Odyssey

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.

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