Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 30, 2005
The bitch sits before me, panting in my face, her tongue lolling, her eyes stupid and happy. I run my hands through her soft, raven-black hair, then grasp her shoulders, unsure what to do next. She loves daddy. Yes she does.
Juanita exhales dramatically and passes me a coconut-flavored blunt through the expanding smoke screen. “California haze,” she says. “Don’t stand up too quick after you toke this shit.”
The product made its way to us from the West Coast, via FedEx, packed in with oranges so as to throw off any possible interdiction efforts. Juanita knows how to work the supply chain.
“Okay girl, daddy’s gonna smoke now, so you have to—no… no!” It’s too late. Her tongue flutters over my lips and I’m forced to press my hand to her chest.
“Blow it in her face,” someone says.
“Kay,” I’m projecting from my throat rather than my diaphragm, trying not to empty my lungs yet, a stoner technique which makes one appear to have a rather bad case of indigestion. “Here goeshhhhhhh…”
The dog scampers off, evidently a bit confused. “Mmmm cococunut,” I blubber, passing down the line to Leslie.
A wave wells up within my gut, crashing upon my internal organs and breaking up into foamy tendrils that reach into my brain and settle there. For a moment I can see the gaps between time. “Time lapse!” Les announces, and when I look at her it’s like I’m watching the great cosmic flip book in action, decelerating now to one frame per second. The dog’s tail wags in slow-mo. Whump… whump. I look over at Lisa, who’s peering, glassy eyed, into the abyss.
I swallow. My heart thumps. I want to get up but I cannot move.
I attempt to join whatever conversation we’re having but I’m overcome by the thought that I’m not making any sense, that I must be clicking and screeching like a giant insect. Were I to deliberately click and screech, I reckon, my California haze might automatically translate from insect-speak into ordinary human mouth noises. Then again, judging by people’s reactions I must be making sense… unless that’s what they want me to think!
“Lex!”
Click?
“We’re leaving.”
Screech!
Our friends are kind enough to drop us off at our destination before heading off to one of the drearily trendy clubs that dot the Flatiron district. By the time we reach the coat check line at the Flirt party my haze has, thankfully, abated somewhat, and as I chat with the coat-check girl I’m relieved to have recovered some semblance of my customary social graces. Les and I aren’t terribly impressed with tonight’s crowd: evidently, the organizers were obligated to let in a few regulars and so the usual air of permissiveness is lacking. We make do though.
A brown-skinned fellow with a friendly smile recognizes Leslie and they carry on like old school chums. I pull Les aside. “Who is that?”
“Remember that girl we met at the last Flirt party? He’s her friend.”
“Wha?” My mind goes all hazy at first. Then the flashback hits: my mouth clamped around a lovely, perky breast. “Oh, that girl.”
“She’s not here tonight though.”
“Oh.”
The night wears on and we eventually retire to couches in the back, resting our feet and watching people wander by. There’s a dark-haired girl dancing with manic energy, her little rear end rising and falling in tune with the music. My lazy eyes follow her movements. “Get a load of that girl,” I say, but before Les can respond miss manic is upon us like a stripper who hasn’t yet earned her house fee. She lowers her top and grinds upon my girlfriend’s lap. Everything’s getting trippy again, the California haze coming back with a vengeance. Les looks a little overwhelmed and I briefly consider coming to her rescue. Instead, I cock an eyebrow at her and shrug helplessly, then rise from my seat.
“Excuse me ladies. Nature calls.”
I return to find them dancing, or rather wrapped together in a lustful parody of a dance. Leslie positions the girl between us and I place my hands upon her slight frame, peering at the nape of her neck and sorta wondering who, exactly, this person is—and whether I want to make this territory my own. I still don’t know her name. The girl reaches back between my legs and squeezes, not altogether gently. When Les whispers that she might come home with us I’m skeptical.
“Are you sure about this? She’s um… kinda weird.”
“I know. Maybe I got a bit carried away.”
We collect our coats because leaving one way or another appears to be the only sensible thing to do at this point. My spidey sense tells me this woman is only making a show of things: it’s not uncommon for people to debauch themselves in public in a way they’d be afraid to in private. Sure enough, the mystery-woman’s male friend materializes and says he’s going to make sure she gets home safe. I nearly thank him for taking her off our hands. We loiter a few minutes longer and then walk toward the exit.
“Hey! Wait.” It’s Ishmael, the fellow who’d recognized Les earlier on. “You guys wanna ride?”
I’d seen the lovely, slender young woman at his side, even spoken with her, but I hadn’t noticed her until now, you dig? She has a fresh face, a dreamy look in her eyes, a little mole above her lip. She and Les get better acquainted while Ishmael retrieves their things. Les flashes her breasts, to which the young woman responds in a moneyed drawl, “That’s hot.”
I’ll call her Paris.
Remember what I said about little dogs? Ishmael’s friend, a short Asian guy with carelessly sculpted hair, is of a less cantankerous breed—though clearly enamored of Leslie he makes no attempt to mark territory. Rather, he seems content enough to be along for the ride, and Leslie’s more amused than annoyed at his advances. We all pile into Ishmael’s SUV, Paris immediately lifting her blouse over her head as we speed off to god knows where. I place a hand over one of her small, tear-drop breasts. Les kisses the girl. The boys laugh.
The Asian dude protests lamely when we drop him off. Ishmael stands firm (“Time to go, man.”) so he shuffles away, placing his hands in his pockets and curving his shoulders into an aw-shucks slump. Before our ride continues Paris bends over the front seat and asks for a spanking, upon which I lift her skirt and let my hands do the talking. The impact of my palm against the ample white flesh of her rump echoes down the narrow, empty street.
Ishmael, thankfully, keeps his eyes on the road. He reaches over and tilts the passenger seat back as far as it will go and now Paris is peering up at me like a happily sedated patient on an operating table. I slip my arms around the seat and play with her breasts, looking up now and then to see whether people in the vehicles around us have caught on. Leslie pushes her silky tongue against mine and I realize that I’d probably be ill at ease in these situations without her reassuring presence. Out of the corner of my eye I can see our driver’s hand inching down his girlfriend’s skirt, revealing the soft and shaven flesh below. When his hand withdraws mine takes its place.
“I have to pee,” Les announces. Come to think of it, so do I. We park in the vicinity of Ishmael’s office, intending to use the facilities there, but as soon as my girlfriend is released from the confines of the car she pulls down her jeans and squats in the street. Ishmael and I shrug and take up positions along shuttered storefronts. Alfresco—a proper New York piss. Her shirt back on, Paris leans against the car and waits for us to finish. It’s not long before her skirt is up and the girls are fooling around a little and Ishmael is taking naughty snaps. Once again I pull my penis out into the fresh city air. Les wraps her lips around it. “That’s hot,” says Paris. Cars cruise by, the drivers probably rolling their eyes and thinking: Only in New York.
It feels like it’s been ages since we left the party. Les and I fool around in the back seat as Paris alternates between watching us and lowering her head into our driver’s lap. Her hand reaches back, making a grasping motion, so I guide it to my cock. She quickly pulls her hand away and I wonder whether I’ve committed a faux pas. Then I see that she’s only licking her palm, that her hand is now returning to the post sticking up through my trousers. She works me rhythmically, her other hand making a similar motion between her boyfriend’s legs. It’s almost a shame that the sun is coming up now, lifting our haze, and we’re cruising along Central Park North, our sex party on wheels coming to its inevitable conclusion.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Nov 22, 2005
The little dogs bark the loudest—they bark and nip at the heels of the big dogs, trying to claim turf they cannot possibly hold. It’s a big dog world. The little dogs are scared shitless.
We’re in the back of a police cruiser, hurtling the wrong way down Fifth Avenue. We’re trying to hunt down little dogs. One of them thought it would be funny to lay paws on my girlfriend, and when I snarled and gave chase the pack scattered, as little dogs are wont to do.
The cop’s talking to his partner, “Man, I wanna scare the shit out of those punks.”
Me too. The problem is these creatures never stick around—they aren’t in it for the confrontation. They lurk in the shadows because standing in the light would reveal them for the vile little beasts they are. The dogs have scampered off into the night and we have to content ourselves with the thought that we at least did something.
The sad thing is I’m used to it. I remember, years ago, walking in the Village with Les and Leea, the three of us arm in arm in arm, when some fool attempted to sweep my leg out from under me, falling flat on his face instead. I just laughed and asked him how he’d like to proceed. Wanna have a go at me? He ran off, of course: little dogs are generally toothless unless traveling in packs.
We’re not even entirely safe at swinger parties in spite of all the rules that govern such affairs. You see, little dogs are missing the part of the brain that allows one to grasp the concept of boundaries—I believe that lobe atrophies after many failed attempts to lure that hawt bi babe into a threesome with your bored and reluctant mate. Put these idiots in a sexually open environment and they’ll treat it like a free-fire zone, grabbing every ass and sniffing every crotch.
Like pickpockets, they always strike when your back is turned, when your attention is diverted elsewhere—hence the preferred rear assault. They may be white or black, young or old, hulking or diminutive; it doesn’t matter. Overwhelmingly male but sometimes female, the thing little dogs have in common is fear borne of inadequacy and rage borne of entitlement. Their haunches tremble before the big dogs. They want, nay, deserve what the big dogs have.
I was already steamed before we went out—I was steamed because another breed of little dog sent me a missive regarding my writeup of the Halloween party. It seems the Swede was unhappy with how his night turned out. He wanted to make it my problem. Unfortunately for him, it’s not my problem. He could have dealt firmly with the interloper; he could have negotiated boundaries with his wife ahead of time, as any sensible first-timer ought to do.
But I suspect none of that would have made a difference. He’s the classic control freak: happy enough to pawn off his wife for his own purposes but unable to confront the reality of her sexual desires. I should have spotted the red flags as they went up: the way he thrust his wife upon us, his territoriality, his tantrum (though not directed toward us) and inability to confront the source of his anger. All torn from the swinger edition of the little dog playbook.
So I wrote him: Thanks for reminding me why we play almost exclusively with unattached females.
Non-monogamy isn’t a pissing match. It’s not about marking your territory. It’s the exact opposite of this, actually: you let your lovers go, let them play, confident they’ll come back before too long. It’s why you won’t find me joined to Leslie’s hip, why upon seeing my girlfriend’s arms wrapped around some bloke I’m not thinking about bashing the dude’s face in.
And perhaps Girl was right. Perhaps I do love women. Enough to say ‘hello’ instead of sneaking up on them from behind; enough to seek permission before sticking my snout where the sun don’t shine; enough to treat women like thinking, feeling human beings with their own wants and needs. I always thought this was the minimum that should be expected of a man.
Then again, perhaps I was wrong.
People ask me why we rarely involve other men in our escapades. The sad truth is there are way too many little dogs out there—too many wanna-be alpha males jockeying for status, sniffing crotches and whatnot. Sex isn’t a competitive sport for us. All that yapping gives me a headache. So we vet guys carefully. Does he try to sneak in a grope when I’m not looking? Does he need to control every aspect of the interaction? Does his significant-other have that look of terror in her eyes?
This is not to say women are perfect. I wouldn’t want to place them on a pedestal—they’d only fall and break something. In the long run they are just as likely to become little dogs (and it’s a truly frightening metamorphosis). In the short run, though, they are better team players. That’s a motherfucking fact.
Am I a big dog? I don’t know. Never gave it much thought. There’s too much to be thankful for. The cops are kind enough to drop us off at our destination, where we’ll eat and drink and make merry with our lovers. Then we’ll take one of them back to our place and fool around and laugh and collapse into bed together.
And those little dogs? They can run home and lick their shriveled nuts for all I care.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 18, 2005
“Sup?” I always laugh when Sara greets me this way. Clearly she’s mastering the urban vernacular.
We pop open a bottle of riesling and pop in Leslie’s mystery movie of the week. In this naked household, my girlfriend is in charge of all audiovisual materials not related to pornography. She usually manages to surprise me with some bizarre selections. This week it’s a lesbian slasher flick—a real gore fest—causing us to shudder and titter nervously.
“You’re not gonna go all crazy on us, are you?” I ask Sara as the credits roll.
“I’ll try not to.”
I imagine psychologists have to be at least somewhat sane. Part of the job description, innit?
The city is shrouded in mist as we make our way down the sidewalk to Chocolat. Yellow emergency lights pulse through the haze: the parked cars on Fifth Avenue are being towed en masse. Poor suckers.
Sara’s profession provides her with a wealth of story-time material, and as we relax in a corner of the bar she discusses the fetishes and weird sexualized compulsions she encounters. My girlfriend loves these sordid tales. “It must be embarrassing to wet your pants in front of someone,” Les says, “but there’s also something disturbingly sexual about it.” As they continue talking I cannot help but shake my head.
“So you’re a sexual anthropologist?” Sara asks me when we have a moment alone.
“Yes, I study human mating habits—particularly those of young females like you.”
When she laughs the tiny metal stud on the side of her nose glints in the light.
Sara likes to watch—she tells me so when I’m curled up in her lap as the two of us recline naked on the leather sofa. She smiles as my girlfriend straddles me, places her hand over a brown, silky buttock, and I imagine she’s taking mental notes. It’s a kind of sex therapy for all of us.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 16, 2005
I’m on the phone with Natalia. “I’m sorry I missed the party and I’m sorry I disappeared for so long,” she says.
“That’s okay. Really.”
It is okay, I realize. Everything comes full circle. People disappear, for years sometimes, only to reappear. Even Leslie and I, the inseparable duo, have walked our solitary paths.
“I finally broke up with the man so I’ve been dealing with that. He kept pushing the marriage idea and I didn’t want to go there with him and, well, you know…”
And he was twenty years your senior, dear, and wrong for you in a million other ways. But who am I to argue against the comforts of passing the time with someone? Of filling what might otherwise be lonely nights in front of the teevee with a warm and somewhat agreeable human form? No, as much as I’ve dabbled in the dating world it’s still an alien landscape to me. Hopelessly blinded as I am by the love of a good woman, I’m in no place to pass judgement.
So I utter the incantations that are expected of me. “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say. “You’re young, after all.”
“I’ll miss the little things he did for me, but I know it’s better this way.”
Dating is eternal return—you place your hope in another but really you’re staring into a funhouse mirror, seeing yourself over and over again, straining to discern truth in illusion. Am I really the creature staring back at me? Maybe the mirror always tells the truth and you have to learn to live with yourself. Maybe it lies until you find someone who puts your faults into perspective. What do I know?
Chris, formerly of the infamous Chelsea Grill, wasn’t so much born as poured from a tap. That is to say he’s one of those rare individuals who’s found his calling, being damned quick with the drinks and damned good with the customers—so good, in fact, that his loyal fans sometimes buy him expensive gifts. Les and I hadn’t seen him for over two years but he stayed in touch and let us know when he landed at a new watering hole on the Upper East Side.
“Still with the same woman?” I ask. His wife is an accomplished novelist. I’ve only met her once or twice.
“Oh yes.” His Irish accent is mild—a slight variation, here and there, on the vowels. “And what about you, Lex? Still with the same garls?” He winks and flashes a devilish grin. Har har har.
It’s the same grin (the addition of a few wrinkles notwithstanding) that he flashed me a little over four years ago on the balmy summer evening this all began, when Leea and Leslie made an arch over my lap, their eyes closed and lips locked together. This was long before it would occur to us to date in threes or attend a naked loft party, when our non-monogamous life was like the kiss itself: wet and blissful and improbable.
He smiles now as Les and Emma form a similar arch over my lap. He smiles and I shrug and we’ve come full circle: in spite of my vain attempts to domesticate these moments they remain as wild and puzzling as ever.
My head may explode one day. This may all come to a screeching halt or else quietly fade to black. But I know my thoughts will return again and again to everything that’s happened, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have a good chuckle every time.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Snaps | Nov 14, 2005
Insult or invitation?
A gift from my favorite bartender, this button has proven quite popular with the ladies. I guess the cocky and funny routine really does work.
