Contraindications

Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Aug 19, 2004

Jen, Les and I emerged from a cab and dove out of the rain into a queue at Quo. A curly-haired kid with jellied eyes held us up at the door, posing with his clipboard and giving us the once-over. “I don’t know if I can let you in with those jeans,” he said to me.

“We can go somewhere else,” Jen muttered.

“Relax,” I responded, stroking Jen’s blonde hair, so straight it always looks like she’s fresh from the shower. Nowadays I try to avoid the idiocy that is club life in New York, but I still remember how to dance around that old velvet rope. I smiled broadly and intoned, “These aren’t jeans.” A Jedi mind trick.

“Then what are they?” the door-boy challenged.

“They’re Italian,” I said, still smiling. Looking confused, the kid shrugged and unhitched the rope. I shook my head and pushed past him on the way in.

Once we’d found the lounge in back, Les left for the bathroom. Jen produced an open tin of what might have been mints. “What’s this?” I asked, searching her face, studying her sharp nose.

“Xanax. Makes everything better.”

“Okay,” I said, dropping the bitter pill on my tongue and taking a swig of gin and tonic. In the periphery of my vision I noticed a set of eyes boring into my skull. I turned to my right to face a predatory-looking woman with close-cropped hair and a mole above her lip. She introduced herself and I failed to catch her name—it was too damned loud.

“You’re a tall drink of water,” the woman said, the corners of her mouth turned upward in a sly grin. We barked at each other over the music but it was useless trying to have a normal conversation.

Leslie returned from the bathroom, a sexy apparition in her little blue dress, pretty brown curls flowing everywhere. She’d tanned wonderfully down in South Carolina. Jen and I both watched her with bedroom eyes and then Jen offered Les one of those pills. The women retreated from the bar and danced as I looked on, silly me, trying to figure out how this drug might affect me.

“I can tell you’re already feeling it,” said Jen. Something was creeping up on me, remapping my central nervous system. But what exactly was it doing? Jen was certainly feeling something—at some point she disappeared. Only later on did we discover she had grown fatigued from the Xanax. But why wasn’t I worried? Ah, of course.

We considered leaving—that is, until we ran into Deirdre and her husband, Sean. Deirdre’s eyes brightened, as did mine.

“We meet again,” I said to the lithe minx, “and this time, Leslie’s around for the fun.”

Meanwhile, two petite women, one Latin, the other Asian, competed for Leslie’s attention, gyrating around her. Deirdre flitted through the group, latching onto Leslie as I stood and made small talk with Sean, my voice straining above the wall of sound. Then, inexplicably, I found myself dancing with a friend of Sean’s, a shy-seeming woman who suddenly backed her rear into my crotch and grasped my thighs. Where’d that come from? She didn’t flinch when I pressed up against her and palmed her tits.

Somehow it was decided the party would continue at Deirdre and Sean’s place. They drove us uptown, stopping along the way to drop off my dance partner. Sean explained she was just a friend who at the last minute had chosen to tag along. “I wonder what she thought of all that,” he mused.

“I think she would have come back with us,” I said, “but it’s just as well.” Just fine, in fact…

Reclining on the couch, I watch as Deirdre pulls down the top of Leslie’s dress and goes to work on those chocolate-chip nipples. And now Sean is lapping as Leslie’s nipples, too, and I am grabbing Deirdre’s buttocks over her jeans, reaching in to feel the crevice, when Deirdre rises and choreographs the removal of clothing, gesturing first at the men. Leslie takes me into her mouth and Deirdre positions herself behind my girlfriend, making pretend screwing motions. I tell Deirdre she has great tits. A cat sits by my head, purring, and Sean tries to wave it off but it won’t budge. Les moves over to offer Sean some oral attention and Deirdre climbs up onto my lap, sort of dancing on top of me as I take one teardrop breast and then another into my mouth, pausing to peer into her smiling face and then wiggling my tongue against hers. Still smiling, she sinks to the floor and wraps her lips around me.

Everything that’s going on ought to be erotic—intellectually, abstractly, it is—but the sensations reach my brain in low fidelity, as if I’m tuning in on an AM radio. None of this really bothers me though. Right now I don’t think anything can.

I scurry off to take a piss, halfway there feeling something furry clamp around my leg, only to realize the furry thing is in fact the couple’s little dog trying to attack me. Laughter. After returning, I watch the women probe each other with delicate fingers, and soon my own digits intervene, gliding over Deirdre’s moistened clitoris before they slip into her. The dizzying series of change-ups continues as Sean kneels before Deirdre’s spread legs and eases inside her. They look good together—Deirdre with her trim little body and Sean with his denser, masculine lines. It’s so rare to find a well-matched couple: more often than not it’s a beautiful sweetheart of a gal hitched to a pudgy fellow with a Napoleon complex.

The four of us are in the bedroom, the women lined up head to toe, Sean and Deirdre slowly grinding into one another as Les and I mirror their movements. I flip my girlfriend over, sliding in again and pushing her head toward Deirdre’s tits. I watch as Sean’s strokes pick up speed. Both husband and wife moan nasty little nothings as the pounding becomes more insistent and then bam—he pulls out, depositing beads of semen on his wife’s belly. As if on cue, I pull out shortly thereafter, shuddering in druggy orgasm and dribbling on Leslie’s buttocks. With a contented sigh, Deirdre rises and stands by the bed, the slick coat of jizz on her midsection reflecting the room’s incandescent light…

When we finally leave, the sky is an all-too-familiar shade of blue. On the way home I think about all those people on Prozac, Xanax, and so on—miracle pills. Shit takes the edge off, sure, smoothes out those rough edges. But edge is what separates waking life from dreams. If I were forced to choose, I’d rather be unhappy than numb.

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