Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Mar 31, 2006
Enema Art
Ever have one of those weeks? One of those weeks when you just want to go hide in a dark corner, rocking back and forth and mumbling to yourself? Yeah, that was my week. Let’s see:
- My allergies are back. Waking up at 4AM with a head full of snot is not conducive to getting a good night’s rest.
- Therefore I have a horrible kink in my neck.
- Thus I’ve been cranky every day.
- Oh, and I’m being sued—well, I’m not actually being sued yet, but now, for the second time in four years, I have to run around filing paperwork to prove that no, I’m not the deadbeat who stole my credit card number (not the actual card—there’s the rub) and went on a ten-thousand-dollar spending spree in the Bronx.
- Three words: Jury Summons Enclosed. Apparently I cannot get out of jury duty on the grounds of courtroom phobia.
- Google screwed up NLP’s site indexing. You guys had a great run but can we, like, please have some competition now?
- I suffered what can only be described as an existential crisis. I curse Mr. B., my effeminate-yet-heterosexual high school French teacher, for introducing my young, impressionable mind to Sartre.
See? Alles Scheisse. Ironically enough, the highlight of my week was catching a glimpse of a real-life enema painting. And, well, I did get to hang out with Chelsea Girl, Dacia, Viv, Jefferson and Rachel (who recounts her end of our conversation in remarkable detail).
TFGIF. I’m outta here.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Mar 29, 2006
I’m going to the Sex Worker Visions opening tonight. The show is curated by (who else?) Audacia Ray. Rumor has it there’ll be some enema paintings on display, which, lemme tell ya, I’m totally psyched about viewing in person. No word on whether the enema art will be on sale but as I said earlier there’s no fucking way I’m hanging that shit in my living room.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Mar 27, 2006
This building on 5th Avenue, which housed Ethan Hawke’s production office, was gutted by fire early yesterday morning. I used to work directly across the street. At the time, a tenant on the third floor often played gay porn on his big screen television and masturbated, completely nude, in full view of every office on the opposite side of the street. This might have been less scandalous if he’d 1) installed curtains and 2) kept his willie in his pants during normal business hours. As you might imagine, the onanist’s activities made for some, uh, interesting conversations when clients visited our offices.
The moral of the story? When you masturbate in front of an open window, God doesn’t just kill a kitten—he (eventually) burns down your entire goddamned apartment building.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Meta | Mar 27, 2006
Be afraid. Be very afraid. One week from tonight I’ll be reading at the NYC Perverts’ Saloon along with other members of the New York sex blog mafia. There’s more information on the official site.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Mar 21, 2006
I went to Chelsea that afternoon and bought the gayest non-cowboy clothes I could find, clothes that are paradoxically less gay than the couture one might find on display at the average bridge & tunnel club. (I once joked with Bad Man that I’m going to write a book called The Straight Man’s Guide to Being Fabulous.) Les and I even purchased matching LED bling.
The trip to Brooklyn was frustrating but the party wasn’t without its highlights. The indoor port-a-potties were an adventure, as was the dance floor, which seemed on the verge of collapse. Emma took a snapshot of my cock (“Look at my hard dick,” I said to her. “Isn’t it rad?”). And Peggy, well, the girl knows how to dance. As I stood there with my thumbs in my pockets, observing her fluid movements, I knew I was in for a treat.
When Les, Peggy and I arrived home we raided the fridge for beers and lounged on the couch talking and laughing. The sun would be coming up soon. I was tired, leaning back and listening to music, thinking of turning in, but then my hand found Peggy’s thigh. The two girls kissed, curly hair obscuring their faces, dark and light shades of brown mixing together. Peggy’s pant leg was wide enough that Leslie was able to pull it up like a skirt, and when moments later Peggy cried out in ecstasy I stared at our guest, confounded. Is she really that quick? Peggy returned the favor, the outline of her hand rising and falling underneath the waistband of Leslie’s shorts. When my fiancee is on the receiving end of a practiced hand I can time it. She opened her mouth, inhaled sharply; I started my mental countdown…
The counter hit zero and Les threw her head back, twisting in Peggy’s arms.
The women peered at me with bedroom eyes. I feigned innocence at first, then dipped my fingers into the warmth between Peggy’s legs. I didn’t have to work very hard—she squeezed her eyes shut, arched her back and, finally satisfied, drew her legs together. Not that it troubles me much, but it is unfair that some women are so effortlessly multi-orgasmic. Then again if I were like that I’d never get any work done.
They complained that I still had all my clothes on, the little hypocrites. They undressed me and Les pushed me back down onto the sofa, practicing the skin flute while Peggy slid her hand up and down the shaft. I rose to my knees. Peggy, ever the situationist vegan, took me into her mouth, grasping me with her hand and twisting as her lips parted for me over and over again. “I just knew it,” I told her.
“Wha?” she said between mouthfuls of cock.
“The—the way you were dancing earlier; I knew you’d be a firecracker in the sack.”
Peggy smiled. Soon she lay stretched out on the sofa, her head cradled in Leslie’s lap. I eased into Peggy by way of her pant leg and when she gasped I could feel her hot breath against my chest. I worked myself up to a vigorous, frothy pace and then slowed, repeating the cycle a few times. She pivoted her hips, grinding into me. I kissed Leslie, who was busy stroking Peggy’s curly locks.
Clothed Female Naked Male. CFNM. There’s a vulnerability to being the only one who’s naked, a power-reversal. And fucking a clothed person—without the objectifying influence of nudity—is like fucking someone in a pitch black room: suddenly you’re fucking her and not her body.
Peggy closed her eyes and made a face that was by now familiar. “My god are you gonna come again?” I asked, rhetorically.
“She’s so pretty,” Les was saying. “She’s so pretty.”
Peggy came. I came shortly thereafter.
I’d never even seen her naked.
