The White Visitation

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.

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