Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Oct 28, 2004
Halloween is upon us and my costume’s ready to go. I’d been hoping against hope that I’d be able to walk into the local costume shop and find—sandwiched between Leopold Bloom and Kilgore Trout—one Lieutenant Tyrone Slothrop outfit, size XXL. No dice. Oh, but there were racks upon racks of costumes based on that Harry Potter drivel.
So I found a red cape and, later on, a winged helmet that would look right at home in a Met production of Das Rheingold. Me dressed as Tyrone dressed as the Rocket Man. The Raketenmensch cometh! My backup was me dressed as Tyrone dressed as Plechazunga but, let’s face it, it would have been difficult to scrounge up a complete pig ensemble at the last minute.
Speaking of German mythology, Grego’s gone all Tannhäuser on our asses and given up on his sex empire. He writes like a Rikers Island convict in the middle of a 20-year stint for manslaughter:
[F]or those of you that watched the VH1 show, please do NOT lead the life I have lead. I am no longer doing the parties or any kind of videos. My personal views on sex and “the swinger’s scene” have changed greatly. I am by no means judging anyone as we all are where we are in how we feel and what we believe in and everyone is at different stages. I am just expressing my beliefs that I have actually always had, but somehow let myself keep acting against to fill the empty places inside of myself. There is so much more to life then just sex and there is too much more going on in the world now of SERIOUS importance. We are living in critical times not just here on earth, but also for our souls. No, I did not get an STD or HIV (safe sex is important). What I did get I feel is even worse in that I kept filling my entire life and the emptiness inside me with excess sex, sexual thoughts, and arrogance until they became out of control and I just kept adding negative karma to my soul through my entire life when I KNEW I should have been seeking God and the saving of my soul…yet I did not do it. All I have gotten from the life I have lead is depression, pain and sorrow in trying to fill emptiness with the wrong things.
Almost a year ago, at Grego’s Love Loft, I grew disillusioned with the swinger scene. No, I didn’t have a spiritual meltdown. I was simply bored; tired of wandering, aimless and unfulfilled, through the swinger Zone, every bit as jaded and confused as good ole Lt. Slothrop. The scene had little to do with the joy of sex: for most it was about notching bedposts, or escaping bad relationships, or proving something to the world. We’ve come across many such people in our adventures. Leslie calls them empty vessels—full of false bravado, they drink or drug or fuck themselves senseless to make up for what they lack inside.
There is nothing wrong with wanting a good fuck. There is, however, something very wrong with pawning your body away for validation, self-esteem, the illusion of being wanted. Sex, to me, is more than a series of transactions—this soulless trafficking in bodies and fluids and illusory contentment.
The Rocket Man is above all that shit.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Oct 22, 2004
We took Layla out to dinner down on Houston and stuffed our faces with spicy rolls and Toro. It was a pre-birthday celebration of sorts. Lay and I traded barbs over baseball. I decided our relationship may not survive the postseason.
Off to a little hole-in-the wall to watch the game, a place overflowing with Yankees fans. On our way in a tall woman in a black t-shirt handed us a pack of cigarettes. Not her brand.
“I made a pact with God concerning this series,” I told Lay. The truth is I tried to make a deal with the Devil first but I’d already given away my soul.
The three of us found stools by a pool table in the back. Four televisions blared. Lay wrapped her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Les was quiet. I felt uneasy about Lay’s affection—I wanted the girls to talk. When they finally did start talking I went back to staring at the teevee and lost myself in the game.
Inning after inning melted away. At some point I went out for a smoke. The tall girl was there. She introduced herself and stood a little too close, all six feet and two intimidating inches of her.
It was just after midnight when I came back in. Leslie and Layla stood by the pool table in full-on lip lock. I strode up to them and pushed my tongue into the fray. We then drank birthday shots. At the other end of the room the tall girl stared dagger-eyed in our direction.
The game ended and I cheered a little too loud. I gave Lay my condolences. We quickly ducked out of there, limiting any potential for grievous bodily harm, and spilled onto the street.
Layla and Les sort of summarized their conversation for me; they both said they felt better about things. “I’m not trying to keep you on the sidelines,” Lay said.
In hindsight I should have kept my mouth shut. It was going to be an early night and it had been awhile since we’d had a proper date so I asked Layla when she’d be free. “Maybe Saturday,” came her response, and she then went on to explain the other guy would be coming back to town on that day and she was anxious to see him.
Cue the sound of a stylus being yanked off an LP.
It’s not exactly that I had a problem with Layla’s balancing act, just that I didn’t need to be reminded the scales were tipped in the other side’s favor. The heart may have a limitless capacity for affection but we humans are, for now, constrained by time and space. Choices must be made and only then do you know where you really stand. Just once, I thought, it would be nice if someone else were her contingency plan. Leslie gracefully bowed out, saying we’d do it another time.
The situation didn’t bother me much that night. Maybe it was the excitement of the series. Or perhaps after the stress of the prior seven days our little triad had—much like the Yankees—lost some of its mystique and aura.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Oct 21, 2004
Rejoice, for we are Red Sox fans. We few, we happy few, we band of idiots. Long have we suffered ignominious defeat; long have we pursed our lips in the darkness of winter. Still, we held our heads high. We kept our faith—prayed each spring would bring new hope. And today we witness the existence of miracles; today we know there is strength in the human spirit. Ordinary men with tired arms and aching backs and bloodied tendons can accomplish the extraordinary. Our unwavering dedication is enough to hold them together.
So let us take pride in our boys from Boston. We deserve it. But let us also keep our hubris in check. There are still four games to be won. There is still struggle ahead. Our humility is our edge.
Let’s play ball!
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Oct 17, 2004
Sunday blurs into Monday. Your internal clock is all wrong and your head’s spinning with memories of the weekend. Think of your lover and replay events—something, something doesn’t add up. Queue up a few songs when the evening comes. Just ride it out.
The next day your girlfriend leaves town. She grants you shore leave with Natalia but Thursday’s still a long way off. Layla sends you a missive, her words laden with frustration. She’s torn. Trade notes with her: but I did and you did and she did and I thought and you thought and she thought and I felt and you felt and she felt. Decide that to spill electronic ink is futile, to rehash the specifics pointless. Where the three of you are concerned you all have different energies, different orbits.
The game’s on. Pace around in front of the television with a beer in hand. Sport only gets you more agitated. Wonder, briefly, what you’ll say to her tomorrow.
Layla calls the next evening. You listen. You speak. At least now you know the score, the parameters, the possibilities—that’s all you wanted. Hang up the phone. Feel relieved, upbeat even. Breathe.
The questions will come later. You’d expected her to find someone; even wanted her to. But something this all-consuming, when you’re only just getting to know her? And what was the point of that conversation the three of you had over dinner a few weeks ago? Someone else is getting her A game, maybe even her A, B and C games. Her explanation had sounded good enough: he’ll be gone soon and we’ll still be around. Now it seems you’re the insurance plan. Has the coalition reached an impasse?
You sigh and run your hand through your hair. No one owes anyone anything. You can invest yourself emotionally or you can hold back. Either way you lose. Realize she must face the same dilemma. It’s the classic Catch-22 of free love. You’d like to think that somewhere, somehow this works for someone, but right now you have your doubts.
Every day the rose sheds more petals but it’s still hanging in there. You admire its tenacity, its willingness to go through the motions. Every day you lop off another little section of stem, hoping to keep the thing alive. You are the patron saint of lost causes.
Thursday, finally. Emma wants to meet early. Natalia’s on board. Tell ‘em to meet you at the grill—you can’t think of anywhere else that won’t be overly trendy. Talk to the girls. Flirt. Marvel at the months that have gone by since you met them. “You guys didn’t think I’d still be around,” Emma sez.
And she’s right… you didn’t. And you think… you think… that it’s not about the high of falling in love—that it’s about trust, comfort, longevity: accepting flaws and limitations and simply getting along in spite of everything. It’s quotidian, actually. Doesn’t make for good copy. That high you get at first is addictive and error-prone: a momentary lapse of reason. To love is to choose—to cast a jaundiced eye upon fate.
“Life isn’t a romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant,” you said to Layla last night.
Tell the girls every woman in your life has a song. Leslie’s, for example, is “Hotel California.” There’s a Jewish girl somewhere who’s got the second movement of Beethoven’s 7th. Emma sez yours is “Creep,” because you sang it for her once. And it fits, except that it’s so much easier for you to play the cad, the rake, the orgy guy. Emma gets “More Than This.” Natalia gets “Milkshake.” “Hey, that’s not a romantic song,” she protests. “Yeah, but are you trying to tell me it doesn’t fit?” Man, cause it sure does.
Natalia’s got her hand on your ass and you have your arm around Emma and Natalia’s trying to get you to come to Brooklyn and Emma’s weighing in with her opinion and it’s sort of hot that it’s all out in the open, that they’re cool with everything and so is your girlfriend. Pile into a cab. Go ahead and paw at Natalia’s double dees, then lean over and push your lips against Emma’s. Glide over her silky tongue; stroke her curly pigtails. Tell her she’s a great kisser. Kiss Natalia’s mouth, then traverse the length of her neck. Whip your cock out and purr as the girls stroke it. Invite Emma to feel Natalia’s tits. “Do I have permission?” she asks coyly. Of course. Then Emma lifts her sweater and Natalia coos over the pretty bra and you and Natalia take turns lapping at her little pink nipples. Place your hand between Emma’s legs and squeeze, wondering what the cabbie thinks of all this activity. Don’t forget to talk dirty.
The cab’s already uptown and Emma invites you out for one more drink. And as you stand outside waiting for the bouncer to get around to your license you say: “The first rule of bisexual girls club is no one talks about bisexual girls club.” Derek is there and you talk for awhile. Natalia’s got her arms around you. Don’t forget to put your hand down the back of Emma’s pants. Give her a nice kiss before you leave with Natalia and ride across the park.
Home again home again. When she offers you some smoke take a little but don’t overdo it. She asks you to put on a porno and you laugh. Rocco on the screen now, on a bus, surrounded by Eurosluts—you don’t pay him much mind. Back to the real world. Touches, licks, caresses, fingers going everywhere, but the girl just wants to get fucked. You grow numb from the smoke; your consciousness flickers in the light of the teevee. Soon you’ll rise again and take her from behind and smack her and in the end you’ll flip her over and thrust to the hilt. Cap it off with porno panache by spraying all over her, both of you giggling at your copious output.
Take the last cigarette out of the pack—damned girls bummed off you all night but you love ‘em anyway. A gangbang is just wrapping up on the teevee and you stand there watching the finishing blows, not turned on, exactly, but mesmerized. You rouse sleeping beauty. Lead her into the bedroom and part the covers for her, then crawl in yourself and drift off, remembering that Lay never did call tonight but then… you never expected…
Your girlfriend returns the next evening and your heart skips when she passes over the threshold. Your long week finally ends. Look forward to a quiet weekend.
Later on you’ll remember the poor rose. It’s dead now, desiccated: the husk of some long-forgotten dream. Fate’s finally come to collect. You shrug and toss the thing onto the counter. You want your fucking pint glass back.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 13, 2004
All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind.
Marx ‘n’ Engels, The Communist Manifesto
A spectre haunts New York this weekend—namely, you. Always late to your own parties, you roll into your girlfriend’s mother’s restaurant at about eight o’clock. Kiss your smiling lover. Kiss your frowning girlfriend. Mom’s downstairs. You realize this could be dangerous but you quickly toss the thought from your head—it’s your weekend after all. Nibble at the appetizers and order a Corona from the pretty waitress.
So you eat and talk and go out and have a smoke and watch the sexy girls strolling by and say hello to Mother and your lover has a sex toy and she won’t tell you what it is and she pays for dinner and the three of you catch a cab home so you can watch two rich old white bastards make their cases for running a country called the United Fucking States of America, where you were born in 1973, almost exactly 31 years ago.
Take a drag of your lover’s joint. Laugh at the television. Want some wood? Don’t be surprised when that familiar tingle runs down your spine, tickles your groin, and when you whip it out your girlfriend clamps her pretty lips around you. The debate ends and your lover gives you a foot massage and you go into a fugue state. Your toe cracks. Shift now, rest your head in your lover’s lap while your girlfriend sucks you senseless, then sit up straight and let your lover have a go. Let her know how much you like it. Kiss your girlfriend deeply, slip your fingers through her hair, softly press against the back of her skull. She genuflects and now it’s the two of them in your lap, kissing you, kissing each other. Have some control; don’t jizz yet. There’s more to come.
You saunter into the bedroom and your feet feel all slippery in your slippers. The princess produces a double-headed dildo, puts condoms on it, pushes it into your girlfriend, then impales herself. Wince when the thing bends at odd angles. Don’t make too much of the sympathy pains—they’ll pass. The nymphettes make a bridge of their legs and you crawl between them and lick both crashing cunts and you wonder for a moment whether they could make do without you. Decide you sort of like that idea. Your lover’s behind you now, pushing against you as you push into your girlfriend, keeping up the rhythm. You slip fingers into her ass and cunt and goddamn both chicks are wet and your girlfriend is so pretty and when you fill her with semen it almost hurts.
You’re the monkey in the middle tonight. Alternate between the girls. Try to sleep through your hardon. Don’t be disappointed when your lover has to leave early; just caress her flat belly and kiss her and tell her you’ll see her in a few hours. A mid-afternoon nap helps the day pass, and you lie there with your cock pressed up against your girlfriend’s warm ass. It may as well be the only ass in the world.
Night falls as it always does. Get ready and catch a cab downtown, to a neighborhood where people go to drink and drug and fuck themselves senseless, trying to forget who they are. And how the fuck did it happen that you’re getting on in years, that you’ve sprouted hairs here and there, that you’re another year older and you’re still knee-deep in the shit? Or maybe you are the shit. Jimmy certainly thinks so. “I think I want your life,” he’ll tell you later on.
People filter in. Your lover. You’d have her again but that won’t happen. She’s wearing leather boots and she’s there for a little while and then she tells you she’s off to meet her man. Yeah, you know how it feels, but make sure you play it cool because you are an enlightened motherfucker. Forget about it and slip into the bathroom with Jen, who offers you a birthday bump. Tell her you don’t do coke but take her up on the valium. Somehow it’s okay to piss in front of her. Stroke her back when she bends over the sink and snorts that shit into her nose through a dollar bill. “Isn’t currency dirty?” you ask. “I’m already dirty,” she sez.
You stand outside another bar. Some guy’s smoking a joint. “Ay, he’s got a joint,” you say. He hands it to you and exits stage left. Take a puff and share the wealth. Don’t worry when the doorman pops his head out and asks if you’re smoking weed: he just wants a puff himself. There’s a burlesque show going on inside but you’re not interested; you’d rather sit at a table and shoot the shit with the guys. The Indian girl is there, accuses you of looking at her tits, sez she might have to take you home if you don’t stop. Not that you’d mind: you’ve never fucked an Indian girl.
The crowd thins out. Your girlfriend pours water over her little white shirt, revealing nipples that look like chocolate chips. Just sit there. Relax. Let her beauty take you somewhere else. She steps onto the stage and sways to the music, lifts her shirt, and with the red curtain in the background and the spotlight on her and the silent, spellbound stragglers it all feels like a moment lifted from a David Lynch film. She returns to the booth, sits next to beautiful Natalia. You watch in slack-jawed awe as their full lips meet, black skin pressing into brown. You are stoned and there’s a cheesy Coldplay song on and you know it’s stupid but you’re sure this is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, the thumping in your chest the most powerful thing you’ve ever felt. Go ahead. Indulge. It’s your party.
Take the girls home and smoke some more. Put on music and watch as your girlfriend snakes about on the floor, strips, and then climbs atop the coffee table, stretching like a cat. An elegiac little melody comes on and you stick your cock in your girlfriend’s mouth. “This is such a sad song,” Natalia sez, and you’re incredibly turned on but at the same time you feel an infinite sadness pulsing through you. Let the girls take you together. Invite them into the bedroom. Fuck Natalia from behind while she laps at your girlfriend. Grab her tight little ass and luxuriate in her subtle movements. You check out the coupling from all angles, running your fingers along the well-defined furrow of her spine. You’re stupendously drunk and stoned, but damned if you aren’t hard as a piece of pipe, really giving it to her proper.
She’ll leave early too, and you’ll sleep past noon. Rise, ready to settle into a quiet Sunday. Mount your partner; be the lion taking his lioness. Don’t even bother acting surprised when Deirdre and Sean call and invite the two of you out to dinner, to a little Italian joint that’s packed with social butterflies of the Upper East Side variety. You’d forgotten just how hot Deirdre is. Let them take you to Scores, even though you don’t understand why you’d want to pay for something you can get for free. The strippers circle like vultures. Your girlfriend picks out a saucy Russian girl with large natural breasts and you spring for the lap dance. Watch those tits jiggle, nipples poised inches from your girlfriend’s pouting lips.
A couple more swingers show up; the girl looks a bit like the lovely ingenue from a couple weeks ago. Tops are coming down now. Gawk as the amateur takes the stage. Her lover hears your story and says you should write a book. You don’t bother telling him you already have.
Your turn for a lap dance. You decide the girl’s pretty enough—she’s a big-titted, small-assed Latina—but somehow… somehow… this is not erotic. You have no interest in transactions: you ache for transgression, pine for the unexpected. And then, unexpectedly, Deidre is dancing in your lap. Go ahead and grab her firm rump, let your lips browse the length of her cleavage. Tell her she smells nice. When she turns around and presses her ass into your lap, you feel yourself swelling. And you know she knows… and you know she knows you know. When it’s over take your girlfriend’s hand and press it between your legs. She smiles at you, naughty you, and she doesn’t know you’d be happy to spend the rest of the night staring at those little dimples in her cheeks.
You’re committed to the night now—in the shit too goddamned deep. Sean drives you all downtown, to Lotus. There’s a line; negotiations at the door. You remember you’re permanently on the list here on Friday nights, not that it would do you any good now. But then you’re in and you make your way to a table in the front and there’s a bottle of Grey Goose at your knees. There’s another couple here—a tall black man with a little white girl—and he’s a Libra and he’s wearing a jacket and he’s cool. Your girlfriend flits about and you dance with Deirdre and the night rolls on.
Someone backs into you. Grab her thighs and then spin around. She looks like a girl you dated once, a blonde with nice C-cups. Say hello. She steps up onto the couch and you introduce her to your girlfriend, who promptly buries her face in the girl’s tits as you run your hands all over the two of them. Everything’s automagic now. You’re sucking down drinks and moving around and eventually it’s all winding down. Grab your girlfriend’s hand and walk outside. You see the blonde again. Say hello again. Better yet, take her number. She asks you if you’re a swinger, then tells you you’re hot but your girlfriend is much hotter. Obviously.
You take a rose home. Cut off a section of the stem and place the rose in a glass of water. Scatter a few petals over the counter. You even have the presence of mind to sniff the dying thing before, finally, you stroll into the bedroom, into the waiting arms of your woman.
