The Porn King

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?”

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.”

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.”

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?”

“Yes. But I wonder how much of this is for the sake of the male gaze.”

“I honestly don’t think they care right now. Besides, didn’t you just flash your tits for that guy over there?”

She laughed. “Touché.”

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.

More: Ron Jeremy | Exhibitionism | Voyeurism | Threesome | Peggy | NYC Perverts Saloon | Swingers

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