Little Dogs

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.

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