Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Jun 30, 2004
It was getting late, or rather early, by the time we emerged from the subway. Williamsburg, an orgy of warehouses and hastily-erected low-rises, looked just as shabby as ever. Trash bins overflowed. Half the storefronts were shuttered. I frowned. “What the hell are we doing here?”
We located the address on Metropolitan and ascended the stairs to a sprawling loft. “It’s free if you take off your clothes,” a woman at the door said. I chuckled. “That’s alright… we’ll pay the five bucks.” Indeed, most people were clad in elaborate white outfits, save for a handful of pasty-fleshed gentlemen.
Emma looked in need of rescue. “I’m so glad you guys came out,” she said, sounding both drunk and enthused. We bought a round of crappy drinks, vodka that murdered my palette, and went out to have a gander at the roof. Emma locked her arms around my waist a couple times to keep from stumbling.
“What do you think of Larry Flynt?” she asked.
I go months without thinking of Larry Flynt. “I dunno. What’s there to think about him?”
Emma smiled. “I’m running a book promotion event for him in a couple weeks.”
Now I was intrigued. “That’s a far cry from children’s books,” I said. “Think I could meet him?”
“Oh definitely.”
A few feet away, a man started to juggle fire.
Later on I ran into Anya by the bar. My face dropped for an instant: there had been months of bad blood between us and I’d been anticipating an argument. Still, I wanted to see what she’d have to say. She led me out onto a small deck and lit a cigarette. “I hated you for awhile—”
“I know.”
”—but it’s not worth it anymore. I just want to forget about all that stupid drama.”
“Screw it. Last summer was a strange time for me.”
“Ryder’s still afraid of you guys.”
“You said that before. Don’t you think she’s overreacting a bit?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to get in touch, actually. I wanted to talk to you about a book I’m writing on swingers. You two have made a science out of finding single women.”
I hesitated. “I wouldn’t call it a science. A black art, maybe.” The conversation continued in this vein for some time, and I was a little sad to realize I can’t account for our success or lack thereof. I mentioned Emma, who was standing nearby talking to Leslie.
“Oh shit… she’s Emma? Wow, you went through a lot with her.”
“At the time we thought we wanted a girlfriend. People slip through your fingers so easily… I guess I wanted to hold on to something. But then we found a girlfriend and realized it’s nothing but a word—that it’s probably better not to define it at all.”
A man had been listening in, either fascinated or horrified. I glanced in his direction and then shook my head. “Jesus… the conversations we think of as normal.”
Les, Emma and I wandered off to explore the loft. We found ourselves in a bedroom barely large enough for a king-size bed, with satin sheets hung from the ceiling. A woman walked in, leading her date by the hand, and as she clambered atop the mattress her tits popped out. Her date began to work his fingers underneath her panties. I nearly reached out to feel her boobs but thought better of it—I didn’t want to commit myself to anything. Then two half-naked men crowded in, one who played with the girl’s tits as the other gave him a blowjob.
The bed filled up and I began to feel trapped. The three of us exchanged glances. “Um, I think I need to go to the bathroom,” said Les. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, the bathroom… that’s it,” said I, scooting to the edge of the bed and clearing a path for the girls.
“Now that was a sausage-fest,” I said as we galloped from the room, giggling. We waited in line and the girls smooched. Emma followed us into the bathroom. When I was finished I cleaned my cock under the faucet and then brandished it before the girls. Leslie tasted me first, then Emma, then the two of them together. Someone was banging on the door.
Out on the deck, as a tall blonde barked into my ear about literature, I squinted at the first pale shards of morning light and thought the sun, along with its halo of gray clouds, looked an awful lot like a nebula. I turned to a man on my left, the one who looked like Moby, and said, “I’ve perfected the art of hearing but not listening.”
Anya came through with an after-party over at a loft in Murray Hill, one of those Manhattan apartments that leaves you scratching your head at its sheer size. We arrived to find a group of men lounging around naked, along with a lithe French beauty who boasted a neat landing strip of pubic hair. I stripped along with the rest of the new arrivals and our host poured us hot sake. “Usually my parties are about non-sexual nudity,” he explained, “but today anything goes.”
Anya, meanwhile, clung to a tattooed hipster with an enormous steel piercing through the head of his cock. Ouch, was all I could think. An Asian girl lay on her back, under a man who straddled her chest, and lazily played the skin flute. We adjourned to a windowless room strung with flashing Christmas lights and soon Anya lay next to me, pinned under the tattooed guy, fucking with senseless abandon. The bed shook. I cuddled with my two soft, sweet girls and thought of the ocean.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 21, 2004
She endures another period of stressful bondage, shackled spread eagle near the open door of the barn. It’s raining outside, a constant shush. But then she’s stood upon a stool with her hands bound back. A noose goes around her neck. He lifts her and the stool is pushed back. 120 swings, her legs kicking. He stands close. She tries to mount him. She’ll do anything to breathe. After a period of “fucking” relief, he steps away, and she’s left swinging.
“120” is a saucy brunette with big saline tits and a network of tattoos marking her body; a sexual gourmand who brings home a different girl every weekend. She and Les had a tryst two summers ago, after which 120 became a regular at our sex parties. I knew 120 used to strip and liked having pictures taken, but I hadn’t thought she’d end up performing in hardcore bondage porn.
I was wrong, of course. Clicking around aimlessly one night, I nearly spat out my soda when I saw her face staring back at me. And then blanched when I read the account of extreme torture and humiliation. Holy moly mother of Mary… when it comes to perversion I’m merely an amateur. We’re certain to have an interesting conversation next time we meet. What’s the etiquette for broaching a subject like this?
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Jun 12, 2004
My mother drops me off and I’m hanging out with this clique of aggressively bisexual college women who work at an orphanage. I’m of indeterminate gender, but I might be female.
We hear about a big fire at the orphanage in which a young girl perished. One of our own, a blonde girl, is the lead suspect. Enter a hardboiled detective who’s got big 70s hair and an outmoded tan jacket. Our detective is somehow romantically entangled with the suspect, and when we visit the “recent” crime scene (I say “recent” because there’s nothing left but a foundation, a few blackened boards, and a lush field of vibrant green grass that pokes up through the concrete) he sings her an aria proclaiming his undying love. Everyone seems to think she’s doomed.
The women decide to go shopping.
I’m male again and I’m walking up to this clothing store/nightclub at Broadway and Houston. I get in line outside because you have to show ID and pay 75 cents to get in. The people around me are all involved in various alternative relationships—I call them the alt-sexuals. An old lady interviews a young man who has two girlfriends in tow. “So, is she your girlfriend, young man?” “Well, she’s, uh, just a friend,” he sez. “Oh, like a friend… with benefits?” the old lady asks. And then they’re out of earshot. I chuckle to myself. I have to write about this.
While I’m in line I buy a loaf of bread from a deli counter conveniently situated next to the clothing store/nighclub. The cashier hands me a wad of hundred dollar bills as change. As I stand there, dumbfounded, thinking about whether I should say anything, I look up and notice a teevee hanging from some scaffolding, playing what appears to be a Soviet-era propaganda film with both animated and live-action elements. In the background a revolutionary sort of ditty drones on in a minor key, at once hopeful and elegiac.
There will be (there will be),
Tomorrow (tomorrow),
Our day of struggle has just begun.
There’s no need (there’s no need),
For sorrow (for sorrow),
Cause we’ve got the bastards on the run!
And it goes on, by now unintelligible.
At the door I hand over my ID and thumb through my wad of cash looking for a dollar bill that I can’t find. I’m afraid to flash the hundred dollar bills in public so I’m slowly tearing off a traveler’s cheque. People waiting behind me are starting to get agitated. My mother appears, waving at me from the back of a yellow cab. “Will the papers be safe?” she asks me in German. I tell her to get out of the fucking cab and stop worrying, but she’s still asking me about the papers.
“Wohin?” I hear myself ask.
And my mother’s just standing there, silent, staring at me in what I assume must be a state of utter confusion.
“Wohin?”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 10, 2004
We’re on the subway platform and I’m watching Leslie stroll a few paces ahead. A guy wearing oversized headphones cranes his neck to stare at her ass and makes a hissing noise, sssst, calling out to her like she’s an animal.
Pupils dilate. Heart quickens. Muscles tense. I blink and I can see the capillaries pulsing.
“Shut the fuck up!” I yell, as much for his benefit as for the other people on the platform. I’m marking my territory—that odd moment when you remember you’re nothing but blood and guts and sinew and reproductive organs. I’m indignant, too, wanting to rid all the subway platforms in all the world of these cocksuckers.
Headphones pulled aside now, he’s challenging me. “What did you say?”
Turning to face him, dead on. “I said shut the fuck up. Bitch. That’s no way to treat a woman.” I size him up, already planning my opening gambit should he decide to charge, and I have no idea who’d win. It’s a confidence game. I fix a steely gaze. Bring it.
But he’s already lost his resolve. He’s mumbling, averting his gaze.
“Well, that was entertaining,” I say, pulling Les to me.
I return to our previous topic of conversation. “I guess it’s just that I feel like I’ve lost a friend—and there’s no reason for it.”
“I told her this was all in her head,” Leslie says. “I only asked her to be honest with me.”
“I really don’t want to think the worst, but I’m getting the sense it had nothing to do with her feeling guilty. She wanted to keep her options open so she kept us in the dark.”
“We’re not going to sit on the sidelines while she makes up her mind about this guy.”
“But that’s the fucking crux of the thing, isn’t it? We were there for her when she needed someone to lean on and now that she’s found someone else to shower her with attention she ignores us. And the irony is… I would’ve been fine with just being friends.”
“I wasn’t losing sleep over her being with someone else. She could have called. I don’t know what made her think having a boyfriend means she has to hide from us.”
“She met a guy—big fucking deal. Did she think the three of us were gonna move to Westchester and make babies or something? I told her she’d meet someone sooner or later. Why all the bullshit? Why the ‘you guys are my number one priority’ routine? And then the disappearing act.”
“I guess it’s always the same,” Leslie sighs.
“Ha!”
“What’s so funny?”
“Even you can’t figure women out. Now you see what men have been complaining about since the beginning of time.”
The subway doors slide apart and that’s that—there will be no answers today. There are advantages to dating women as a couple. At least, when it’s over, you can bitch to each other and spare your friends the tedious minutiae of a breakup.
In the evening we trot out to a pool hall to watch the horse race. Jack-n-Jill are there with a few people, including the German girl. A horse named Smarty loses the race and a lot of people are upset. Smarty, however, doesn’t appear to care. Give him a feedbag and a stable of mares and he’s probably as happy as the proverbial pig in shit.
We smack balls around for a couple hours. There’s a pregnant woman in our group and I can’t help but look at her and smile. She’s beautiful. The woman calls me over and places my hand over her abdomen. I feel the kid kicking.
Later on I’m sitting next to the German girl, Katia. I ask her if she plans to have children.
Her words tumble out in staccato, accented English. I try not to think of how much this reminds me of my mother. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it yet. And you?”
“Well, yes… but I want to get in as much practice as possible.” Winking.
Katia tells me it’s been awhile, practice-wise. “A friend asked me to come over late at night… you know what zat means. And all he wanted to do was watch baseball. I had to attack him in the morning. A forty-dollar cab ride for five minutes of fun.”
“Doesn’t seem fair.”
Enter Natalia, sporting curly locks of medium length. Heads turn. “Love the new hair, dear,” I tell her.
Jack-n-Jill depart. The rest of us decide to wring a little more entertainment out of the night. Seeing as we’re in the neighborhood anyway, we end up at Ruben’s party. I fret over finding a seat for the pregnant girl until the staff come through with a section that’ll seat all of us comfortably. Ruben’s outdone himself this time: not just bottles and drink tickets for his crew, but hors d’oeuvres too.
We aren’t there long. Our group dwindles to Natalia, Katia and Les—the three of them dancing together—and it looks like things might take a turn for the pornographic. I tell Katia she should come uptown with us to watch some baseball. She laughs and smacks my shoulder.
Soon I’m standing in our living room, fully clothed, except that my cock protrudes lance-like through the fly of my trousers. I feel silly but I can’t seem to stuff the thing back into my banana briefs. The girls giggle. I approach Katia and she’s shy, afraid to look at it. “You know you want this,” I say, pressing her hand to me. She removes her glasses. I kiss her, my stiffy insistent against her midsection. Leslie and Natalia sit idly and watch us.
I was wrong about Euro girls and their shaving habits. I pull Katia to the couch and toss aside her pants and thong. She’s shaved bare, her pussy very pink; smooth and wet around my index finger. I stand and Leslie practices her sword-swallowing as the girls look on. And then she mounts me, kissing Natalia as Katia slobs hungrily at her tit. “Ever seen two people fucking?” I ask Katia. She shakes her head. When I push into Leslie from behind, Katia and Natalia each place a hand on Leslie’s ass, spreading em for me, white and black skin set beautifully against Leslie’s cinnamon. It’s not long before Leslie grabs at the leather cushions and comes.
I plop down next to Natalia, intending a momentary break, but Natalia latches on and soon she’s wrapped her full lips around me, really working at it and making all sorts of sloppy wet noises. “Oh, Natalia,” I say as I paw at her double dees. Leslie’s draped herself over Katia and she’s got her finger in the girl’s cunt. Better get on with it before I give Natalia a mouthful of jizz. Still tingling from Natalia’s blowjob, I rise and stand before Katia’s face, my cock a ticking metronome. “Suck it,” I command. I gather up her hair and glance in the mirror to have a look from the side, at cheeks hollowed from the suction. She rakes her fingernails across my ass. I pull my penis out of her mouth and tap her lips with it. “I’m going to fuck you with this,” I say.
And she’s stoic, silent, just how I expected a German girl to be. With four of us on the couch it’s cramped, so Katia’s legs are spread wide and her back’s over the armrest. I have a good view of her pink, her small tits, her flushing chest. Natalia’s stretched out next to me, twitching under Leslie’s fingers. I flip Katia over, inch my way in again and prod her mercilessly, pulling all the way out so I can watch her pussy engulf me over and over. I tug at Katia’s hair and give her small ass a firm smack. She lets out a yelp.
Katia hops onto my lap and reaches down to impale herself upon me. She grinds and brings her pelvis crashing down. I pull her hair again, bite her nipple, then grasp her neck with both hands. Katia throws her head back. Natalia and Les have switched off—Natalia’s got her face between Leslie’s thighs. I set Katia on her back, slinging her legs over my shoulders, and deliver the final series of sweaty thrusts. A smack smack smack fills the room. I hear Leslie cry out and then, at last, it’s my turn, watching myself piston in Katia’s cunt, seized by that last great hurrah…
Cigarette in hand, Les inserts a tape of Grego’s VH1 special and I make comments over the show, pausing and rewinding every time Les and I pop up on screen. There’s me talking to the NY Post reporter. There’s Les looking pretty. There she is again, kissing a couple girls. There’s the Cock, Schoolgirl, Jimmy, Daniella, Miguel and Leandra… they’re all on the teevee showing you what to do in New York when you don’t have any clothes on.
As I watch the video I realize I feel the same about three-way relationships as I do about planned sex parties. When you tame the orgy, when you domesticate and regulate it, you lose everything that makes it interesting. “We know we’re getting laid tonight,” the teevee says. Where’s the fun in a guarantee?
Tension—the eroticism of not knowing what’s coming next—that’s the beauty of nights like this.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 03, 2004
I’m finished with Paris Hilton… there’s a new celebrity sex video making the rounds. Croatian pop singer Severina Vuckovic appears in a delightful 12-minute sex romp. Unlike the PHST, with its creepy night-vision and vacant stares, this video is well-lit and highly erotic. Severina and her “date” rotate enthusiastically through multiple positions, pausing occasionally to pour champagne all over each other. There’s a nice money shot at the end, and I had to laugh at the string of jizz that ended up in her hair. Severina’s date is even kind enough to hand her a towel afterward. A note to all you people out there in pornoland: it’s the small human touches that make home videos like these a thousand times more erotic than the most elaborate porn productions.
Les and I had our own sex scandal of sorts. Somehow, a digital still of the two of us going at it found its way onto Leslie’s Mom’s camera. That’s right—her Mom’s camera. I imagine the last thing Mom wanted to see was her daughter taking it up the ass. Leslie’s sisters thought the whole affair was funny. Les and I were mortified, absolutely mortified. At least the picture wasn’t from our threesome collection. Egads. It doesn’t bother me so much that some random individual out there might download my intimate moments, but the thought of my parents catching a glimpse sends chills up and down my spine. I can only imagine what Severina’s going through.
