Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 28, 2003
Words fail me on many occasions. I’m convinced all anyone really wants is to be understood. This is the basis for all human relationships, be they romantic, friendly, sexual, or professional. We seek out others who share our circumstances, or, at the very least, are able to identify with them.
Sometimes single women tell us we don’t understand what it’s like. But we do. We’ve been through a breakup before, alone and seemingly unappreciated in the big city. We’ve had our struggles as individuals. We know that getting involved with a couple can be an intimidating prospect. Our situation is the result of effort, communication and personal reflection. We aren’t a traditional couple—we’ve opened our hearts and minds to more; not out of desperation or fear, but out of the belief that love isn’t a zero-sum game.
Leslie, for her part, wants a girlfriend. She wants the sort of soft, intimate bond that only two women can share. I cannot be her woman, nor do I want to be. I suppose some men would be threatened by this; I think it’s great. I like the gleam in Leslie’s eyes when she meets someone who makes her happy. I gave up on dating other women separately a long time ago—not that these women weren’t sweet and fun, but my external relationships lacked the intensity, the closeness of what Leslie and I have. I don’t need or want a girlfriend on the side.
Triangulation, on the other hand, is hot. The sex is wonderful. There are a seemingly infinite number of ways three bodies can be joined. Each of you can take turns savoring the ministrations of two hands, two lips, two tongues. You indulge in the simultaneous pleasures of watching and being watched. There aren’t so many people involved that anyone has to feel left out, that any lines of communication aren’t open. Beyond the sex, there’s the quiet joy of enjoying each other’s time, of collapsing into bed together after a long night out, of waking up the next morning and grabbing brunch. Whether you head out to a dive bar or simply curl up on the couch watching a movie, three is an instant party.
Sure, we’ve had our random sexcapades. We are curious, experimental, sex-positive, debauched—we make no apologies for this. But a girlfriend or a small circle of friends and lovers is our preferred arrangement. This isn’t about the cheap thrill of the girl-on-girl show. We’ve experienced enough that it’s no longer about no-strings-attached fantasy fulfillment. Our adventuresome spirit shouldn’t be mistaken for a cavalier attitude toward other people’s feelings.
Last week, when we were out at the former Limelight, Derek told Leslie he thought we place too much emphasis on sex. I really don’t think this is true. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever asked a woman for sex, or spent time with her simply because we desired genital gratification. Too many women take a giant mental leap—we want to spend time with them, let the intensity build if we’re all feeling it, yet they interpret this as a crass attempt to bed them. We only want a girl in our bedroom if she genuinely wants to be there. This isn’t a game for us—it’s not overwhelmingly serious, but it’s not a game. If someone consistently avoids intimacy you wonder how serious they are about you. You wonder whether they are simply toying with you.
That same night Emma told me these women seem to enter and exit our lives so quickly; that she’s not like that. But really, like what? The women we’ve been with have all been unique. Some became good friends, some were looking for a quick romp, some were looking to be entertained, some moved out of town. The pattern of our relationships hasn’t been any different than what the young and single generally experience in New York. I reminded Emma we’ve been spending time with her for two months—if all we wanted from her was a roll in the hay our time would have been better spent elsewhere.
When we say we want to be friends and lovers we’re serious about it. In the past we’ve gotten down to the sex pretty early on because, as someone noted in the comments, many women treat threesome flirtation as a game—a game they have no intention of completing. With Emma we’ve taken a different approach, in part because Leslie hasn’t met many women she’s felt this strongly about, in part because Leslie and I both feel Emma has a good heart, in part because we want to take it slow and develop something meaningful. Of course, we could be wrong and you, dear reader, will be the first to know.
Yes, there are risks for her but there are risks for us as well. We don’t want to open ourselves to something that’s going nowhere. Emma may well find a boyfriend before we see this through. She may not turn out to be who we think she is and suddenly drop out of our lives. Yes, there are risks. In the end, we don’t want to get hurt any more than she does. We’re patient, respectful, and trusting. We’re great lovers. We’ll spoil the right woman. But it’s essential she meet us half way.
As I was writing this, Leslie sent me an email sharing some of her thoughts:
I’ve heard this too often, “But you don’t understand because you have each other,” in a conversation about getting involved with us. I rarely answer. I never know how to explain it. Yes, it’s true; I have someone to go home to every night. But I’ve heard people complain about that very thing too. You know the dumb joke: “Take my wife, please.” Or people who say, “I wish I had a moment’s peace from this person.” It seems to me that it’s more a matter of attitude. Are you going to let yourself be happy? Or are you going to look for something to be sad about?
It can be frustrating to have to explain how I can be happy in my relationship yet still desire other people. Is it so wrong to want something even though I am content? Would it be better for people to know that I too have sad moments? I’d rather focus on the things in my life that make me feel good and not feel guilty about enjoying myself.
Perhaps I could say something like this, “The whole point is that I desire more than one person, and I desire each person in a different way.”
If The Ethical Slut taught me anything (thanks to Roberta for introducing me to this book; she said, “You need to be around people who understand you, and you need to realize that what you’re feeling and wanting is okay.”), it was to feel good about wanting to be intimate with more than one person as long as I’m honest with everyone involved.
“Have you ever cared for someone you weren’t in love with? Did that make it less special? Isn’t it possible to find another person who is special to you in a different way? My desiring other women certainly doesn’t take away from my love for Aleks—it’s a separate feeling—but it’s no less important.”
And if I feel free to share as much, I might be able to go on and say this, “What I’m really looking for is a girlfriend. A girlfriend for me and for us.” I want to say these things to the right woman, but sometimes I’m afraid of how she’ll react. Sometimes all people want is Leslie the party girl, the WILDBICHICK.
The wonderful thing about saying these things out loud is that I feel absolutely sure of what I want—I don’t feel weird about it anymore. “I want to be with a woman who can be a lover and a friend—both at once. I want to be with a woman who reminds me that I do indeed like women. I want to be with someone whose company I enjoy, both physically and emotionally. I want to be able to trust that she will be around the next day. I want to have her reach out to me as much as I reach out to her. I want to share something deeper.”
I’ve been with other women who left me empty. When the party was over, they were gone, and they only returned when the next party started. Or they didn’t return because they were tired of partying. This makes me wonder if I’m just going through a phase. My gut tells me something doesn’t feel quite right, and I feel like I’m only touching a woman because I’m providing some entertainment for her and for the people around me.
In the right woman’s presence I am reminded that I do like women. I’m not confused about where to grab, or how to grab, or when to grab, or when to stop grabbing. I enjoy her scent. I’m spellbound by her words. I get shivers when she pulls me closer. I rush to pull her in for a deep kiss. I remember this the next day and I imagine getting the chance to experience it all over again.
Aside from Emma, only three women have had this effect on me. The first time was in college. The relationship did not go very far because I was in denial. At 19, I was just a kid. I was learning that I had these “strange” desires and didn’t know what to do with them. I was a virgin with women. When I finally let go, I knew my attraction to women was real. The other two were just last year: Katrina in the summer and Bond Girl in the fall. There were different obstacles with each one, but still, when I touched them and smelled them I knew the desire was real. It was still hard to express my feelings because in the back of my head I wondered if this girlfriend idea was totally nuts. It would be nice to make a connection with someone. A woman who is as excited about me as I am about her. A woman who remembers me when I’m not around to keep her entertained.
I find myself in these conversations often, as if I have to justify my life to someone else. Eventually it leads to the same place and the same line of questioning. When women first see our relationship they often feel they are intruding on something. I don’t think it’s because we fail to include people in our lives, but simply because women see how tight we are. I should say, “Please don’t be intimidated by my relationship with Aleks. It would be just as silly as if I thought your best friend was competition for me. Most people you meet will already have someone special in their lives. Does this mean you have no place in their lives?”
Honestly, I can understand a woman’s apprehension. At the same time, we’ve put a lot of thought into this and we want to share. “A third person coming into our lives would be one-third of a new relationship. It doesn’t have to be that deep, but we’d show her as much respect and loyalty as she shows us.”
Despite my flirtatious party-girl image, I’m really looking for something deeper. I want to share my passion, my energy, my man, with a woman—a friend and lover who would meet us half way. To me, it’s the most natural and wonderful desire in the world.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 27, 2003
The lavender thong, tucked away beneath its denim shroud, had been a shy schoolgirl, the black g-string a coy seductress known only to the roaming fingers that dared tease her out. A bright red thong, brazen and aloof, made its appearance the next night. It proudly hoisted itself way above the high-water mark of less adventuresome knickers. It was the attention-whore of undergarments.
Karaoke. I wanted to sing a song but couldn’t think of anything. The song book didn’t inspire me. There were, to be fair, some half-decent performances of warmed-over classics: Ludacris, Eminem, Nine Inch Nails, etc. Emma refused to sing. “You should shed your inhibitions and do it,” I told Emma, pointing at the stage. “Well, you don’t have to put it like that,” she said indignantly. She thought I was talking about sex rather than karaoke; my comments would have applied in either context.
Les and I hung back on our own most of the night, uttering endearments and snogging. People sometimes have difficulty understanding how we can keep at these lovers games after eleven years. In fact, it probably makes some people sick just thinking about it. Occasionally Emma would spy us in the corner and come over to flirt, her little body sliding over us.
I conversed with a friend of Emma’s, a fellow Boston expat. He wanted to know whether the naked loft party is real. “It could be that tomorrow I’ll wake up in a pool of my own vomit and discover it was all a dream,” I said. A psychologist in training, he talked about bisexuality and the quest for the maternal teat.
The expat man-handled Emma later on, attentions Emma didn’t exactly spurn. Perhaps she was under the influence of the red thong. Despite Emma’s assurances there was no physical attraction on either side, Leslie was a bit miffed. She didn’t feel so unique anymore. “It’s getting late,” I said. “We should get the hell outta here.” Emma grabbed us gently, trying to pull us back in for more, but I felt a yearning for home.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 26, 2003
I woke up one morning confused, finding I know nothing. Contradictory impulses rattled around in my brain like ice cubes in a double shot. My love life had been organized around the principle of binary choices, of a definite yes or no in short order; I had already categorized Emma as a friend. After the night of the lavender thong I found myself allowing for uncertainty. According to an ancient Chinese proverb, the only way to find the elusive sabertooth walrus is to stop looking.
And this is how I found myself uptown again at that charming little bar, letting events unfold as they may. The honorable Derek was in attendance, as well as the Puerto Rican from the other night, Lili. Chloe was there, laconic, subdued; or perhaps it was the filter of my own eyes. I didn’t ignore her, but I didn’t have much to say, aside from a quip about dancing on the bar half-naked, to which she responded, “I’d like to see that.” To which I responded, cracking a half-smile, “I bet you would.” She left after a short while.
Emma was playful—she’s like that when she’s having a good time. Her jeans came down to reveal a tattoo on her outer thigh: a flower and a butterfly mingling on the canvas of her pale skin. Leslie showed off the tiny Mayan tattoo on her inner thigh, a signpost marking the entrance to nirvana. My index finger found Emma’s black g-string and gave it a gentle tug. It had a knotty texture, like nylon rope. “Doesn’t this thing hurt your ass?” I asked. “Nope, it’s some of the most comfortable underwear I own,” she responded. I buried my nose in her hair, smelling hair products and skin, sweetness triggering an endorphin release. Every woman has a distinctive scent. You’ll be walking down the street years later and it will come to you again.
Later we were outside and Emma was fiddling with her pack of cigarettes, turning two upside down and reinserting them.
“What’s that all about?” I asked.
“This is my good luck cigarette and this is my good fuck cigarette,” she said, pointing at the indicated specimens.
“You should give me the good fuck cigarette,” Leslie whispered into Emma’s ear. We finished our smokes, the cold air ushering us back into the bar.
Our party crowded into the back, hunching around a small table. An argument ensued. I had said it is easy for people to find someone to date in this town. It’s just that single people make themselves miserable with their rigid laundry lists of needs and wants, and people are unwilling to sacrifice their insecurities on the altar of selfless affection. Everyone fancies himself the only one who understands the miseries of love, but in reality we’re all stumbling around in the dark. Perhaps I was not so poetic, but this was the gist of it.
My comments set Derek off. “This is bullshit,” he said. “You don’t know what it’s like. You act like you struggle to find something but you guys have each other. That’s what you don’t understand. Even Emma has her out-of-town lover. You know what? Fuck that. I’m so over that.”
“You have to admit though, I think some people rather enjoy their misery,” I said sheepishly. Derek’s anger took me by surprise, as did his comment about Emma’s out-of-town lover. She hadn’t said anything about it. I find women these days are rarely single, in the strictest sense. They have a booty-call tucked away on speed dial. Break glass in case of emergency.
I excused myself to go use the bathroom while Derek and Leslie locked horns. When I returned, Leslie, Emma and Lili had already moved off into their own little circle, talking about whatever it is that groups of women talk about. The women would soon leave to have a drink together at the tavern up the street. I took a seat across from Derek. “You know, I have just one thing to say.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would make me change my mind. We better just drop it,” Derek said.
“Just hear me out.”
“Fine.”
“Sartre said hell is other people. He had it wrong though: hell is one’s own self. That’s all I was trying to express.”
Derek agreed and took a sip of his cocktail, letting the thought settle. Vitals returning to normal, he moved on to another subject. “You know, I like your web site. I really do. But sometimes I see someone’s name and wonder what happened to them. The whole story. I guess it’s the drama that keeps me interested. I know people come for the sex—”
“Actually I don’t really care what people come for—the sex is sort of incidental. But I find an audience keeps me disciplined.”
“I wanna hear more of the story behind it, like with Emma. I know how she feels about it but you haven’t written about her in a while.”
Again the recognition that Derek was following this story. I chose not to press him on what he knew, thinking it would be better to draw it out directly from the well. “Yeah, it’s in the works actually… in my head. Some things are easier to put down than others; it’s easier to write about a self-contained experience, like Halloween for example. Emma, well that’s more complex. Really I need a few months of nothingness to get all my stories out, but life has a way of going on whether or not you pause to examine it.”
The girls came back after awhile, each of them two shots happier. All of us were soon making preparations to leave. The bartender, Lili’s boyfriend, kept flashing me wide grins and giving me the thumbs-up. “You da man,” he said, abandoning all discretion. Men are always rooting for the threesome—if one among us succeeds, the reasoning goes, then it’s a victory for us all. I swept Emma out of there as fast as I could.
I was left with Emma, Leslie and the pavement. The two girls shared a lingering kiss as I patiently waited my turn. After they separated I pressed my hands against Emma’s tiny waist and gave her a peck on the lips. “No, wait. I wanna real kiss,” I said. I spread my legs to even the height difference between us, turned my head to one side and pressed my mouth into hers as her lips parted. Emma’s bold tongue writhed against mine, thick, silky, luxurious, filling my mouth with heat. Her parting effect was to wiggle her tongue back and forth, ending the kiss with porno panache.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 21, 2003
Emma lured us uptown last Friday with promises of good company and cheap booze. I couldn’t resist. The area is familiar to me: the upper-wiggidy-wiggidy-west-side, around 109th. Just up the street there’s St. John the Divine. I go up there every year for the Philharmonic’s Memorial Day concert. I’ll never forget, years ago, hearing Bruckner’s Symphony no. 7 reverberating throughout the cathedral’s splendid, vaulted chambers. Sometimes listening to great music is like falling in love.
We met Emma and Derek at a charming, modern little bar decorated with bits of pomo art. The music was decent—house, hip-hop, a little progressive rock. Whatever set the mood. We shared Halloween stories. Emma had dressed as Janis Joplin. Derek said they’d been hoping we’d come out that night. The party had been legendary, they told me.
It wasn’t long before Leslie began chatting up the pretty bartender as the rest of us looked on in fascination.
“She’s better than I am,” I said, smiling. “I taught her everything she knows, but now it seems the student has surpassed the master.”
Derek and Emma laughed. “At least she’s still with you,” Derek said.
“True. What is it they say? Those who cannot do, teach? I know a lot of smart people like that; I’ve had a lot of professors like that. They say in mathematics, for example, if you haven’t come up with anything new by the time you’re thirty then you never will.”
Derek looked pensive. “I worry about that sometimes. Like I’m running out of time to make my mark.” Derek is a playwright.
“You have time. I’m a fan of mature genius. Sure, you have those child prodigies—look at music—Mozart, that little twit, was composing decent stuff at age eleven or so. Beethoven, on the other hand, didn’t come into his own until his mid twenties. Hell, he even considered ending his life. His genius was a matter of lifelong struggle. Bruckner didn’t produce anything worthwhile until he was in his forties. Yes, you have time.”
We threw on our coats and headed up the street to another bar. On our way, Derek and I continued the conversation. He spoke of some of the projects he’s working on. “A lot of people I know are solely focused on producing for production’s sake. I want to produce something unique.”
“Then you’ll have almost no competition. Look at all the crap that comes out these days—stuff that’ll be forgotten in ten, twenty, thirty years. Shakespeare already taught us everything we need to know about life. Clever bugger he was—appealed to the commoners and the chattering classes alike. Now all you can do is focus on some specific aspect of the human experience and hope to say something original. Take the long view. Just do something great.”
The next bar, an unremarkable tavern decorated everywhere in mahogany, was brimming with fresh-faced lads, blue shirts stuffed into beige khakis. Emma said it’s not her kind of place, but she knows the bartender, a pretty, outgoing Puerto Rican girl. The Puerto Rican refused to take my money for a round of drinks. Emma had been right about the cheap booze.
I stepped outside for a smoke and gazed at the dark cathedral grounds across the street, trying to recall details of the concert that had so moved me years ago. Had I hesitated in front of this bar on the way home that night? A black woman—homeless, toothless—bummed a ciggy. She asked for money. A drunken white girl wanted to know what the woman was planning to do with the money. I found the whole thing distasteful and gave the white girl a funny look. “Oh, she’s mah girl,” she said.
Safely back inside, I told Derek the sad tale. “What is it with white folks anyway?” I asked. “Always talking street. Trying to relate. Trying to out-black everybody.”
“Yeahiknow. It annoys me too. Places like this scare me a bit.”
“But Derek, you fit right in. I mean, you speak so well.” We laughed. “You need to visit blackpeopleloveus. You’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.”
We talked some more and the bartender came around to buy us shots. The shot sent Derek’s eyebrows flying upwards. “Christ! What is this?”
I drained the stuff, poison burning tracks down the back of my throat. I nearly hacked up a lung upon inhaling the lingering fumes. It was a familiar pain. “Jameson’s, I think.” I waited for the spasms to subside. “Damn, that’s a powerful shot.”
Emma hopped into Leslie’s lap. Leslie touched her hesitantly at first but soon they were locked into an embrace, kissing deeply. This caused a commotion among the fresh-faced lads. It was as if a riot were on the verge of breaking out.
“Those two are having fun,” I said to Derek, cocking my head in the direction of Emma and Leslie.
“What is it you like about Emma?” Derek asked. For some time I’d been getting the impression he was keenly interested in seeing how the situation would play out.
“Well, obviously there’s the physical—she’s small and soft like Leslie. And beyond that, well, she’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve met. Takes a genuine interest in us, you know? She can hold her liquor too. And I like her friends.”
After a moment I sat down and turned to face Emma, smiling. I stroked her hair, caressed the small of her back, brushed her thigh. I reached underneath her and palmed one of her ass cheeks over her jeans. I gave the cheek a firm squeeze. “Yes, you do have a nice ass,” I sighed, looking into her eyes. A lavender thong was visible above the cut of her jeans. I toyed with her underwear, letting my fingers wander down to the soft skin just above the cleavage of her buttocks. I gently pinched that skin between my thumb and index fingers. “You know what this is?”
She smiled at me and shook her head playfully, a cascade of curly hair falling against her face. “What is it?”
“It’s my favorite skin. The softest, smoothest skin on a woman.”
We wound up sitting in the back watching Emma play pool. She put up a good fight but her opponent was a natural. One of the shots she was setting up brought her ass in close proximity to my face. I placed my hand against her rump, gently this time, trying to visualize the soft skin beneath the fabric of her jeans. She brought the cue forward, sinking a ball in a corner pocket. She looked back at me and smiled.
The rest of the night was a blur as the liquor took hold, scrambling my synapses. Somehow we all stumbled back to her place. My companions had multiplied on the way; each of the original crew now had a doppelganger. The Leslie twins looked rather fetching. Maybe I’d take them back to my place, I thought. “I think I’m seeing double,” I announced. “It’s probably a good time to go home.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Nov 19, 2003
Life can only be understood backward but it must be lived forward.
Sören Kierkegaard
It was another Thursday night at the Hole. The place was fast becoming a bad habit. The stunning defeat of the Red Sox at the hands of the Yankees was fresh on my mind. “Take him out!” I had screamed at the television an hour earlier. “He’s staying on the mound,” the television said. I needed alcohol to burn away the memories. “I’m a Yankees fan because I think Jeter’s cute,” Derek was saying to me. I couldn’t argue with his reasoning.
Emma wasn’t there long. She was exhausted and fled home, leaving us with Derek, Chloe and a few assorted hangers-on. I found myself talking to Chloe, dressed cute and cartoonish, like an anime caricature of herself. Chloe rubbed my arm and said she was happy I came.
I stretched out my hand, examining my index and ring fingers. “Guess I’m not gay,” said I.
Chloe mimicked my gesture, holding out her delicate hand. “What does this mean?”
“Fuck if I know.” We sat on a shabby bank of seats. Chloe’s petite friend was standing nearby, dancing about and flirting with Leslie.
“You know, I’m a typical bisexual,” Chloe said. I didn’t know what to make of this. I figured her for a heterosexual or a lesbian. My sexual compass had been off all along.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, I like both guys and girls—I’ve dated both—but I’m only really serious about guys.”
“I suppose that’s not atypical.”
“People can’t handle it though. Lesbians hate it. They think I’m faking it or something. And straight guys don’t have the highest opinion of bi girls.” Chloe leaned into me when she spoke, put her hand on my back. She was animated. I could feel her breasts softly brushing against my shoulder. I had one of those moments of clarity. I finally understood why she had brushed her cheek against mine at Puck Fair a couple of weeks earlier. Guys are thick.
“People aren’t comfortable unless they can put a label on something. If you don’t conform to their expectation of what you should be then they hate you for it. It’s the same way for us. Have an affair, an open relationship, that’s okay. But dating women together makes us deviants among deviants. People also have these unreasonably high expectations. I mean, you date one person and it doesn’t work out, that’s life. But if a non-traditional arrangement doesn’t work out it’s suddenly proof that no such arrangements can work.”
“Can I be honest with you?” Chloe said, smiling as she looked at me. She had a habit of prefacing her confessions this way.
I smiled back at her. “You don’t have to ask.”
“You guys are the hottest couple. You always light up the room when you come in.”
“You’re making me blush.”
“Was that too much?”
“No, no. I love it when women are honest with me. I wish more women were that way. It takes a mature person to be honest.”
“I’ve been the third before, and I’ve been part of a couple looking for a third. It’s difficult sometimes. It takes a special woman to be a part of that.”
“I’ve never understood why bisexual women are so afraid of couples. You’d think it would be ideal—two hot people showing you all that attention. Makes me wish I was a bisexual girl sometimes. Anyway, it doesn’t have to be about love or anything. Most relationships end after a short while in any case; it’s not as if people don’t enjoy the adventure on a certain level. Doesn’t have to be all about the sex either. We’ve dated girls and just had this energy together. Sometimes it was enough—just the three of us going out and having fun on the town. The sex is great but there’s something more to it.”
“No one wants to be the third wheel. And most people don’t know what they’re getting into.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I eyed the scene around me pensively, took a drag of my ciggy and handed it to Chloe. “You know, I remember seeing you here the first night. You were making out with that guy, right? Emma pointed you out. We never really got a chance to chat.”
“Emma set me up with him. He slept over that night—it was alright but I felt bad about it afterwards.”
I rose and went to the bar to order a drink. The party was a dizzying swirl around me. A bizarre pop-culture video montage flashed on the large projector screen at the other end of the bar above the DJ booth. I chatted with Derek for a while. When I turned around I saw Chloe, Chloe’s young friend and Leslie locked into a three-way kiss. I sat on a barstool watching the situation unfold.
Later on Chloe sidled up to the bar. I wanted to know what the story was with her friend. “Are you with her? I thought you said she was—”
“A friend, yes. She’s not really into girls. She just lets me kiss her when we go out.”
“Ha. That’s a nice arrangement.” I flashed Chloe a wry smile. “I usually don’t kiss people unless I mean it.”
“I meant it before, by the way. You guys are seriously hot. Don’t get me started on Leslie. She’s a great kisser.”
“You’re making me blush again.”
Chloe stood in silence for a moment. “So yeah, I don’t understand why people make things so complicated. There’s no reason to define everything. Just relax and have fun.” Chloe was standing in between my legs, swaying against me a bit. Every few seconds her thigh would oh-so-gently brush against my penis. She leaned over to take a sip from her vodka cranberry. Her lips were perilously close.
“People should just do what comes naturally,” I heard myself saying, “like this.” I leaned over and planted a wet kiss on her mouth. Her jaw relaxed and our tongues intertwined. Our teeth clicked at first. This happens sometimes, with a new person. I felt her tongue ring flopping around. My hand found her thigh. We stayed like this for a little while.
We returned to the couch and I sat between Leslie and Chloe, watching them kiss. Leslie told Chloe to kiss me, and Chloe sat there for a moment with her hand over her mouth, wearing a coy expression. She leaned in and took my cheek in her palm, kissing me again, this time a little longer, a little deeper. She pulled back and I breathed again.
Next Thursday came. Leslie was home sick so I stopped by the Grill and picked up Jorge, Leslie’s childhood chum. He had just gotten off his shift and was already a couple drinks in. “You wanna beer?” he asked. I gave him a funny look. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’re going down there to drink for free. That’s the whole point of the Hole.” He pounded his brew and we shared a cab downtown.
The Hole never changes. Various gay men and a smattering of lesbians were up to their usual antics. It was truly a pansexual affair. Jorge was on the prowl for pussy—every once in a while he’d return to keep me up to date regarding his progress. He’s the most dedicated cunt-chaser I know. There’s a certain charm, I suppose, to his messy, curly hair and his shabby attire.
Chloe arrived late and Emma, for this and several other reasons, was in a bad mood. It put a damper on the usual joviality.
“So what’s the story with these girls?” Jorge asked me.
“All single, as far as I know.”
“I mean, what’s the story with you and these girls?”
“Oh, I dunno. Still trying to figure that out, I guess. Emma, well, you know I like her, but I don’t know where that’s going. I think Chloe likes me, but I don’t know where that’s going either. Don’t let my confusing love-life hold you back.” I raised a beer bottle to my lips, finishing off the suds. “You need to stay on top of this Lisa situation, by the way. She’s a little freaky, just like you.”
I passed the time drinking and making small-talk with various people. Eventually Chloe cornered me. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m always talking to you,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. I like hanging out with you.” I couldn’t think of anything better to say.
“It’s just that I love talking to you about things. We have the greatest conversations. It doesn’t matter what we’re talking about.”
Another night, another revelation. I tried to recall what I might have said or done that was so great. It’s not that I don’t appreciate praise. I simply never know what to say. “Oh, come on. You’re just amped-up.”
“Yeah, I am. But I’m serious. I was telling a friend of mine how much I look forward to seeing you here.”
We were both silent for a moment. I glanced over at Emma, who was sitting by herself. “Have you two ever—”
“No.” Chloe smiled.
“I hope you don’t feel weird about last week. I know you two are good friends.”
“It’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it.” Nonetheless, I did.
A little later I took a seat next to Emma, thinking I might be able to get her mind off whatever was bothering her. We talked about the Naked Loft Party a bit. I guess she was becoming a regular reader. The events of the previous week kept running through my head. I wondered how much Emma knew about what had happened. I hadn’t expected things to unfold this way.
“You don’t strike me as the orgy type,” I said, “but that’s not a bad thing.”
“I know, but I like reading about it. It’s fun to read about myself too, the way you describe me.”
“It’s weird writing about someone I like, broadcasting my intentions as it were. It’s a new experience.”
“It’s nice though.”
Another week went by and we were sucked into the Hole again for a pre-Halloween party. The place was festooned with a neural network of giant spider webs. I had to duck impossibly low to get anywhere, or else do the Limbo.
Emma sported a short red wig, not her official Halloween costume but festive nonetheless. I thought she looked rather like Patricia Arquette. Chloe opted for a sluttish look that I liked, shirt open and a black bra framing her breasts. Derek was a priest. “Help me find God, brotha,” I kept telling him.
I sat huddled in the corner for a while, chatting with Les and Emma and watching empty beer bottles accumulate on the wobbly table in front of us. The party rolled on. Jorge showed up, ready for action as usual. He quickly ended up in the arms of one of Emma’s friends and the two of them disappeared into the bathroom for a while. Not to knock bathroom hookups—Hotel W, Open, Lotus—there are some great places for a quick release. But the dingy bathroom at the Hole is not among those great places. It stands as proof, perhaps, that the most ardent desire can surmount any obstacle.
Chloe was into the music, shaking her little behind. Pushing it against me. She clambered atop the seats and undulated, putting on a show for everyone. Derek and I cheered her on. After her seductive performance she hopped down and stood next to me. “I hope I’m not being too forward,” she said, “but you have the body type I like. You know, tall and slender.” I told her she could be as forward as she wanted to be.
As the night wore on I sensed the impending climax. I could do nothing or I could act. It was a simple binary choice. “We should get together,” I said.
Chloe flashed that coy smile of hers. “I don’t know if I can.”
I was as taken aback by this as I had been by her advances. “Are you serious?” I said, blinking through an 80 proof haze.
“Yes. One, I’m not sure how it would work out and two, well, I’m more attracted to you than Leslie. But please don’t tell her.” I knew this was a request I wouldn’t be able to honor. Les and I tell each other everything. We wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise.
“I’m confused, though. I thought you said she’s hot.”
“She is, absolutely. I guess I just have more of a connection with you.”
“We call it the pendulum,” I said, affecting an air of indifference. “It’s either one of us or the other.” I was growing weary of words.
Talk is cheap, after all. What does it have to do with the way a woman smells, the way she looks at you, the way she moves against you? I see certain things now that I didn’t see then. Looking backward, I might not have chosen to travel the path I did with Chloe. I might have simply let things be. But life isn’t lived backward, is it?
