Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Apr 28, 2006
It’s late and I’m watching The Twilight Zone—the original and not the crappy remake. Leslie isn’t home yet. I think about what she and Emma might be doing right now and I smile. All the same, I’m a little saddened that I won’t get the chance to spoon with my woman tonight; to press my erection against the cleavage of her warm, round ass.
It’s only fair, however. Freedom is more than just a word. I turn in, pushing the lazy, purring cats off the pillow to make room for my head. Sleep comes quickly.
I awake to the sound of a key turning in the apartment door. I alight from the mattress and greet my girl with open arms.
“I meant to come home last night, but I fell asleep over there.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes and yawning. God it’s early.
“If you want I can tell you what Emma and I talked about.”
Les and I had discussed seeing people separately under certain circumstances, and we’d recently taken our first baby steps in this direction. Naturally, our experiment hadn’t been without its complications. Right now I’m too tired for words. “Naw, we can talk later.”
I lead Leslie to bed and press up against her, drifting off, happy to have her back.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Apr 25, 2006
It was the first purely social gathering of the NYC Perverts’ Saloon since that seminal affair in February, and though we were missing a few esteemed colleagues, several of us braved the rain to converge upon a little Japanese restaurant in Midtown. Our merry band of revelers included Selina Fire, Viviane, Chelsea Girl (who brought her Pretty Dumb Things and her boyfriend Donny), myself, Leslie and Peggy. Donny, who looked younger than I’d imagined, seemed amiable enough, even if he was perhaps a little wigged out by we perverts and our constant talk of sex and politics.
Viviane and Chelsea Girl insisted I sit between them. This was a mistake: throughout dinner I found myself distracted by the heaving bosoms to my left and right. It certainly didn’t help when Chelsea Girl proudly proclaimed her bralessness, nor when Viviane hovered over my lap trying to get a snapshot of my LED belt buckle (set to advertise NLP, natch).
You know you’ve been in New York a long time when every goddamned place conjures a memory. After dinner we walked to our destination and when the doorman ushered us inside it hit me that we were standing in what used to be Float. It was the place where I’d first been offered cocaine, a key loaded with white powder shoved under my nose before I could wave it off; the place where I, penniless and drunk, somehow finagled my way into the double VIP room; the place where, in that same room, I’d seen a patron relieving himself upon the upholstery. The decor of what had once been a Mecca of after-hours nightlife hadn’t been touched since the last millennium. It was like running into a pretty girl you used to shag and discovering she’s turned into a haggard crack whore.
This was, in other words, the perfect venue for a porno party.
Wherever Ron Jeremy went a mob followed, and though you’ll find few women who profess an attraction to him, he was confoundingly popular with the ladies. I suppose one can chalk this up to his place in America’s celebrity firmament, yet he does appear to have a gracious and disarming manner with women. Leslie jumped into the fray, returning moments later with a big grin on her face and sharpie scribblings on her left breast, which she was only too happy to show off.
“He sucked my nipple!†she exclaimed, evidently quite proud of herself.
“I hope you’re going to wash it off before I put my mouth on it,†said Peggy.
“Of course. Do you think I’m crazy?â€
I introduced myself to Ron shortly thereafter, but when I turned around to thrust Chelsea Girl in front of him (“Oh he’ll love you,†I assured her) he’d already wandered off somewhere. Perhaps the excitement of almost meeting Ron Jeremy had been too much for Chelsea Girl, because she decided to take her Donny and her Pretty Dumb Things home.
I was more excited to meet Joe Gallant, he of the now-infamous lesbian paint enema videos. With his leather jacket and his long graying hair he gave off just the sort of aging rocker vibe I’d expected. “I’m shooting a film called Avenue X,†he told me, then nodded toward his entourage of young women. “All these people are in it. Perhaps you could do a cameo.â€
Viv wanted to have a look at the main floor so we gathered the perverts together and marched downstairs. I switched the message on my LED buckle. “Fellate me!†it now read. “It’s both a sleazy come-on and a literacy test,†I explained to Viviane. And, sure enough, people either laughed or stared at the message in utter confusion (“Fel-hat me? What does that mean?†asked some girl).
Much dancing ensued, after which we went outside for a breather. Two of New York’s finest sat in a police cruiser near the club’s entrance. Les strutted up to the car, lifting her top. “This is legal right?†she asked as she bounced up and down on the pavement, her breasts jiggling. The rest of us stared on in amazement. The cop on the passenger side jumped out of the vehicle and struck up a conversation with my fiancée. Selina was kind enough to hand him a pen.
I grinned at Viviane. “Welcome to my world.â€
My world indeed. Upon our return to vips Leslie straddled Peggy and the two of them mashed their pretty faces together. I stood watching my lovely playmates and thinking about how nice it was that Les and I had met someone with such a sweet disposition—someone who radiates such warmth and passion. I’d been denying it for fear of jinxing myself. Things were good. Things were more than good. I turned to Selina, “Aren’t they beautiful together?â€
“Yes. But I wonder how much of this is for the sake of the male gaze.â€
“I honestly don’t think they care right now. Besides, didn’t you just flash your tits for that guy over there?â€
She laughed. “Touché.â€
I’d forgotten all about Ron Jeremy. He sat in the corner now getting a blowjob from one of his young groupies. I decided I didn’t need an eyeful of Ron Jeremy’s penis so I let Leslie and Peggy investigate. The two of them debriefed me upon their return. “His dick doesn’t look as big as I thought it would,†said my fiancée.
“The camera adds ten inches,†I quipped.
The party soon wound down. Selina and Viv left us. Les found out we won the raffled they’d held earlier (the prize was a trip either to Vegas or Cancun—we opted for Cancun). Peggy took the dirty message scrolling across my belt buckle to heart and wrapped her lips around my cock as I stood over her in the second floor hallway. And then, finally, the three of us went home, where I set up the tripod Les had gotten me as an anniversary gift and snapped pictures of the girls before joining them on the couch.
We fucked like lovers, not porn stars. And then, as morning birds happily chirped away in the park, as pale light began to stream in through the windows, we fell asleep.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Snaps | Apr 21, 2006
Lex and “date”
The simple explanation as to why men are (allegedly) more visual than women is that we have the better view.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Apr 20, 2006
“Lex!”
Standing in line for the metal detector, I’d mentally checked out. It took me a moment to realize someone had called my name. When I spun I around I saw Chris, of Chelsea Grill fame, standing in the other line and grinning at me. I marched over to him and clasped his hand. “Holy shit. You’re the last person I expected to run into here.”
By now his grin had transmogrified into a full-on smile. “In trouble with the law, Lex?”
“Naw, I’m just here for jury duty. You here for the same?”
“Nope. I’m testifyin’ against a purse-snatcher.”
“Aren’t you the model citizen.” Chris handed me his business card; he’s general manager for a fancy new club now, moving up in the world. I smiled at the prospect of VIP treatment and promised to pay him a visit.
After we’d parted ways I found myself oddly moved by my friend’s service to the community. Though I’d initially been reluctant to haul my ass down to the courthouse, well, the system has a way of grinding you down.
And so I patiently sat in the jury selection room, read a book, talked politics with a few people, and dutifully returned from lunch at the appointed hour, anxious to find out whether we’d receive a call from the war room.
Then came the clerk’s magic words: “Okay folks, it’s slow around here this week so you’re being discharged.”
Discharged. I should have been relieved—and I was in a sense—but I also felt a little let down: once I’d resigned myself to being there I wanted to see the process through. For the first time I felt like a citizen of New York and not just a resident.
The old folks spoke of how much better it is now that the jury summons comes only once every four years and not every two years as it once did. I’m not so sure. It seems like a long time to wait for another chance at citizenship.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Apr 17, 2006
“You are the only ones standing between civilization and anarchy,” quipped the clerk. The 150-or-so Manhattan residents crammed into the courthouse auditorium laughed. Who knew jury duty could be so darned funny?
Our bleak, windowless holding pen smelled like public school: musty and familiar. It contained what I imagined must have been a cross-section of Manhattan’s non-immigrant population, who were, to my surprise, a rather ordinary looking group of people. After scrutinizing the audience I made the following notation in my logbook: Ratio of hot babes to average lookers – 1:10. This is why I would make a good juror; I always zero-in on the pertinent facts.
Then came my brush with blogebrity. You see, the clerk had an annoying habit of remarking upon people’s professions as they handed in their paperwork (for whatever reason there were an assload of lawyers and cops among the potential jurors). When my turn came—I’d simply marked down “Self Employed”—he said, “Oh, you have the best boss in the world.”
“Little do you know,” was my rejoinder.
When I returned to my seat I spied a man standing in line wearing obligatory hipster uniform #3—the one that says I blew $500 on these clothes and spent an hour picking them out but I want it to look like I raided some teenager’s closet. (Actually, this may have been a good wardrobe choice considering jury duty has that distinctive air of high school detention about it.) After the hipster handed in his form the clerk, of course, commented upon the man’s profession. My synapses fired. “I bet that’s so-and-so,” I muttered under my breath. And, sure enough, when a bunch of people were called up for service two hours later he answered to the name.
The rest of my day was uneventful. The powers that be gave the remaining juror pool an hour-and-a-half for lunch, after which we returned to the jury selection room and napped like preschoolers (snoring preschoolers, that is) until we were finally let go at 3:30 PM. No one else was called to service. Apparently the wheel of justice really does turn slowly.
Will any legal professional in his or her right mind put Lex Konrad on a jury? Stay tuned…
NB: I’ve intentionally left out certain details. And, obviously, if I am assigned to a case I won’t be able to offer any commentary.
