Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Sep 29, 2003
There will be thousands upon millions of happy babes, and a hundred thousand martyrs who have taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Nine days of inanity began on a Friday with drinks over at Open. Jack-n-Jill came out with us. The proprietor was nice enough to buy us all a couple of rounds, a fair exchange, perhaps, for all the girl-on-girl productions we put on there during nights past. Jill was all bubbly and girly. She and Leslie kissed a lot, which human females sometimes do. We really do get along famously with them. Jack even told us, in his usual jovial manner, that they love spending time with us. Jack-n-Jill took off after a while and we hit the Grill to see what sort of cauldron of trouble we could stir up. It’s not the same without our old bartender, what with the lame karaoke night on Saturday and the limited buybacks and the end of decidedly illegal after-parties til seven in the AM. Leslie’s childhood chum was there, who’s known for buying shots and getting all sloppy. These shots contain alcohol, a poisonous substance known to suppress brain function. A poor girl stood outside inspecting the damage to her parked car, which some anonymous asshole had sideswiped. What is it with people in New York? How fucking hard is it to execute a parking maneuver without smashing into something at top speed? We invited her in and bought her a shot, but it wasn’t fifteen minutes before the bartender shouted last call and I was, like, “What the fuck? It’s only three thirty.”
Saturday evening brought us to Aubette for the Flirt party pre-game. Margaret, looking splendid in pleather pants and a pure latex top, stood at the bar along with her husband and a few other couples. We hung around making noises using mucous-lined organs in our throats; other people received these noises via strategically placed holes in their heads, somehow processing the signals into intelligible data. The holes in our heads served the same purpose. Humans are strange creatures, a species generally predisposed to making noise rather than paying attention to the noises other people are making. Though sometimes after hearing the right noises, humans remove their clothing and mate. The owners of the establishment thought it would be funny to pipe in loud background noise using magnetic gadgets called speakers, making it difficult to detect the sounds humans were making. One guy cleverly used his noise-making organ to tell us sordid tales. Later on we all sauntered over to the Flirt party, where Leslie and I made noises at various people. A few partygoers wandered around wearing nothing but torn sheets over body parts that many humans find embarrassing to leave in plain sight. Les amused herself by removing her dress and making a skirt and bra out of a spare sheet. We met a lovely little flaxen-haired, fair-skinned Latina and exchanged numbers. Another Latina, tall and busty, rather porn-star-like, affixed herself to Leslie, and we went to Sound Factory with the girl and her husband. “Bleep, bloop,” the speakers said, drowning out all the human noises. “Bleep, bloop. Thump.” We waded through the sounds that pooled around us, making our way to a bank of seats along a wall. Leslie and the girl kissed, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the seizure-inducing strobes. The couple gave us a ride home in their tricked-out BMW 745il. I’ll never go to Sound Factory again.
On Sunday we breathed, meaning we used mucous-lined sacs to extract oxygen from the air and expel carbon dioxide. My sacs are damaged from intentionally breathing in toxic chemicals on a regular basis.
On Monday Leslie was on the Fifth Wheel again. She met a girl.
Tuesday was quiet, but I had some dirty thoughts.
Leslie had a date Wednesday with an Indian girl. Les called me up at eight and we all went out to the movies with the Indian girl’s friend. He sported black penny loafers and white socks. The Indian girl later told Leslie I seemed rough, and asked if I was rough in bed too. “Only if you want him to be,” said Leslie.
On Thursday we attended a Nerve personals party—largely for the open bar—and drank a quantity of red wine. After drinking our fill we stepped outside and struck up a conversation with a cocoa-skinned woman who carried a skinny designer purse and smoked skinny designer cigarettes. The woman wanted to see my sex organ. I declined. A pale hipsterish girl with frizzy, curly, mop-top hair approached Leslie and the two of them made all kinds of excited noises. The girl, Babs, had exchanged emails with Leslie a while back. “I’d never forget your eyes,” Babs said to Leslie. “You’re beautiful.” Babs’ unassuming friend, Nicole, invited us to a party on Saturday and then left. We briefly hit the Grill with Babs, where the two girls lifted each other’s skirts and smacked each other’s asses, and then Babs convinced us to come out to the Hole to meet her other friends. The Hole is, true to its name, absolutely disgusting. The open bar certainly doesn’t help. Walking in we were greeted by the smell of stale beer—the very stench of evil. Squinting in the darkness I made out walls covered in graffiti, piles of broken glass, and banks of deeply stained upholstery. Babs’ crazy friends were ensconced on some couches in the corner, right next to two homeboys who were dealing coke in plain view. I sat down with beer in hand to take it all in, mouth agape. One of Babs’ friends, a pretty girl with a mane of dark curly hair (rather like Leslie’s) sat next to me and started asking questions. It took me a little while to realize this girl, Emma, was chatting me up but by then my bladder weighed on me like a distended water balloon. I excused myself to take a piss. A guy in the bathroom line asked if we could make peepee together. I declined. Not long afterward, Babs had to be stuffed into a cab. She had sort of passed out drunk between the two coke-dealing homeboys, which was bad for business, yo, so Les and Emma took care of this task while I sat around talking to some of the guys. When Les and Emma returned the two girls feasted on each other, locking lips for a good five minutes. Emma’s breasts heaved into Leslie’s embrace. The rest of us looked on in fascination. You see, many human males become aroused at the sight of two females kissing. Later on a couple butch dykes would ask me if “those girls in the corner” were really into girls or just drunk and I would laugh. I learned, after the snogging session was over, that Emma had dated a couple before. I told Emma we’re looking to get off the party train and find a nice girl to date. She wrote “Naked Loft Party” on a pack of Marlboro Lights.
On Friday night we had dinner with Cherry Girl and her beau. Much had happened since we saw them last. The boyfriend, Film Boy, had spent a month in the jungles of Peru and picked up a smoking habit. Poor Cherry Girl got hit by a car and broke her foot, so now she’s walking around on crutches. Given her limited mobility, we opted for drinks at her place, which rapidly devolved into sex at her place. It wasn’t long before I was on the couch sitting between Cherry Girl and Leslie, fingering them both as Cherry Girl spastically jerked at my sex organ and forced her boyfriend’s cock down her throat. Leslie mounted me, and I fucked her that way while Cherry Girl begged Film Boy to grab a condom. I flipped Leslie over and entered her again as Film Boy bent Cherry Girl over the end of the couch. Cherry Girl took my hand in hers, squeezing hard as she came. We rested, thumbing through an album of Film Boy’s excellent photographs—all of them landscapes and nudes. I got frisky as Cherry Girl showed me her website. We ended up on the couch again, where Cherry Girl lay on her back with her head between my legs. I teased her with my cock, tapping it against her tongue until she’d turn her head and take it in her mouth, cheek bulging. Somehow a Polaroid came out and we snapped some great pictures of the girls licking pussy and gobbling knobs. Around four AM this idiot started repeatedly calling Leslie’s cell, claiming he knew her. After, like, the fifth time, Film Boy put on his best ghetto accent and answered as the rest of us snickered in the background. “Where you at? Leslie’s comin over right now. No man, I ain fuckin wichu.”
On Saturday we spent most of the night at Nicole’s party, held in her penthouse apartment down by the old WTC site. It was a converted office space: a modern two-level atrium layout with a large rectangular skylight, recessed lighting, and a balcony that ran the circuit of the upper level. We got there a bit early and sat around shooting the shit with Nicole and her sister as we reclined in flimsy beach chairs atop the roof. My escapades over the past few months have blurred the line between group sex and normal socialization. I thought of walking over to Nicole and putting my dick in her mouth as she sat there, as if this would have been the most natural thing in the world. Talking to Nicole’s sister, a Boston resident, I summarized the differences between Boston and New York thusly: “Boston has one of everything,” I said. “New York has ten of everything.” Babs and Emma showed up with a few of the other people I had met on Thursday. Emma and I clung to the railing, gazing at the tangle of narrow streets below. She told me she had been with that couple for nine months; the other woman’s jealousy had killed it. She asked if it had ever ended badly for us. “Once,” I said. “Sex is easy to come by, but it’s hard to find someone who can handle something deeper than that.” Rain chased us down from the rooftop. Navigating the roof-access ladder with drink in hand proved to be the night’s key challenge. It was stimulating, though, standing under Leslie as she made her way down. Emma took advantage of the situation by giving Leslie’s ass a few smacks. Leslie did a little dance on the spiral staircase between the upstairs and downstairs levels of the apartment, kicking around in her high heels and dangling precariously from the railing. She spirited Emma away into the bathroom for a little while. We made plans to see sweet Emma again and left for a little bar in the East Village, where we caught up with Annie, the girl Leslie had met on the Fifth Wheel. Annie was dressed like a Bodhisattva, with a crystal between her eyes and a flowing red gown that had all kinds of sparkly crap on it. She scared me a bit. Anna, a busty Croatian girl who was also on Leslie’s recent taping, sat in the back getting a sales pitch from some fratboy ingrate. He was making noises with that ersatz earnestness than human men sometimes cloak themselves in when they’re trying to get laid. The girl will learn one day, I hope.
The End.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Sep 23, 2003
If I don’t drive around the park,
I’m pretty sure to make my mark.
If I’m in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I’ll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.
Dorothy Parker
Brane-world cosmology posits that the three-dimensional world we inhabit is a subspace of a higher-dimensional universe, and that our 3-brane may be one among many that occupy the void, unseen but right there, separated from us by a millimetric jaunt along some invisible axis. Like the mariners of old who gazed upon the sea and saw a flat planet, we have no way of seeing things as they actually are. So it is with blogging: the blogger creates his own brane-world. Looking at things from this constrained perspective, the reader will never comprehend the author’s universe.
Sex-blogging is tricky because it provokes such a visceral response. It doesn’t help that the internet is a giant affirmative action program for idiots, and the minute you post something you must bear the slings and arrows of a million monkeys drooling over a million keyboards. In my short time in the land of sex-blogs, I’ve seen plenty of bloggers remove material, hide away in private communities, lament being discovered by people they know, or pack it in altogether. Maybe their readers haven’t gotten the memo. Me, well, I don’t give a damn. Offending people’s overdelicate sensibilities comes with the territory.
I could bow to blogging mediocrity and flesh out my cosmos by writing a stream-of-consciousness narrative detailing every random thought had, every piss taken and every sandwich eaten. I could go on about everything under the sun, but that would be missing the point. Good writing is editing; it is leaving some things out so that we may see other things clearly. The aspects of my life that I choose to omit are no less real than those I choose to write about. But this is the subspace I have created—my experiment in sex-writing. Not Superstring Theory, nor Trite Observations No One Cares About, but the Naked Loft Party. You are sitting around the cathode-ray campfire and I am telling dirty stories. You dig?
I’ll leave you with the following little gem, randomly unearthed at JoJo’s:
As newbies learn about the internet they find weblogs, forums, and websites about their interests and hobbies, they bookmark these, and for them that becomes the internet. They spend most of their time on the internet in this small … special interest niche and from their point of view that becomes what the whole world is thinking about all the time. Whether it’s movies, auctions, or slashdot news for nerds, participants soon forget that the whole world doesn’t really give a damn. Except for us. Sex sites. Sex weblogs. Sex forums. The whole fucking rest of the world really is interested in sex.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Sep 17, 2003
A couple of days ago I saw this little news item about London-style taxicabs coming to the streets of New York. If you haven’t been in one of these cabs, well, the sleek black automobiles are spacious, able to comfortably seat five passengers. I imagine they’ll make it possible to engage in all sorts of back-seat shenanigans. What do those Brits call it? Snogging? Among the planned modifications are thicker seat cushions to accommodate oversized American posteriors.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Sep 15, 2003
A girl made a sandwich for me Saturday before last. A roast beef sandwich, bisected diagonally such that it formed two individual slices, white wonder bread layered with mayonnaise, mustard and Swiss. Such a simple act, I know, but it spoke volumes. We met the nice couple, Jack-n-Jill, for a few pre-game drinks before heading back to their cozy space on the UES, where Jill fixed me that sandwich as we settled in. “No one’s made me a sandwich before,” I said. “Aside from Leslie and a few blood relatives.” There was that one girl, though, who came over to my pad and made soup for me when I was sick.
Jack’s ten years older than me, full of stories about his misspent youth, with a shaved scalp that compensates for his receding hairline. He’s one of the few white men I’ve met who looks decent this way. Jill’s sharp-nosed, rail-thin and definitely sexy yet she’s one of those women who has a somewhat conservative public persona and is thus hard to picture in the sack. But she snorts sometimes when she giggles, a girly sort of habit I find endearing. The casual observer wouldn’t realize the nice couple is into bondage, Jill the willing sub and Jack the eager dom. They are into, among other things, Shibari, Japanese rope bondage. Jack spoke of elaborate scenes they had carried out in the past that had left him physically and mentally exhausted.
After we had sat around for a while talking and nibbling from the snack tray, Jack disappeared for a moment and returned to the room with a bagful of goodies. Leather cuffs for the girls, complete with fuzzy linings. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing dangerous,” he assured us. I aided Leslie with the cuffs and Jill put a dog collar around Leslie’s neck. Then Jack led Jill off to the little hallway between the bedroom and the bathroom. He soon came back and fetched Leslie. Intrigued by all the giggling and carrying on back there, I stood and walked over to have a look at what was going on. Jill was there swaying, thonged backside facing me, each wrist chained to a hook in the ceiling via her leather cuffs. Her skin was softly radiant, sepia-toned in the glow of the candlelight that highlighted her delicate curvature. “This is a game we call ‘touch’,” said Jack.
I drew closer, smiling and framing the scene in my mind’s eye as Leslie toyed with Jill. Leslie kissed her, sucked on her pink eraser-tip nipples, and finally dropped to her knees, stretching Jill’s thong downward a bit to probe at the goods with her tongue. Jack produced a leather paddle lined with fuzz on one side and handed it to Leslie, who was giggling and reluctant at first but made good use of the thing. She teased Jill’s ass with the fuzzy side and then flipped it over to deliver a few hard, jiggly smacks that caused Jill to gibber like a schoolgirl. Les soon scampered off to the bathroom, Jack left to uncork another bottle of wine and I found myself standing in front of the chained Jill, sort of trying to figure out what to do next. She grinned at me, biting her lower lip, dark locks of hair tumbling over her eyes, and in that instant the mature woman I had met over a month ago melted away, replaced by this helpless, expectant nymph. And so I grabbed her ass roughly and pushed my tongue into her mouth. Grinding into her. Tasting her nipples. Going round to stand behind her and pressing my palm between her legs. Then using the notches of her pelvic bone as leverage and pushing against her tight rear end, erection straining against the fabric of my pants. Soon it was Leslie’s turn to be chained to the ceiling, and once we had her secured she did a little jig, almost swinging from the hooks while giggling at the novelty of it all. I immediately went to work with the paddle. “That’s for nagging me about doing the dishes,” I said after a particularly solid smack.
In the bedroom the game of “touch” gave way to the game of “taste”. Jill reclined on the bed, wrists chained securely to the frame, as Leslie straddled her face. Jack and I stood there grinning and making jocular asides as the girls 69ed in front of us. I clambered onto the bed to get a taste of Jill, admiring her neat and shaved pussy between the forays of my tongue. When Leslie’s turn at the chains came she was, of course, squealing with delight and flopping about like the catch of the day. She finally settled down a bit and I ended up brandishing my cock in Leslie’s face as Jill tongued Leslie’s twat from the other side of the bed, Jack pumping his wife from behind.
I didn’t catch the name of the third game. It must have been something along the lines of “chain the bitch to the table and fuck her until she begs for mercy.” Something like that. While setting up the scene Jack was prancing about like a mischievous and priapic Pan. Jack bent Jill over the metal-topped serving table in the dining room while Leslie and I looked on in fascination. It was all amusing to watch but by then the spectacle of whips and chains had become too contrived for me. Those chains bound me somehow, and the metal left me cold. Not that I haven’t gotten off watching this stuff go down before, but that night I longed for the messy tangle of spontaneous coupling.
And so we settled once more into the living room and lounged around naked. It wasn’t long before Les was blowing me and Jill, gazing intently at my twitching erection, came over to offer the assistance of her expert tongue. The two girls were soon on their backs getting fucked, heads facing in opposite directions. I pounded Leslie and then slowed to grind against her. “You guys look really hot doing that,” Jill purred. I leaned over to plant a deep kiss on her mouth, marveling at the joyous sensory overload of mingling tongues with one woman while fucking another. As if for cinematic effect, Jack and I sprayed our partners with jizz, and after a brief rest we were at it again. The girls were on their knees administering withering oral assaults. Jack left Jill’s mouth unoccupied for a moment and I pivoted to let her have a go at me. She gobbled me up, cupping my balls, working the shaft with her hand, alternating between hand and mouth, and making the little satisfied smacking sounds that accompany a damned fine blowjob. Then she mounted Jack on the sofa. I took Leslie from behind and positioned her between Jack’s legs so she could lick at the both of them. The second orgasm came on stronger and I felt as if I’d have to lash myself to Leslie’s hips to avoid being carried off by the powerful surf that was upon me. Jill twisted around to place a hand against my chest.
“What’s that for?” I asked once I had snapped to.
She smiled. “I wanted to feel your heartbeat.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Sep 11, 2003
Back during the heady reign of the dot-coms, those good ‘ole days of boundless optimism, there were a ton of internet sites that brought a bevy of mindless yet entertaining flash animations to the masses. Sadly, the last remnants of those sites of yore are but a pale shadow of their former selves, barely able to hang on to a mere trickle of bandwidth. I offer no guarantees of uptime (try downloading before you play), but you can still catch the sexual escapades of Jake, big pimp extraordinaire, over at romp.com. Our priapic protagonist is what some people might rather impolitely call a wigger, and taking in his Southern Cali ghetto slang is at least half the fun. In a nod to the choose-your-own-adventure books of your childhood, you guide Jake through a series of scenarios, but rather than slaying dragons or whatever, the objective here is to get as much ass as possible. A favorite of mine is the “Trick or Treat” episode. Killer musical score on that one. There are rumors of a movie deal in the works. A word to the wise: go easy on the drugs if you wanna win.
