Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 24, 2006
Sugar daddy… set me free
Sugar daddy… come for me
C.J. Bolland, “Sugar is Sweeter”
Peggy-with-the-pigtails, sans pigtails, sat at the end of the bar sipping an apple martini, her slender nose buried in a book about meat and sex and feminism. She greeted us with a smile, both innocent and youthful, and the three of us fell into easy conversation. I was in high spirits: there was none of the pressure, no matter how slight, of a date; none of the obligatory kung-fu of seduction. We were simply enjoying each other’s company, trading stories about family and travel and so on.
And then the women kissed. If the two of them were lovely as individuals they were even lovelier as a single writhing mass, a tangle of limbs and parted lips and flowing hair and heaving breasts. Before I could clear my throat or fiddle with my hands or shift uncomfortably in my seat, Leslie broke the tension: “Now I wanna see you guys kiss.”
Peggy and I grinned at each other, brought our lips together in what I assumed would be a tenuous and polite tap-dance of tongues. Yet she didn’t so much kiss me as consume me, grabbing my head and mashing her fresh face into mine. Pleasantly surprised, I pressed my body against her, pushed deeper, harder. As the girl’s silky tongue slid over mine all I could think about was how that tiny metal stud might feel against the head of my cock.
Jen was in town so we headed over to Madame X where the party was already in progress. She was there with 120, a mustachioed gentleman and a few other friends of hers. When we all went out to the patio for a smoke I struck up a conversation with the mustachioed guy and complimented him on his bold taste in facial hair. “Oh this?” he responded. “I’ve had this for thirty-five years.” At the time his response didn’t really register with me—he didn’t appear to be all that old.
Before long everyone in Jen’s group left aside from the older gentleman, who seemed fascinated (naturally) by what was going on between Les and Peggy. We had an amiable discussion that somehow brought us to the topic of drugs, continuing further to the topic of what we would say to our theoretical children about drugs. “Actually, I have a daughter,” the gentleman said.
“How old is she?” Les asked.
“She’s twenty-six,” he responded.
Peggy laughed. “That’s a year older than I am. So, um, how old are—”
“I’m fifty-six.”
I just sat there rubbing my temple in shock. “Give me a minute dude—you just blew my mind. I mean, most of the women I date are around your daughter’s age.”
Soon the two vixens abandoned all pretense of making conversation; they sat on padded stools, facing each other, Peggy’s legs spread wide, her black panties just barely, temptingly visible under her skirt from my vantage point. They kissed and their hands roamed. The older gentleman looked at me and smiled: “You should jump in.”
“Naw, gotta let that shit marinate. Guys who think they can just jump in come out red-faced and empty-handed.” The girls chuckled when I said this but continued snogging, and when the gent took leave of us (“Looks like you’re gonna have fun tonight,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear) they still couldn’t tear themselves away from each other. I guess I couldn’t blame them.
The plush, velvet-red back room of Madame X was empty by now; it was our own semi-private bordello. I grasped Peggy’s pale, smooth outer thigh, sliding my hand under her skirt. She pressed her lips to mine, then bit my lower lip hard enough that a day later Leslie would comment on the small bruise. (“Bruises are lipstick kisses that don’t rub off,” Les had said in Seattle.) I ran my other hand up Peggy’s inner thigh and teased her labia over the silk that guarded what little remained of her modesty. Leslie reached for my belt and within seconds her lips were wrapped around me, our playmate watching us and purring. My fingers found their way under Peggy’s panties, then inside her, and as they pistoned in and out the girl rocked in her seat and gasped. When someone walked by I leaned forward in a lame attempt to disguise a situation that was obviously getting out of hand, yet this only made me want to push the limits further. My head fell into Peggy’s lap. And I tasted her…
“I don’t want to go but I have to go,” she was saying.
I protested. “But you’re so wet.”
“I know.”
I stood up to put my cock away but for a moment it hovered there, twitching, inches from Peggy’s face. She licked her lips and took me into her mouth, all wetness and suction and heat. I heaved a shuddering sigh. Her tongue ring had fallen out earlier so I would have to wait to fulfill that particular fantasy of mine.
Les and I walked her to the PATH station. “Now I’m frustrated,” our playmate said.
Les kissed her cheek. “It’ll be that much better the next time.”
“We’ll have to get together on a weekend night.”
“Oh you bet we will.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Feb 21, 2006
Fry: “Hey, wait! I’m having one of those things. You know, a headache with pictures.”
Leela: “An idea?”
Fry: “Mm, hmmm, hmmm.”
Saturday night I answered an age-old question, one that’s been on my mind ever since I hit my first real party in New York. Why do people always think I know where the drugs are?
When the third dude approached me looking for pills or coke or whatever I pulled him aside. “So what is it about me that makes you think I’m a drug dealer?”
“It’s the orange shades man.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. And you smile a lot.”
Would-be drug kingpins take note.
It sure didn’t hurt that I wore my checkered seventies retro shirt unbuttoned half-way to reveal my ‘Porn King’ wifebeater. When I stood in the slow-moving bathroom line a young woman placed her hands on my chest, parting the shirt.
“Are you really a porn king?”
I had to think about this for a minute. “Actually, well, yeah. I don’t make the stuff though.”
I’m convinced Porno Jim is a minor deity: he seems to be everywhere at once, at least as far as these underground parties are concerned. I told him about the project Anya and I are cooking up.
“Have you seen her stuff?” he asked me.
“Oh yeah. She’s a freakishly talented and prolific writer.”
“Sounds like it’s gonna be great.”
“Listen, I want you to do a podcast for us.”
“About what?”
“About this. We need to capture this shit somehow—all of it—because this is the real New York. Plug your show at the end or whatever. For me this is about the love first and the money second.”
Our conversation segued into sex, as it always does. Porno Jim was telling me about his favorite position, in which the two girls soixante-neuf each other while the lucky guy fucks one of them doggy style. “I call it the winner’s circle,” he intoned.
“That’s the perfect term for it,” I said.
“Cause everybody wins!”
The night thundered on. The loft was huge, well-worn, cold in some places but comfortable nonetheless. People wore elaborate carnivale-themed costumes, giving me an eyeful of jiggly asses and breasts. Friendly faces lined the hallways. I milled about. I danced with Les and Emma. I ran into people and the conversations all ran together.
“I always dreamt of this New York,” I was telling Mort, a recent arrival to party central and a friend of Emma’s. Earlier in the evening we’d dropped by his birthday soiree in Manhattan. We returned to the conversation we’d struck up a few hours ago regarding the varieties and vicissitudes of hooking up in this city.
“I’ve learned a lot from you,” Mort said.
“I’m no prophet,” I replied. “I just have a certain… perspective on life. You wanna know the secret? Just connect with people in whatever way works for you—that’s all I care about anymore.”
By now I was clipping a pretty good buzz. I found Emma in the back room. She’d straightened her hair for the occasion and I’d been eyeing her all night, imagining myself plowing her from behind while knotting her ponytail in my fist. I pulled her close and slipped my hand down the back of her jeans, grabbing those little pale asscheeks—I was sorely tempted to take her up against the wall. She wrapped her arms around my waist and stumbled into me.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m just a little drunk.” She took a seat upon the window ledge.
“Just don’t fall out the goddamned window, alright?”
She laughed. I pivoted and saw Anya dancing by the deejay table so I shuffled over to say hello. “I love that man,” she sighed, gesturing at her boyfriend. He was busy working the turntables.
“You seem so much happier nowadays,” I said.
“That’s what a good relationship will do for you.”
I smiled broadly. It’s nice having her back in my life. You see, her journey has paralleled mine: we’ve both experimented and fucked up and been fucked up and been fucked only to tumble out the other side happier and wiser.
Nature called. As I reached the head of the bathroom queue a willowy young brunette materialized by my side. “I really have to pee,” she said in accented English. I raised an eyebrow. German perhaps?
“Darling, there’s a line.”
The girl furrowed her brow and hopped up and down for emphasis, pleading with me now, “But…”
I slipped an arm around her waist. “You can come in with me but you have to pretend you’re my girlfriend,” I said, cocking my head toward all the people queued up behind us.
“They won’t be mad?”
“Not if you’re my girlfriend.” She leaned into me and I buried my nose in her fragrant hair. We entered the bathroom together amid howls of protest. “No fucking in there!” someone yelled. Indeed, there was a sign posted on the door that admonished partygoers against using the facilities as a bordello—and encouraged people to fuck wherever else they pleased.
I went first—no need to be too charitable, after all—and when her turn came she matter-of-factly dropped her pants and plopped down. Evidently untroubled by my gaze, she looked up at me and grinned.
“Kannst du Deutsch?” I asked, figuring there was no need to address her formally at this point.
“Yes, but I’m Swedish.” Her task completed, she rose from the seat and gently dabbed her well-groomed cunt with a neatly folded square of toilet paper (funny how everyone’s bathroom ritual is different—Les, for instance, dabs first and then stands), then lifted her leopard-print thong along her creamy thighs, finally wriggling back into her trousers with a sigh.
“Nice pussy,” I said, and she laughed. People were already pounding on the door so we made exaggerated orgasm noises as she stood over the sink. I took her hand when we exited the bathroom. “You have to meet my friends.” In the back room we came upon Leslie, who was dancing with a fetching lass in pigtails.
“I have to go,” said my bathroom mate, “my friends are leaving.”
I winked at her. “That’s really too bad.” The girl gave me her number and we parted with a kiss.
By now the party was beginning to thin out, body heat no longer serving as a bulwark against the frigid air seeping in. I’d given my parka to Emma and was now missing it. And her. I checked in with the usual suspects—Les, Mort and so on—no one had seen her. Eventually I located my coat, stuffed next to Leslie’s in an oven that doubled as a turntable stand. And eventually Emma called from home, safe and sound; it seems she couldn’t find us and decided to make a break for it. Even though I had told her the bathroom would take awhile I couldn’t be angry. I’ve grown accustomed to her skittishness.
I located Leslie and her new friend Peggy-with-the-pigtails, whereupon we wound up in a darkened apartment downstairs chatting about everything and nothing while two naked people rolled around on the floor. The sun came up. The day brightened. The three of us gathered our things and took the F-train back into Manhattan, Les and I parting ways with Peggy at 14th.
I napped most of the way uptown only to be awakened, ironically enough, by a large group of Swedish students barking in a tongue that’s both familiar and frustratingly incomprehensible. Les and I shared stories of our separate adventures; I learned she’d shared a three-way kiss with Peggy and another girl, and that she’d licked still another woman’s buttocks.
“You know,” I told my sweetheart, “this is part of what’s so great about us: we take our own paths but we always find each other in the end.”
She peered into my eyes and we then made out like hormone-poisoned adolescents.
“By the way,” I said, pulling back from Leslie’s pillowy lips, “I finally found out why people are always asking me for drugs.”
