Posted by Lex Konrad in Advice | Nov 17, 2003
DeeGee made an interesting observation in the comments below:
God…our threesome came about after months of flirting…that’s the best way to do it. Looking back those sexually-charged times were fantastic…and every bit as satisfying as the end game.
In light of DeeGee’s comment I want to revisit something I wrote about in my last post:
Threesomes are all about momentum. You may spend a month or an hour laying the track, but once it’s laid the choo-choo train is either moving or it ain’t. This is the hardest thing for most people to grasp. “But she’s so nice,” they’ll say. “She didn’t exactly say no.” Trust me. I’ve been there. I’m as annoyed as anyone else that women will spend half an hour snogging us only to turn down a simple date. But assuming you’ve come across in an honest, flirtatious and non-threatening manner, there’s nothing else you can do. If a woman won’t make a date, or if after a few dates she’s not ready to say “your place or mine?” then it’s time to move on. Two weeks is about the longest it’s ever taken for us.
I realized some people might be tempted to take this idea of momentum too far. We’ve come across two kinds of women in our threesome adventures: those who were looking for no-strings-attached fantasy fulfillment, and those who were motivated by a deeper connection with us. With the former group, there’s that initial flurry of excitement that inevitably wanes over the following weeks. In these situations the clock is definitely ticking.
Women in the latter group are a rare breed, the good ones. They genuinely enjoy your company and you genuinely enjoy theirs. You have to be careful not to be so eager that you ruin something that could have developed naturally. The more serious you are about sticking around as a friend the more likely it is that a threesome will develop. There’s nothing wrong with a slow burn, a little uncertainty, a false start even. It makes the endgame that much more intense. DeeGee is right—getting there is at least half the fun.
And if nothing happens, so what? What have you lost? The advantage of being in a happy couple is that you aren’t pining away for someone else. Your new friend may introduce you to one of her cute friends. You may drop the subject only to have things heat up again later on. Momentum is important but the endgame isn’t everything.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Advice | Nov 13, 2003
If naked loft party were written in Halifax, it would go something like this: “Leslie and I pulled down the front of her top and started kissing and sucking her erect nipples. She squirmed away and said she’d just broken up with her boyfriend last month and didn’t want to get hurt again, and could we go sit in the Commons and talk instead.”
Philip Clark, hot action
People often ask me how to go about finding a willing third, the elusive single bisexual female. There seems to be plenty of advice on the internet catering to neurotic daters, gays, lesbians, swingers, furries and whatnot, but do a search for threesome advice and you’ll end up with a bevy of worthless porn sites. So, as a public service, I’m dumping the literary metaphors in favor of some straight talk about everyone’s favorite fantasy.
Orgies are simple enough to handle. People show up at a sex party prepared, at least in theory, to shed their inhibitions in exchange for a night of unbridled ecstasy. Foursomes are simple, too. Couples, for the most part, internalize their doubts and come out ready to play. Threesomes involving a couple and a single male are similarly uncomplicated. You’ll find you have your pick of willing male partners.
But the classic menage a trois—a couple plus a single bi female—is another beast entirely. Most females view sex emotionally. Lacking the safe cocoon of coupledom, the single female looks to fulfill emotional as well as physical needs. She wants to be the center of attention, if only for a night. Almost without exception, the women we’ve bedded were looking for something more complex than sexual gratification, whether it was romance, friendship, or simply two people to shower them with attention. As a couple, you need to be sensitive to this dynamic.
You better have your own house in order, too. Jealous types need not apply, nor people looking to repair a faltering relationship. Neither partner should pressure or otherwise manipulate the other into a threesome scenario. If the two of you aren’t prepared to be completely open and honest with each other then the threesome is best left as an idle fantasy. We’ve met too many women whose past threesome experiences were ruined by unstable couples.
Many people will tell you threesomes just happen. Well, perhaps in Penthouse Forum they do, but out in the living world you have to lay a certain foundation. It’s no different than dating, really. If you fail to place yourself in the right situations and put forth some effort you cannot expect things to happen. Even when Les and I are at our most spontaneous, we have a certain way of approaching things.
Potential partners abound—online, among groups of friends, in bars, at parties. This is not the problem. The problem is most couples waste their effort on the wrong women. There isn’t really a “type” per se. We’ve dated confident, aggressive experts and shy, inexperienced debutantes. But what these women had in common was a certain curiosity, flexibility, openness, and a willingness to meet us half way. They had a playful attitude about sex and didn’t recoil in horror when the subject came up in casual conversation.
Having found the right kind of woman, couples often botch the approach. Too many couples treat the threesome like a business transaction. What they don’t realize is flirtation is as important here as in one-on-one situations. Your approach should be purposeful yet relaxed. Be upfront about your intentions but broach the subject in a playful way. Create a sense of adventure by alluding to wild and fun experiences in the past. Get as much information about her as you can. Is she bi? Heteroflexible? What’s the wildest thing she’s ever done? You have nothing to lose by being forward—in our experience the women who cannot handle this will never be able to handle sharing your bed. This is a multi-tiered weeding process: bringing things out into the open separates the women from the girls.
People don’t say “no” unless they feel they have something to lose. Assuming a woman is comfortable with the idea of a threesome, there is the ever-present fear of rape or physical coercion, the prospect of emotional abandonment, and the possibility that people around her will view her in a negative light. You need to make the third partner feel safe. Make her feel that she is not simply being used as a sex toy. Spare her from any bickering and jealousy, but don’t be afraid to let her in—no one likes being a rickety third wheel. Practice discretion. Don’t make promises you can’t keep regarding romance or friendship.
Abide by the pendulum. As nice as it would be to find someone who’s attracted to you both equally, this almost never happens. I’ve found the third is, as a rule, more interested in either me or Leslie. At the very least she is looking for different things from each of us. The pendulum can be a complication, yes, but it can also be an opportunity. It is the third’s powerful attraction to one half of the couple that propels the scenario to a happy ending. The responsibility inevitably falls on one partner to take the lead. However, and guys in particular need to remember this, the other partner cannot simply lie back. Both of you need to be involved in the flirtation. One of the reasons Leslie rarely plays with other guys is that coupled men make too little effort to engage her.
You can make the pendulum work to your advantage by being open to the possibility of seeing other women separately. A woman who would be intimidated at the thought of being courted by a couple may find the prospect of a threesome enticing once she’s gotten special attention from one of you. Not every couple will be comfortable opening up their relationship to this degree, but I’ve found it’s better to not always be attached at the hip.
Threesomes are all about momentum. You may spend a month or an hour laying the track, but once it’s laid the choo-choo train is either moving or it ain’t. This is the hardest thing for most people to grasp. “But she’s so nice,” they’ll say. “She didn’t exactly say no.” Trust me. I’ve been there. I’m as annoyed as anyone else that women will spend half an hour snogging us only to turn down a simple date. But assuming you’ve come across in an honest, flirtatious and non-threatening manner, there’s nothing else you can do. If a woman won’t make a date, or if after a few dates she’s not ready to say “your place or mine?” then it’s time to move on. Two weeks is about the longest it’s ever taken for us.
Consider Bond Girl, a woman we dated for a couple of months last year. Leslie met her online and quickly set up a meeting over drinks. Les alluded to our arrangement but didn’t make a big deal out of it. The two of them went out for a few hours and then Les called me out to join them. I flirted with Bond Girl a bit but we mostly talked politics. Clearly, she was more into Leslie, and liked girls more than guys in general. Yet our connection was intellectual. Les had already talked to her about our threesome experiences. Nothing happened on the first date, but Les exchanged a few emails with Bond Girl, mentioned my upcoming birthday party and told her I was excited about having her there. When Bond Girl showed up at my party she immediately sat next to me and put her hand on my leg. She came home with us that night.
Or Katrina, the pretty photographer who had taken naked pictures of us. Katrina was shy, the kind of girl who had never seriously contemplated licking pussy while being fucked from behind. She and Leslie exchanged a few emails, wherein Les mentioned our erotic adventures. We all met for drinks, ended up going out to dinner and then to a nightclub. She didn’t refuse an invitation to our bedroom. It helped that Leslie was willing to see her separately later on.
Or Leea, the sweet young strawberry blonde from Texas. I met her online and we went on a few fun dates. She and I had powerful chemistry. Like an idiot, I had forgotten she had checked off girls as well as boys in her profile. I saw her eyeing a female bartender at the Village Idiot on our first date and I called her on it. I knew she had an adventurous streak but I never discussed threesomes with her at all. Leslie just happened to come over one night while Leea was over at my place and the two girls got along famously. Well, perhaps this experience was a bit like Penthouse Forum but I swear this almost never happens to anyone. Really.
There are many women out there who would be happy to join you for a little three-way romp. Most of them haven’t even given serious thought to having a threesome. The trick is to put yourself in situations where you meet open-minded women and then approach them in a playful but purposeful way. Have fun and let me know how things turn out.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 07, 2003
Wake up in the grip of a hangover. Medicate yourself with a swig of cough medicine, a liter of water, two generic ibuprofens, a glass of wine and a ciggy. Watch a movie you missed when it was out in the theaters. Your girlfriend’s pretty eyes well up with tears. Decide her face looks silly when it cries. Soon enough it will be dark. Throw on last night’s costume and make a mad dash for the L train. “I hate Halloween,” a woman says as you walk by, but you ignore her.
Pick up the pace after you exit the station in some dilapidated Brooklyn neighborhood, broken glass everywhere, grass poking out through cracks in the sidewalk, and sodium streetlamps painting everything a sickly yellow. Down that street? No, this one. “C’mon,” you say, grabbing your girlfriend’s hand, “let’s hurry.” Try not to give into the feeling that you are dead tired. Flinch when a man walking behind you calls out. It’s okay though. It’s just Jimmy, also on his way to the party.
Hand your money to the bouncer. Tell the girl with the swastika on her arm that she has balls dressing up like that in New York. Talk to some people. Talk talk talk. Say hello to Daniella, who seems in a hurry to start fucking. See some girls you recognize—those you fucked, those you fooled around with, those you used to want to fuck, those you might fuck under the right conditions, those you would fuck right now, and those you would never fuck.
You need to sit down for a minute. Just fucking relax. Compose yourself. The couch comforts you; gets you out of the way of the guests streaming in and the people walking around with video cameras, cold lens-eyes staring back at you. A reporter approaches and asks for an interview, so you oblige. You do your best to explain why people like to get naked in groups and fuck. Don’t flinch when he asks you how many people you’ve hooked up with. You don’t want to think about this. Just smile and tell him it’s not about keeping score.
Make pleasant conversation with a girl who’s being chased around by the video cameras. A hot young photographer with bursting cleavage wants to do a photo shoot. Let her take you into the back. The girl being followed by the cameras balks at the last minute, so it’s just you and your girlfriend. The photographer is bossy but careful to keep your faces out of the pictures. Click click click. She orders your girlfriend to put her hand on you. You wink and tell the photographer she can put her hands on you too. Get a little aroused as your girlfriend grabs your cock through your slacks. You are suddenly aware you possess a dick.
Realize you want to be in control. You want to go further than anyone else. You want to be the alpha. This is a tall order at an orgy. It is easier to be free when those around you are in chains.
Head back to the kitchen for another drink and watch your girlfriend frolic with two semi-nude women. Click click click. More photos. “No, put your hand there,” the photographer says.
Coin a new term: swingersploitation.
The party is half over now and it’s time to take a piss. Note the traces of vomit on the toilet seat. Why is it that people drink themselves sick so quickly? Probably nerves. You are dead tired and you are pissing into the toilet and it has a little vomit on it. You step out of the bathroom and directly into the path of a ghost from the past. She looks unremarkable and throws you a half-smile. Shrug your shoulders and go somewhere else.
Talk to some people for a while. Touch some girls. Eventually you’ll find your girlfriend in a little blue room conversing with a little black fairy who has heaving breasts. Across from you a black woman fishes out her boyfriend’s big black cock and sucks on it. Miguel and Leandra enter the room, followed by another black couple. Everyone is sexy. Cup your hand now and spank Leandra’s ass properly, feeling her wetness when your finger slips a bit and finds its way to her pussy lips. Watch the black fairy slip out of her costume. The orgy is now growing around you. Play with the girls but don’t forget to pay attention to your girlfriend.
The room is now a cramped sauna. Take your girlfriend’s hand and flee to the back, to a cool, dark little room with an empty bed. This is where you fuck her the way she deserves to be fucked. She screams, but it’s not like you are putting on a show. For an orgy person, having sex in a dark corner of a crowded party feels as intimate as having sex at home. Ghostly figures sometimes walk through the room on their way to find new cocks and cunts but you do not flinch, nor do you take extra pleasure in their presence, their furtive glances. When you are about to come all you can think is “blue, blue, blue.” Your orgasm sits down with you for a while to have a chat over tea. You are Ivan Karamazov and it is the Devil.
Afterwards you find Schoolgirl wandering the halls wearing nothing but a corset. Suck her tiny pink nipples. Spank her tiny white ass. Be mindful of your technique. Remember to cup your hand—it’s only good for her when your palm stings and your ears ring. Watch her and your girlfriend for a while. Compliment them both on the excellent show. Say it with feeling. Even better, let them see that your cock is hard.
The party is winding down now. Go sit on the couches by the dance floor and stare at the ceiling, the reflected lights of the disco ball swirling around like hundreds of restless ghosts. Watch The Cock and Schoolgirl slip into a side room and make fucking noises. Strange noises. Laugh when a girl sitting nearby asks “Was that a duck?” Tell the wisecracking girl you have only recently overcome your spanking inhibitions, having been conditioned in college to believe taking such liberties with a woman is wrong. Look up to realize she is towering over you and bending over to see what you can do. Her breasts hang heavily. Lift her tiny skirt and give it a go, pausing between smacks to inspect the bruises on her rear end.
Grab your girlfriend on the way out. Don’t be jealous that she’s french-kissing another man. On the way home in a hired car, note the tiny colored lights dotting the support columns between the doors. Watch the Empire State gleaming in the distance through the tired metal skeleton of the Williamsburg Bridge. You cannot understand why the white lights are still on. Safely back in your neighborhood again, pay the driver and stumble out. When you see a marathoner on the street wish her luck. You’ve just run your own marathon of sorts, which is all the more impressive since you are dead.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 04, 2003
There are no lessons for the world, no disclosures to shock peoples. It is filled with trivial things, partly that no one mistakes for history the bones from which some day a man may make history.
T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom
French girls have tasty kitties. More on this in a moment.
Every city has its major holiday. In Boston, for instance, it’s Saint Patrick’s. In New York it’s Halloween. Starting about six or seven in the evening, the city becomes a madhouse of debaucherous activity. There’s the big parade, of course, and then there are the throngs of partygoers who pack every bar, every club, every loft, filling the isle of Manhattan with such a furious kind of revelry, such a powerful celebration of life, that even the most evil of spirits must surely shit their shorts.
Les looked fetching in her nurse outfit, complete with white wig. I threw on a suit, made a half-assed attempt to apply a few grey streaks to my hair, and went as Law & Order’s Detective Goren. I like his style. The way he does a little dance in front of the suspect. His odd gestures. His furrowed brow. His borderline social dysfunction (his mother was a schizophrenic). The way his speech comes out in stuttering bursts. I’ve been studying Goren’s tics for weeks. I couldn’t resist throwing on some dark shades, which would later on give many people the impression that I was Agent Smith.
Already tipsy on a quarter bottle of wine and an empty stomach, I sang out loud on the way to catch a cab uptown.
Ooooo I need a dirty woman
Ooooo I need a dirty girl
Jack-n-Jill were hosting the pre-party and as usual we showed up a little on the late side. Jack the druid was waiting for us at the top of the stairs, tapping his foot and giving me a good-natured ribbing for stumbling in late. They had two couples over. One a French couple Jack-n-Jill had raved about, and another couple whose female half was a saucy little Puerto Rican. Simone, the French girl, well, goodness. She was all milky curves. She wore only a tight black jacket and a tiny thong that rode high on her tremendous hips only to plunge down to form a tempting little patch of black fabric over her pussy. Broken English added to her charm. Her Beau, the ruddy-complexioned Cassius, went with a Chippendale’s outfit that appeared perfectly natural on him.
“Oh man, where did you find them? They have that certain, as the French say, I don’t know what.” I said to Jack, gesturing at the French couple.
“We met all of them on Craigslist.”
“Well they all seem fucking cool. We only meet trannies on Craigslist. Didn’t know you could find quality French tail.” I stood there for a second, wide-eyed with amazement. “You know, a Big Mac’s a Big Mac ‘cept they call it Le Big Mac.”
Jack laughed. The prior weekend we had hung out at their place all night watching 90s movies on the telly and counting flowers on the wall. I plopped down next to the French girl and struck up a conversation. Cassius was seated on the floor across from me, on the other side of the coffee table.
Cassius studied me. A wide grin spread over his face. “Who are you, eh? Ahhgent Smeeth?”
“Actually, I’m a character from Law & Order, but if Agent Smith works for you who am I to protest?” I spouted whole passages of dialogue from The Matrix. I then told him about the flash mob in Tokyo during which a hundred Agent Smiths converged on an intersection all at once, postmodern theatrics that simultaneously terrified and engaged the public, much along the lines of Artaud’s anti-theater. I was pure pastiche that night.
The conversation somehow turned to the Naked Loft Party. Jill heckled me with choice quotes from my own material, spitting me back at me. Jill was decked out in a dangerously short skirt fashioned out of bondage tape. I took her comments in stride, admiring the view up her skirt. The NLP has become conversational shorthand in certain circles. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone, dimly aware they might be reading all this and they’ll say something like, “Yeah, I remember when you said Grego was channeling Hunter Thompson.”
“I have a serious problem with your blog, man. We’re gonna have to talk about this,” said Jack. Momentarily I was like, oh shit, but then I remembered he’s a sarcastic ass. “Whaddya mean coming up here is like going all the way up to the great Alaskan tundra?” he continued, and explained the whole passage to the Puerto Rican’s boyfriend. “I dunno, we still make the trip, don’t we?” I said.
The inevitable France versus America discussion ensued. “What is it with this dating in America?” Cassius said. “In France we hang out, you know, spend time with our friends and after awhile you end up being, you know, together with someone.” I told him Americans are transactional people. Finding a mate is reduced to the level of shopping for a printer.
“American women aren’t as attractive as I thought they would be,” Simone was telling me.
I nodded. “Women here have all that makeup, plastic surgery, starvation diets,” I said. “Nothing is real anymore. Many European women have natural beauty. They carry themselves differently. They are less self-conscious and that’s extremely sexy. But then you have American girls like Jill here, who have that natural beauty. That class.”
And so we all made our way out, eight oversexed ghouls in fin-de-siecle New York. I observed Simone’s backside as she descended the stairs. “She has an ass on her, doesn’t she?” I said to Les, marveling at the fertile splendor of Simone’s posterior. We took two cabs down to a little club in Midtown. An Elvis impersonator was gyrating on the stage as we sauntered in.
A little less conversation, a little more action please
All this aggravation ain’t satisfactioning me
A little more bite and a little less bark
A little less fight and a little more spark
Close your mouth and open up your heart and baby satisfy me
I flashed a shit-eating grin and decided this would be my theme song. Einstein spoke of spook-like actions at a distance. If this synchronicity wasn’t proof such phenomena exist, I don’t know what else could be. We haunted the back area of the club for a while, watching waitresses-cum-schoolgirls shake their asses. I used the can. Eventually we all ducked outside for a group smoke. Jill asked Simone how to say something innocuous in French. “Je veux lecher ta petite chatte,” Simone responded. “Hey! You just said I wanna lick pussy,” said I. The girls laughed.
Back in the club, we found a spot upstairs to set up base camp. Leslie absconded with Jill’s riding crop and went off to assault some hapless schoolgirl. When she returned she told me she had pushed it against the schoolgirl’s crotch, only later realizing the girl was, like, a waitress and not a partygoer. Leslie busied herself by planting kisses on the other girls in our group. The girls joined together—dancing, swaying, kissing, licking an errant nipple here and there. They became a single writhing organism. Jack was busy talking to Linus, the Puerto Rican’s man. Linus was a proctologist for the night. “Hey guys, seriously. Appreciate this. You don’t see this every day,” I said. We had to shield the girls from prowling horny males. I sat down when the show was over. Simone sat to my right, Linus to my left. Jill dropped to her knees before Simone and kissed her mouth, breasts, pussy. The riding crop found its way into my hand. I smacked Jill’s ass with it and added a few smacks with my bare palm. The Puerto Rican girl was standing between Linus’ legs, ass facing him, and he lifted her skirt to reveal her tight brown ass. My hand jerked to the left and the crop hit home. The Puerto Rican gave off little yelps of pleasure. When Jill finally stood her makeshift skirt was hiked up a good inch above the lower ridge of her buttocks. I pinched her there.
The party continued around us. I think it might have sucked but I barely noticed. Leslie was getting on famously with Cassius and Simone. They were all sitting on plush chairs to my left and out of the corner of my eye I spied Simone fiddling with Leslie’s pussy. Simone pulled her finger out and put it into her boyfriend’s mouth. “Can I get a taste of her?” I asked Leslie. She stuck her finger deep into Simone, leaving it there for a little while, and then inched it into my mouth. I pulled back slowly, looking into Simone’s eyes and smiling as the tip of Leslie’s finger exited my mouth with a pop. The girl was made of strawberries and creme fraiche.
A leather-clad sub approached Jill and pulled his pants down. He wanted to submit to the riding crop. Jill obliged, beating his ass red as people looked on, terrified and engaged. It was anti-theater. The guy turned around and kissed Jill’s feet, “thankyouthankyouthankyou.” His girlfriend stared at him with hard eyes.
We all returned to Jack-n-Jill’s pad. They put OutKast on the stereo and I tumbled onto the couch next to the French couple. Leslie sat next to Jill, alternating between making out with her and talking. Jack, Linus and I settled in over beers and talked about stupid shit, such as the varieties and vicissitudes of male heterosexuality. “I’d suck a dick for fitty grand,” I said. Linus passed a joint. “Careful, this is powerful shit,” he said. My heart rate quickened and I spoke erratically, finally channeling detective Goren. The French couple was intertwined and locking lips. Leslie climbed onto the couch and thrust her pussy in my face. I licked it and when I closed my eyes I saw neon signs, apropos of nothing. “Here’s your sushi dinner,” Leslie said and everyone laughed.
Things got quiet as Simone put her mouth to good use on her man, her gorgeous rump out there for all of us to admire. She mounted him and began rocking back and forth. It’s funny how you see the girl’s ass and then the guy’s testes sticking out underneath it like some shy woodland creature. Cassius looked at me and made a gesture towards Simone’s ass, an invitation I accepted by running my hands over her ample rear end, pausing here and there to admire the delicate flesh spilling out between my digits. Les teased my cock with her tongue and then mounted me, grinding against my shaft. In the background I saw Linus and Jill go to work on the Puerto Rican, but I couldn’t quite see everything that transpired over there.
Simone dismounted and scooted over to face us. I took one of her pert, ski-slope breasts in my mouth and placed my hand on the other as Leslie’s pussy pounded against me. Simone then leaned over and her face disappeared behind Leslie’s ass. I felt a tongue and hand on my cock with each upward stroke of Leslie’s pussy. Overwhelmed by the sensation, I closed my eyes and used my joint-induced superpowers to picture what was going on back there. After a while Simone sat back on the couch, lying there with legs spread to allow Cassius to tongue her. I fucked Leslie from behind and pushed her head into Simone’s left tit while I grasped the other firmly in my hand. Simone forced her eyes shut and winced with pleasure. The room was filled with the sound of me smacking against Leslie’s ass. Somewhere behind me Jack was already lounging and nonchalantly puffing a ciggy. Soon Leslie came loudly and I followed, seeing those neon lights against the backs of my eyelids again and continuing to ride her until the spasms subsided.
Things wound down quickly after that, not that I wasn’t considering another go. Leslie tried to get me to do some penis origami, but I decided that would have to wait for another night. She settled for putting her wig over my head.
The two of us hailed a cab and cruised down Fifth Avenue in the reddening hues of dawn. The lights of the city were as yet ignorant of the new day that was upon us. They just went on glowing, filaments and gasses all lit up in electric brilliants. I felt fresh, as if life my life were beginning anew. We stepped out of the cab in front of a bodega under a sky that was now lavender. A fucking big gay lavender sky in big gay Chelsea. I was a fabulous mess with Leslie’s wig planted on my head, my tie flung around my neck like a scarf, my shirt untucked and hanging wide open, and my shades perched crookedly on my nose. The shopkeeper, who’s seen me in similar states a few times too often, didn’t skip a beat.
On the short walk home I sang to Leslie.
A little less conversation, a little more action please…
And so on.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Nov 01, 2003
The Village Voice ran an interesting piece about sex blogging and the hotness of erotic confession. NLP got a mention, as well as a few of my favorite sex blogs. Tristan Taormino writes:
The diverse personalities and infectious tell-all quality of blogs are causing them to displace older, more traditional fantasy enhancers. In fact, sex blogs may be the new porn. Whether it’s the “true” letters and stories in Penthouse Forum or the Screw My Wife Please! video series, the allure of the “real” has always been a strong niche in adult entertainment. Fans gobbled up amateur flicks and girl-next-door porn long before reality TV took over the airwaves and Bob the Bachelor made out with five girls in one night. Now, our voyeuristic tendencies and lust for authentic tits and ass are finding new outlets, as hordes of fans log on to read the continuing adventures of bloggers like Dirty Whore, “an ordinary woman who no one would suspect is really a filthy slut” (dirtywhore.blogspot.com) or “two thoroughly debauched Manhattanites” (nakedloftparty.blogspot.com). We want the real deal, and with blogs we get to “know” the people, not just their parts.
Read more at the Village Voice website.
