back. The view of my shaft stretching her tight little spinchter was too much for me and after she came again I was ready to pop. I pulled out prepared to paint her midsection and, oddly, I felt myself in the full throes of orgasm some seconds before the muscles finally decided to contract and inflict my essence upon her.
She’s a good woman.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Aug 25, 2003
All that is now
All that is gone
All that’s to come
and everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.
Pink Floyd
Living in Manhattan gives one a distorted sense of space and time. Thirty-Fourth Street, yeah, that’s a short jaunt to the next town. Midtown is just one state over, a half-a-tank of gas maybe. But the Upper East Side, no, that may as well be the great Alaskan tundra. Five minutes feel like an eternity yet you awake one morning to find two years have passed. And so I was like understandably grumpy about having to undertake the arduous fifteen minute cab ride uptown to meet Jack and Jill, the nice couple we had met before the underwear party. Their well-appointed apartment was comfortable, however, and our hosts were charming as always.
Two other couples were lounging about, along with two unescorted females. I stood there speaking with Jack about my golf trip and across the room I spied this pale, willowy young creature ensconced in a plush chair. Unruly hair dyed a deep shade of auburn tickled her slight shoulders. I had to draw her to me somehow. The night wore on, an hour or so that felt like six. Leslie and I sat on a foot-rest making small talk as I nursed my beer. Eventually I settled on the chair by the window to have a smoke, the very chair that had cushioned the sweet girl’s ass earlier. The conversation took a turn for the literary. The girl, walking in from the kitchen, mentioned something about having met Zadie Smith. “I just finished White Teeth,” I blurted out, hoping to get her attention, which, of course, I did. I told her I loved the story but thought Smith overdid it on the metaphors. We both agreed, later on, that we’d love to fuck the young author.
Soon enough, Harker, the young thing, was perched upon the armrest talking to me in excited tones and running her hand along my back. She writes. I told her I dig chicks who write. She smiled. We talked about my little project and the lack of intellectually engaging erotic writing on the web. The booze ran out, though, and our hosts decided it was about time we headed out to the Flirt party at Remote Lounge. As we made our preparations to leave, Leslie and Harker flashed their perky breasts in tandem, much to the delight of the assembled guests.
The Remote Lounge gimmick is quite effective. Scattered about the place are some sixty swivel-mounted cameras connected to numerous monitors. A patron at one end of the bar can access a camera at the other end of the bar and use the convenient joystick to point the lens down some tempting cleavage. Anyone else may tune into that same channel for the voyeuristic thrill. If he so chooses, our hormone-addled patron can even pick up a receiver and attempt to chat up the object of his lust. Unable to resist the temptation to produce my very own Girls Gone Wild video, I furiously stabbed at the buttons until I was able to pan one of the cameras over toward our group. I barked orders at the girls. “Stand over there. No, turn around. Flash. Yeah, that’s right. Show some tits!” Perhaps I have a future in pornography. At times it resembled a tug of war, with some unseen competitor trying to take control of my cam. It wasn’t long before Harker and Leslie, with breasts exposed and flimsy pasties over their nipples, kissed, licked, sucked and groped for the camera. They were soon joined by another girl. The massive bank of mission-control monitors above the bar all switched almost simultaneously to this one scene as people elsewhere tuned in. I was torn between watching my amateur production and taking in the actual scene behind me. Perhaps it didn’t matter. When you are on the air, McLuhan said, you have no body.
Although I had vowed never again to return, it appears the Flirt party has made a remarkable comeback. Ghosts of fuck parties past were arrayed around us: the honorable Gina and Jacques, who told me they left the SOHO Grand after party early because some guy started to go down on Gina without her permission; the distinguished Jim and Kathy, one of the few couples who had come dressed for the oddly lacking beach party theme; the indomitable Linda and husband, who chatted with me for a short while and disappeared into the ether; the uncanny yet unsure-of-their-footing Margaret and John, Margaret being the sweet girl who smoothed over my problems with the door-girl at the last ill-fated SKIN party. Margaret, a young busty blonde, leaned into me as I sat on the barstool with my legs open, the naked flesh of her creamy bosom just inches below my nose. “Of all the couples we’ve met, you guys are the ones we feel most comfortable around,” she said. “I feel like you’re the kind of guy who’s not going to forget about me after you fuck me.”
Never in my wildest imaginings would I have guessed that this lounge was, in fact, the dark side of the moon. I found myself with the lovely Harker, rambling on in my usual manner about my wild ride on Nerve.com a couple of years back and talking about how incestuous it all was. You see, I had a good-natured rivalry going with this half-Asian guy Wang, who was apparently quite well-endowed. We had bedded a disturbingly high percentage of each other’s girls.
Upon hearing the name, Harker’s eyes grew wide. “I think that’s the guy I dated for six months,” she said quietly.
“Half-Asian?” I asked. “Big dick?” She nodded. I did a mock Seinfeld grimace and muttered under my breath, “Newman!”
“Wait, what was your profile?” she blurted out.
“Moroccan Cowboy,” I replied, dimly aware that something strange was about to happen.
She stepped back a bit and scanned my frame. “You’re six-foot-five, right?”
Now my eyes were growing wide with apprehension. I nodded in reply.
“I think we went on a date,” she said soberly. She had this habit of going slightly cross-eyed when looking at someone intently.
The gears started turning. Of course! She had dyed her hair and let it grow a bit, but now I recognized the face, the body, the cross-eyed-ness. It was undeniable. “We met at that bar, what is it called—2A!” I shouted excitedly. “You were the chain-smoking girl. We ended up making out later on in the back room at Drinkland.”
Harker had this look of horror on her face. “Cmere!” she hissed, and pulled me into a dark corner. “Yeah, I was smoking so much because I was terribly nervous.” She buried her face in her hands and then looked up at me again morosely. “I must apologize to you. Of the twenty guys I met through Nerve, you were the most interesting. I wanted to call you back. I wanted to go out with you again, but I had just started seeing Wang.”
“Wang was a dick,” I said, smiling. “He used the exact same lines on all the girls. He was a sleaze-bag.”
“I know,” she said, looking genuinely upset. “I’m so sorry.”
I told her not to worry about it, but my head was spinning. It had been two-and-a-half years since that fateful date, or was it yesterday? She talked about how Wang had gotten her into the swing scene. How they had propositioned girls on Nerve for threesomes. To add yet another twist, I knew Wang had tried to entice Leslie into one of those threesomes. By now, Harker’s boyfriend had come over, concerned that something was amiss. They talked quietly in the corner while I stood at the bar and ordered a stiff drink. I went to the bathroom, where some beefy numbskull tried to convince me to let him stand in there while I pissed, and when I came out it was as if several hours had passed. Everyone, it seemed, had left, except for Harker and her boyfriend, who Leslie informed me were outside smoking.
With everyone else gone, we cabbed it many light-years over to Cafeteria for a late-night breakfast. I sat across from Harker and made eyes at her. Feeling lecherous and aroused, I reached under the table to grab her right foot and place it on my knee, discretely massaging her as we waited for the food. To the boyfriend it might have looked as if I was touching Leslie. I pushed against Harker’s heel a few times, making her shift in her chair as if I were fucking her. I looked at her and licked my lips, a gesture she returned. If I could have managed to maneuver her foot into my crotch I would have, but alas the table was just a few miles too wide. On our way back to our place we walked down the street together with our arms around each others waists as Leslie and Harker’s beau walked a few paces ahead of us. “We really should have fucked,” I told Harker. “Yeah I know,” she replied. “But now we can make up for that.” “You know, Leslie is out of commission,” I confided. “I am too,” she sighed. Upon realizing my fly was open, she slipped a delicate hand in and felt the package, which stiffened against her palm.
Back at the apartment we all stood around awkwardly and played with the cats. Leslie didn’t feel like fooling around with the boyfriend, and with both girls on their periods it was difficult to figure out just what to do. Fortunately Leslie always seems to know how to get started. I was a little hesitant and she was a little rough with me when I made a half-assed attempt to get away from her. She forcefully pulled down my pants and hungrily took my twitching member into her mouth as we stood in the doorway to the bedroom. Soon Harker and her boyfriend were watching us and making little sounds of appreciation. Harker bent down to get a closer look and then, taking over from Leslie, wrapped her small mouth around the head of my cock. She had excellent technique, sucking softly and twisting her head slightly as she moved down my shaft. I liked the way my cock appeared to stretch her mouth wide. After passing myself from mouth to mouth for a little while, I let them both tongue me at the same time. I almost couldn’t believe what had happened that night. What was happening. Harker sighed as if for dramatic effect and slid to the floor. Leslie kissed her deeply.
We moved to the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter as the two girls dropped to their knees before me, once again passing my cock back and forth. I was so erect it felt as if my penis were about to detach itself from my groin and arc across the room like an ICBM. The boyfriend came over to grab a spot against the counter and Harker went to work on him. Leslie tortured me with her pouty lips as I watched Harker work. The auburn-haired beauty murmured all kinds of nice things to her boyfriend as she fluffed him. It was sweet, actually. After a minute I was unable to concentrate on anything but Leslie’s rhythmic sucking, and the growing feeling that I was about to come. It was too much, and I popped out of Leslie’s mouth just as the orgasm washed over me. The first bit of goo seemed to do a pole vault over Leslie’s head, landing somewhere on the floor behind her. The rest splattered her face and ran down her chin in little pina colada streams.
Soon we parted company in the pale dawn. Fifteen minutes had passed, or had it been hours, or years? And so it went, my second date with Harker.
