Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Jul 27, 2004
Go down in your own way
And every day is the right day
And as you rise above the fear-lines in his brow
You look down
Hear the sound of the faces in the crowd
Pink Floyd, Fearless
Niagara. I remember, a few years ago, meeting two women in the tiki lounge on the lower level, a blonde and a brunette, both of them striking amazons. Some guy was trying to wow them with silly magic tricks and, being all balls and no finesse, I blew up his game only to crash and burn myself.
The blonde’s name was Hogan, believe it or not. I made a joke about Hogan’s Heroes, a joke she didn’t appreciate in the least. Said she owned a motorcycle. I asked her about the size of her engine and she launched into a tirade about how she hated that line of inquiry. For a while my foot was lodged so firmly in my mouth I was only able to say, “Mmmph? Mmmph!” Finally spat out my foot and asked the two girls how they knew each other. “Oh, she takes care of me,” the brunette said, grabbing her girlfriend by the waist. I swallowed. “You guys are way outta my league,” I said, and then slowly backed away.
If only I knew then what I know now. If only they’d taken me back to their lair and forced me to go down on them all night. I’ve always had a set of vaguely submissive fantasies, not silly spanking nonsense but something more subtle and more dangerous than that. I’ve never met a woman who fancied being in charge. Well, there’s Jen, our dominatrix friend, but I tower over her. Or maybe that’s supposed to be the kink of it.
Niagara. We met Jack, Jill and two married college friends down there on Saturday. Jack and Jill brought along a pretty brown-haired girl they’d met on craigslist—just for kicks I’ll call her Layla. When I greeted her she smiled brightly, “I’ve heard so much about you.” Oh boy. You just know that’s trouble. The two of us ended up sitting on a leather bench downstairs as everyone else milled about. She used the word “lifestyle,” which is unusual for a single woman—a sign she’s more than just a dabbler.
“I felt a bit anxious about introducing our college friends to our swinger friends,” I was saying, “but they’re fine with it. They knew a lot of freaks in San Francisco.”
“It’s like coming out, isn’t it? But if you’re gay, there’s still the concept of being in a couple. What we’re doing is much harder for people to accept. My friends don’t mind me talking about sex though. I was talking to them about strap-ons the other night.” Layla thrust her hips forward in a fucking motion. I felt a little light-headed.
A lovely set of cinnamon curves caught my eye. It took me a second or two to realize I was staring at Natalia, back from the dead as it were. I gave her a good-natured ribbing for being out of touch and we sat together to catch up.
“I’m happy to see things are working out with Emma,” she said.
“You’d think so, from reading about it.”
“Something wrong?”
“Naw, nothing’s wrong. I just have low expectations. We’ve known her for almost a year now and I still have no idea why she has sex with us.” Smirking now, “Well, I understand the biology of it, but I have no idea how she feels about any of this. And I don’t even like to talk about that shit. When we hang out it’s fun but I feel she’s holding back somehow.” I stare off into the distance. “Maybe this is the best possible situation. Other women have come and gone and we’re still seeing her, sort of.”
“She may be holding back, but I’m sure she likes you two.” Natalia, always with the cheery response.
“So that was some night we had, huh?”
Natalia flashed me a coy, radiant smile. “Yes it was.”
“I really did mean to fuck you, but by the time I got back from hailing Katia a cab you were already sleeping.”
“She was new. It didn’t bother me at all.”
“New is overrated. You know, that’s one thing I admire about you: you’ve always been upfront with me. Look, I know you have your tough weeks but don’t be a stranger; I consider you a friend. I think you know that already but it’s worth repeating.” I wrapped my arm around Natalia and remarked upon her cleavage.
I found our college friends, who looked a bit drained, so I did my best to entertain them, at least until I rather abruptly ran out of funny material. Over the din I heard Layla talking to Jill and Leslie about female ejaculation.
Natalia was the first to leave, complaining about having to get up early the next morning, and soon nearly everyone else in our group filed out, leaving us alone with Layla. “Guess we’re the hardcore bunch,” I said, pleasantly surprised she’d decided to stick around. We shuffled out into the alley and Layla passed around her one-hitter. As we stood there making mouth noises at each other I let my gaze wander the length of her—same height, about the same weight, same cup size, supple skin. There is a pleasing parity between the two of them. Pretty, yes. Pretty.
Soon we were on our way out, snaking through the crowd in a conga line, Leslie tugging playfully at Layla’s straight hair. And outside, standing on the street corner, Layla said she wasn’t ready to go home just yet, so we began to walk. Said she liked the summer breeze against her bare shoulders. Said she wanted to give Leslie a foot massage. Gentle innuendo growing more direct until the girls began talking about finding an alley and, realizing there were no alleys, I said, “You can do anything you want,” and blathered on and then turned around to see the two nymphs a few paces back, locked into an embrace and causing a ruckus on 14th. I held them both, taking a fine ass in each hand and studying their mashed lips as passersby made funny remarks. A female voice: “You know he’s loving that shit!” I found myself kissing Layla, the sound of our teeth clicking followed by the sounds of our laughter. She said that leaning up against me with her eyes closed and her lips pressed to Leslie’s, she felt as if she were lying naked on satin sheets.
Niagara. I wish the lovely Colonel Hogan could have been there. She would have been so proud of me.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Jul 21, 2004
And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Les and I step off the Bergenline, carrying an overnight bag stuffed with necessities, and onto the disheartening streets of the oddly-named West New York, New Jersey. It sits here, clinging to the coastline in the shadow of spaceship Manhattan, its sole function to sustain the People’s Army of capitalism, and to breed the next generation. We wander aimlessly until we locate an open bodega. It begins to drizzle and our pretty dominatrix comes to rescue us—a little white girl in a big black pickup truck.
The dog emerges from her master’s office, long claws going clickety-clack against the hardwood floor. She barks at us and hides behind Jen’s legs. We walk down the long hallway into the kitchen and the dog follows a few paces behind us. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. I decide the sound must drive Jen mad.
“So how did all this come to pass?” I ask Jen.
“I just can’t be myself around Sam. You already know he’s anti-social, at least when it comes to my friends. I feel so isolated out here. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I feel like I’m in competition with the dog. Sam cuddles with her in bed and won’t even touch me.” The dog simply stands there with her tongue hanging out, blissfully unaware of her role in this relationship drama.
“Jesus. The fucking dog.”
“Yes. He’s a dog person, not a people person.”
“And you’re going to Seattle, then?”
She surveys a kitchen outfitted with professional-grade, stainless-steel appliances. “I think so. I need to figure out what to do about this place. I want him to buy me out, but I have more money than he does. And selling would be difficult because it’s not finished yet. I feel like it would be so much simpler if he’d just agree to an open relationship.” Jen lets out a long sigh. “Maybe I’d be able to stay then.”
“Did he ever talk about marriage?”
“No. He never wants to talk about us. It’s frustrating.”
I take a sip of vodka cranberry. “I mean, you either have an open relationship or you make a commitment.”
“I’m still attracted to the wrong type of man. I feel like I’m too old to have fucked up like this.”
“You’re never too old to fuck up. And besides, you have so much else going for you.”
We run out to pick up a pizza we’d ordered. They’re closing and the clerk tells me to order earlier next time. I’ll keep that in mind next time I feel like running out to Jersey for a small pie. After we eat I sit huddled over the kitchen table, rolling a joint with clumsy fingers. I hold a digit under my nose and sniff, taking in the sweet scent. The girls watch as I discard a torn sheaf of rolling paper and start over. “We should have had that before we ate,” says Jen. “I wouldn’t mind having coke, but I do get some really good weed.”
“You don’t do coke much though, do you?” Leslie asks.
“Not as much as when I was hanging out with you guys a lot. Do you still keep in touch with Ruben—and that other guy, Alo?”
“Ruben yes, Stymie too, but most of the old crew are gone. Don’t know what happened to Alo, or Jimmy either.”
“Jimmy had the best coke,” I say, “and Alo had the best ecstasy. People used to call me up for connections all the time. I was like a goddamned fixer—drugs, after-parties, pussy, comps… I knew where to find it all. I should have asked for my cut.”
Jen frowns a bit. “Yeah, but then—”
”—criminal trafficking, I know. Not my thing at all,” delicately licking the adhesive now.
“Remember when Alo chewed you out about Nikki?” Les asks me.
“Wow, I’d almost forgotten. She stood him up on a buy and I got an earful.” I shake my head. “I hated being her enabler. She used to call me up at the end of the weekend bawling about how she’d done too much coke.”
“She’s a health nut now,” Jen says. “She drinks wheatgrass juice. I was there when she did shrooms for the first time, though, in Seattle. We went to a club and she freaked out a bit.”
Leslie’s eyes brighten and she looks at me. “Remember that time we bought ecstasy that turned out to be laced with acid? It was right before we went to Twilo. I remember looking at you and it was like your eyes were fucking huge, man; like, bugging out of your head.”
I make my hands into goggles and mime the effect. “I thought I could find refuge in the gift shop; I was alright until I realized every fucking thing in there had a Twilo logo printed on it. Twilo to the left, Twilo to the right, Twilo above and below me… Twilo echoing in my fucking head. The gift shop girl gave me a funny look and I ran out with my tail between my legs.”
Jen looks confused. “Twilo had a gift shop?”
We burst out laughing. I squint at my handiwork, give the unlit joint a few trial puffs, and rule my second rolling attempt a success. We begin to pass the grass around our little circle. The dog stirs and then settles down again at my feet.
“It’s not worth it anymore,” Leslie says, frowning. “The worst part was the ecstasy hangover… the depression.”
“Not to mention the total lack of sexual function,” I say, stroking the dog’s back. “When we were coming down, though, we had some really weird, kinky sex.”
“Like that night with Aaron,” Les offers.
I’m getting animated now. “I read somewhere about experiments performed on animals who had low serotonin levels. It turned out they’d maim each other during the sex act: the ultimate orgasmic coup de grace.”
We let that bizarre thought hang in the air awhile along with the pallid smoke. Leslie exhales. “You were so much happier when I met you back in oh-one,” she says, addressing Jen. “The pajama-party pre-party. Remember that?”
The girls’ eyes go all soft-focus and they sigh in unison, “Yeah.”
Leslie’s still got that dreamy look on her face. “That was our summer of sixty-nine—”
“Our fin-de-siecle moment,” I add.
”—it was like everything we touched turned to gold. We had a different way of looking at the world… everyone wanted to be a part of that. I remember Brian being more involved back then, too… in your parties.”
Jen sighs and casts her eyes downward. “We hardly do anything like that anymore. With his moods and me being stuck here it just doesn’t happen. And guys are off-limits to me now.”
I lean forward to stub out what’s left of the joint, then fire up a cigarette. “God, it was weird meeting him that first time. Only thing we had in common was that we’d both seen you naked. I always thought he resented me for that.”
“No… he’s like that with anyone who’s not a dog.”
I stick out my tongue and start panting. “Woof.”
“It’s hard for us to find people who really understand what we’re about,” says Les. “That it’s not just about getting off, or having this intense relationship. Jack and Jill definitely get it. But no matter what you tell people it’s hard to get them to understand it’s possible to be affectionate without being possessive.”
I nod. “Girls sometimes tell us, ‘I don’t know if you’ll want me to come out tonight because I have my period.’ That doesn’t matter to me. The people I want to fuck are people I’d want to be around regardless of whether I’m fucking them.”
A devilish grin sweeps over Jen’s face. “It’s like Sam always says: you don’t have a tampon in your mouth.”
Snorts and chuckles fill the room. We decide to walk to a lounge Jen had mentioned earlier. It’s the sort of place one might find tucked away in Brooklyn, somewhat hip but not overly so. Most of the patrons are Latin. We settle in the back by a fake fireplace, across from zebra-print couches that remind me of Grego’s. The tetrahydrocannabinol takes effect and everything’s just groovy.
The men stare slack-jawed as Leslie gives Jen a lap dance, leaning over to press her lips against Jen’s, brunette curls cascading over straight blonde locks. I place a hand on Jen’s inner thigh and another on Leslie’s ass. This sort of thing doesn’t happen out here in no-man’s-land—we may just have to run for our lives. When the girls dart off to buy another round some of the men approach to shake my hand. “You’re my hero,” one says. The lights come on, and as we saunter out I receive more words of encouragement. I half expect the room to break into a song-n-dance routine.
By the time I return from brushing my teeth, Les and Jen are already asleep, their small bodies making spoons on one side of the bed. I look at them and smile, then turn out the lights and dive in next to Leslie. Clickety-clack comes the dog down the endless hallway and into the bedroom. The poor creature sniffs at my face, confused by my presence in her master’s bed, so I give her a reassuring pat on the head. “It’s okay, girl.” She collapses by the nightstand with a disappointed sigh. I’m struck by a vicious pang of guilt; I feel as if somehow this is all my fault.
Morning comes and one by one we stumble bleary-eyed into the kitchen. The place is bright and airy on this perfect summer day, and looks even larger now. Jen prepares a joint and hands it off to Leslie. “I’m sorry guys; didn’t mean to pass out on you like that. I’m a lightweight these days, and I’m still sort of overwhelmed by what’s going on.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“Well, I’m going to grab my vibrator and hop in bed again. You two are welcome to join me.” She says this in passing, as if it’s nothing more exciting than running out to check the mail. Jen disappears into the bedroom and Leslie and I look at each other, raising our eyebrows in unison. It’s been three years; we don’t waste any time. As I climb into bed Jen hands me a condom with a golden wrapper. I hold it up like I’m appraising a rare coin. “Magnum, I see.”
“Something special for that big cock of yours.”
“Oh Jen, I love it when you talk about my cock.” I show off my shorn undercarriage and Jen coos. She holds a large massager against her pussy and soon she’s writhing in Leslie’s arms. Roaming hands with long red fingernails. Long tongue now pressed against Leslie’s clitoris, then the massager, which leaves Leslie breathless. Everything is hazy, dreamy, coming in and out in pulses of warmth, a tangle of limbs, heavy gasps and juicy smacks filling my ears. One by one we climax…
Jen stands in the entrance to the closet. Lying on the bed with my neck arched over the side, I behold her magnificent rump, pink labia peeking out from between her silky legs. We pass what remains of the morning lounging naked on the sheets, touching one another and talking, my face twisted by the weed into a ridiculous permasmile.
“I guess it’s true,” Leslie’s saying. “I’m drawn to crazy women. Maybe I feel like I can rescue them.”
“There’s something about those sweet, damaged little angels,” I add. “I fall for them every time. Like when we had to take Eleanor to the hospital and it all turned out to be psychosomatic. She ended up back at our place crying and I just wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be alright.”
Les chuckles. “That’s the last time I make a girl breakfast.”
“Remember the Aussie girl, Zoe? She wanted me to break into her apartment in the middle of the night and rape her. Can you imagine it… a black man with a hardon breaking into some woman’s apartment? ‘I swear, officer, the bitch asked for it.’” I do my best Chief Wiggum impression, ”’Shuure. That’s what they all say.’”
“But I’m crazy,” says Jen.
“No Jen,” I chide, “you’re kinky but well-adjusted. I wish there were more people out there like you… people who really get it.”
Leslie places her hand on Jen’s ass. “Such nice cheeks too…”
Resting my palm there, “...if only they were brains.”
We laugh and then fall silent for awhile. Leslie flips over on her stomach, lost in thought. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not creative enough, like I don’t know what to do with a woman. That first time we were with you… you were so experienced it was intimidating to me.”
“What about the role-playing we did?” says Jen. “You were great as daddy’s little girl.”
“Yeah, don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “We’ve all felt that way at some point.”
Jen frowns and props herself up on her elbows. “At least you guys can talk about this stuff. I couldn’t be vulnerable around Sam; I couldn’t admit that I was afraid of anything. He can’t handle anyone but the strong me.”
I stroke Jen’s cheek, brushing flaxen hair from her face. “You know what? Fuck him. You’re a generous girl—which is great—but you ought to start looking after yourself. Let other people make you happy for a change; you have us, you have Nikki, you have a career, you have money. And when you do find that guy, you’ll be unstoppable. Fucking unstoppable.”
We shower, grab brunch at the little pupuseria around the corner, and take a van back to the city, where we stop by Leslie’s office so Jen can photocopy her loan documents. By late afternoon it’s nearly time for Jen to report to work at the dungeon, where she dominates investment bankers for fun and profit. There is an irony to this, I think, that is beyond words. We part company on 7th Avenue. For the first time I’m not reviewing the blow-by-blow in my head. I feel warm inside and it’s not just the heat coming off the pavement. “It’s too bad she has to go,” I say as Leslie and I descend into Penn station. “I’m gonna miss her.”
“Think she’ll be alright?”
“Yeah, she’ll be fine… I think we’ll all be just fine.”
