Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 29, 2006
“So what’s it like to have a penis and fuck a girl with it?” As Leslie poses this question she flashes me a devilish grin that brings out those little dimples in her cheeks.
Our date smiles at me too. The best porn stars have smiles like hers—smiles that somehow manage to radiate both innocence and depravity. This paradox is the stuff of raging hardons. “Yes, Lex, do tell us,” she insists.
I sputter for a moment and then find my footing. “You two have clits, right?”
The girls laugh.
“Imagine having a very large clitoris,” I continue. “Large enough that you can put this very sensitive part of your body inside someone else’s body—where it’s warm and wet and slippery.”
They both look down and make phantom penis gestures with their hands. I find this both comical and sexy.
“And when you ejaculate?” our date asks.
“Oh, that’s the best part. Your muscles contract and you can feel the semen pumping out of you. Being able to watch yourself spray all over the girl is an added bonus.” I grasp her by the shoulder and pretend to beat off in her direction. “Don’t. Move. Almost. Finished.”
She raises a hand to her chest as she erupts in laughter. I cannot help but imagine little rivulets of jizz running down her tits, the spunk, milk-white at first, slowly going transparent like hot water poured from a tap.
“You chicks have us beat in the orgasm department though,” I remark, stroking my chin.
She regains her composure. “I suppose that’s true for some of us. I have clitoral, vaginal and anal orgasms. Each one of those is unique.” The woman has such elegant and doll-like features that every dirty word that issues from her lovely mouth strikes me as a revelation. The phrase “around the world” pops into my head. I clear my throat. Something stirs in my trousers.
The three of us have spent hours ensconced upon the comfortable pillows in this Moroccan-themed lounge talking openly about our sex lives. When I’m on a date I usually feel as if I should hold back a little so as to not spook the natives, but our companion is completely unflappable. I place my palm upon her slender thigh. “You don’t seem to be scandalized by us at all.”
She beams at me again, her expression less innocent and more depraved this time around. “It takes a lot more than sex talk to scandalize me.”
It’s not long before we’re back on the subject of penises. Leslie describes mine, licking her lips while doing so, and her cock-swelling, cunt-dampening performance is so mesmerizing—so mesmerizing I won’t dare attempt a reproduction here for fear of doing it a grave injustice—that when she finishes several seconds elapse before our date speaks up. “Wow, Lex,” she says to me, “Leslie is probably the best advertising you could ask for.”
And so, unable to restrain myself after all the dirty talk, I let my hands wander the length of our companion’s delicate frame. I stroke her thigh, permitting a couple errant fingers to oh-so-gently graze her pubis. The girls continue the conversation but I’m preoccupied with mapping this new terrain, exploring this young woman’s neck, her back, her spine, then going lower, my hand settling against the tender furrow between her buttocks. I lean sideways and position my torso behind hers, the scent of her perfume and clean skin wafting into my nose.
The bar is about to close. Worn out from all the verbal gymnastics, the three of us make weekend plans and call it a night. I may be wearing all my clothes, but I feel naked. Sweaty and naked.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Jun 22, 2006
As many of you may already know, the Exotic Erotic Ball (& Expo) came and went last weekend. Les and I had been excited about attending until about two weeks beforehand, when it became clear the organizers weren’t very, um, organized. It didn’t help that my and Viviane’s polite inquiries concerning VIP/press passes met with utter indifference—way to reach out to the community guys!
Les and I chose to spend our night elsewhere. Others were less fortunate, but every cloud has a silver lining: people’s frustrating EEB experiences made for some funny and trenchant observations. We’ll begin with Dacia’s incisive post mortem:
But anyway – the Exotic Erotic Ball. Speaking of awesome – it really wasn’t. Being immersed in my little bubble of people who are highly critical of the sex industry while also loving and embracing parts of it in a rabidly idealistic way, I forgot that there are lots of people who aren’t totally jaded by it and are in awe of porn stars and whatnot. We call these people “civilians†in a slightly derisive tone – (the royal) we are not very nice. There wasn’t dress code to the evening, so people like me were dressed to the nines, but there were also many, many dudes wandering around in tank tops and shorts. Not to mention the high numbers of people in Halloween costumes – and not in a fetishy way, either. Peculiar and sort of amusing.
What was not sort of amusing, but probably something I’m going to have to get used to (diva-on-the-rise alert), was the way that said civilians acted around me and mine – there was lots of “stealthy†photo taking. Dude – I can see you, especially when you are dressed like a viking and the flash on your camera goes off when you are pointing it at me, and it is only polite to ask “Can I take a picture of you?†This is a little thing called objectification – and I felt it cut me like a creepy knife last night.
Dacia’s right on here. Reading sex blogs and such, it’s easy to forget that the porn world—and the average rabid porn fan—isn’t as (to put it delicately) liberated and sex-positive as we might like. I have nothing against porn conventions per se, but when your event caters to compulsive wankers rather than hedonists you’re going to end up with a room full of shut-ins and creeps. A New York Press article on the Expo paints a vivid portrait of the kind of people I’m talking about:
... A swarm of eager men gathered around the booth, flush from being so close to their favorite girls, and feeling safe in their sympathetic community. In that, it wasn’t unlike a Star Trek convention, or perhaps a Harry Potter book signing.
Whether it was the expo or the ball itself, the same people were in attendance. The men who bought tickets looked like they worked out too much or not at all, and wandered around in tight packs with their camera phones ready to fire. The women came with their hair dyed and their bodies modified, and their tattooed boyfriends stayed close by. Wherever they came from, not enough of them showed up.
At the ball on Saturday night, maybe a thousand people were there, made smaller by the voluminous, empty space in Pier 94 that echoed around them. ... The crowd surrounding the main stage was subdued, and many of them came to the costume ball without any costume. With no mob to get lost in, people refused to abandon their inhibitions. Instead, most were content to remain mere spectators, searching for anybody they could stare at.
Yikes. On a lighter note, Joe Brandi takes the prize for the funniest writeup:
I arrived Sat night at approximatley 9:30 PM and left at close to 2 AM out of boredom. The most exciting part of the night was watching some drunk guy with maskara and a pot belly get slapped in the head by a guy who knew that the drunk wouldnt slap back, then having KSEX’s Wankus with stripped pants on looking like a Ice Cream man stand in between and trying to get the guy who wasnt going to do anything anyway to walk away.
I basically stayed for the time I did waiting for something to happen….anything! After 3-4 hours I decided to leave and go to a regular bar. When its 12:00 on a Sat night and people are leaving who flew in from California to go back to their hotel rooms you know it sucks.
At the end of the New York Press article, someone opines that perhaps New Yorkers are “weird about sex.” It sure doesn’t seem that way from where I sit: I know of at least four other sex-themed events that were taking place on the very same night as the Exotic Erotic Ball.
Nevertheless, I do hope the organizers learn from their mistakes and give it another try next year. Maybe next time they’ll get to know the locals first.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 20, 2006
There’s a right way to rock
And a wrong way to roll
You can just listen to your soul
Just remember that life
Is number one
You can be having so much fun
Tim and Eric
High Tea
I’m at Jefferson’s pad, surrounded by perverts, pornographers, prostitutes and philanderers of every persuasion. We are the new dissidents—enemies of a theocratic state, canaries in America’s coal mine—enough secrets among us to set off a firestorm of personal, professional and legal repercussions. There are new faces, fresh additions to an ad-hoc collective that’s starting to feel like home to me.
I sit on the couch, sandwiched between Chelsea Girl and Viviane, leaning forward now and then to make a selection from a coffee table covered end-to-end in dishes piled with tempting finger food. “It’s funny how I wasn’t sure about you at first,” I tell CG.
“But then I grew on you like moss.”
“Yes,” I reply. Like kudzu. Like athlete’s foot. Like red algae. We’ve reached, as they say, a comfort level. She has a certain cynicism or sadness about her—I don’t know which—that appeals to me. She uses big words; I talk about my big penis. If this isn’t a solid foundation for a budding friendship then I don’t know what is.
Leslie and Jefferson are talking about the infamous underwear party of 2003. “I was the art instructor!” he exclaims. Figures. When I first came across his blog I just knew I knew him. And, sure enough, months later Anya mentioned him to me. Now we’ve come full circle. At times New York feels less like a teeming metropolis than a sleepy yet secretly debauched little hamlet—the sort of place one might find in an Updike novel.
Somehow Selina, CG and I get to talking about our toughest times in New York. “Two thousand two was my lost year,” I’m telling them. “I got laid off, went through a traumatic breakup with someone who was ten years younger, and I just sort of fell into a hole.” I don’t know why I tell them this; Les and I rarely talk about it. About the girl. We don’t even invoke her name.
There’s a new girl, Jane, an impossibly slight creature. I catch her eye a couple of times. I’m intrigued and I’m struggling to remember what I’ve read about her.
Viv asks me about Peggy. I never know what to say when people ask about that cool chick we introduced them to however long ago. Our triads are usually good for about three months. Then the girls drift. And we drift. And at some fuzzily-defined point there’s no there there anymore. It used to bother me—lately, not so much. I’m not sure whether this means I’m calloused or just mellow.
People are on their feet now, some of them talking excitedly about their plans for the night. Les and I stand on the balcony trading sex stories with the enigmatic Jamye Waxman. I’m always fascinated to hear about threesomes from the perspective of the proverbial third wheel. People come out to say farewell. I gawk at Selina, who’s now wearing a brand spanking new corset acquired at the Exotic Erotic Expo.
By 6:30 Les and I realize we have to hit the road if we’re to have any chance of meeting our college friends on time, so we make the kissy-kissy rounds. I offer to help Dacia with her porno. “But I’m not gonna fuck on camera,” I add.
“Why doesn’t anyone wanna fuck for me!” she exclaims in what I assume is mock exasperation. Everyone laughs.
Les and I ride the train uptown with Flint. There’s a sparkle in my fiancée’s eyes and I can tell the gears are turning. “The two of you are so tall,” she says, smiling broadly.
Dinner
We have dinner and drinks with college friends. “When you turn your life into a work of art,” Jesus says to me, “you lose your ability to appreciate simply being alive.”
It’s 12:30 in the AM when we leave them. Our night has barely begun.
Rated X
Les and I roll into Luke and Leroy’s shortly before the hot body contest begins. Eighties music blasts over the sound system and from the look of the crowd these old hits might be news to many of them. I’m already disappointed. “Everyone’s wearing way too many clothes,” I say to my babe, frowning. We step outside for a smoke and I talk to some young blonde and she falls into a dream and slides away. The hot body contest is a sausage fest, both on and off the stage. Not that I had high expectations, but my Jedi instincts told me to come here tonight, forgoing the half-dozen other parties we knew about. There must be some method to my madness.
Time passes and I eye the clock on my phone, trying to figure out how we’re going to occupy ourselves until GBH’s doors open at 4AM. We step outside again and before long Les and I are conversing with a petite, busty, curly-haired Latin girl. I’ll call her Serena. “What do you think of Rated X?” Serena asks me.
“It’s more like Rated PG-13,” I quip. “You shoulda been in that contest.”
“Definitely,” sez my fiancée. “You’re beautiful.”
Les and Serena both flash their breasts and fondle each other right there on the fucking sidewalk. The bouncer’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Since Les appears to be, um, handling the situation I turn my attention to Serena’s friend Evie, who’s cute but a tad Rubenesque for my taste. This is, I believe, the first time in my life I’ve ever played the wingman. We return indoors and sit at the bar, where I learn Evie’s visiting from Texas. She doesn’t appear shocked to see Serena lock lips with my girl, but she does smile and raise an eyebrow. I shrug. “That happens sometimes.”
“They really seem to like each other,” she sez.
“Yes they do. So tell me about Houston, Evie. I’ve never been.”
The bar soon empties out and we’re all on the sidewalk. “Where are you going now?” asks Serena.
“GBH,” I respond.
“What’s that?”
“Great British House. You two are coming with us.” I hail a cab, open the door and make a grand sweeping gesture with my arm.
“I’d follow you anywhere,” Serena says to Leslie. The girls pile into the cab and we’re off.
GBH
At the door they let the girls in free but charge me ten bucks. I’m inclined to let it go, seeing as I have more important items on my agenda, but the girls come to my aid, Leslie forming the thin end of the wedge. I cannot help but laugh when the bitch at the door hands me back my cash.
“Can I buy some cocaine from you?” inquires the bartender. “My regular guy isn’t here yet.”
I’d nearly forgotten that I have my shades on. Apparently I’ve missed my calling as a dealer—or else, y’know, as an undercover narcotics officer. “Sorry man. Looks like you’re assed out.”
The place fills with languid dopers. The girls dance. Leslie tugs at my shirt and the buttons all pop open. Serena spins around, places her hands on my bare chest and falls upon me, her body gyrating against mine. I grab a handful of her firm rump and pull her to me.
When Serena and Leslie disappear into the bathroom Evie and I find a place to sit. “So how old are you?” she asks.
“Thirty-two.”
Her eyes widen. “What? And your friend?”
“The same.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Just good genes I guess. What about you and Serena?”
“I’m twenty-two and she’s twenty-one.”
I stifle a coughing fit. “Damn, I’m old enough to be your—older brother.” I grin. Evie laughs.
No matter how many times I swear off younger women I keep on meeting ‘em. Serena’s a year younger than the girl-who-shall-not-be-named; maybe that girl is the reason I discriminate against the young chicks. Maybe this is wrong. Why should I hold all young chicks responsible for one person’s sins? I’ve found no evidence that women my age are any better.
When Leslie and Serena return we dance again. Serena grinds her ass against me and soon I’m sporting a piece of pipe and I know she knows, because the harder I get the harder she rubs against me. When Serena and I uncouple Les notices my trouser snake. She rubs at it and giggles. Serena squats before me and places her pretty mouth over the bulge, sorta biting it. Is this really happening?
Our young companions prepare to leave—Evie has a flight to catch—and so I kiss Serena on the nape of her neck and say goodbye. After watching Serena’s gorgeous posterior recede into the distance I turn to Les. “You got her number, I trust.”
She rolls her eyes as if she’s talking to an idiot. “I told her everything about us and she’s cool with it.”
“Evidently. Did you know she’s only twenty-one?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I like about these New York girls, man. I get older and they stay the same age.”
We both laugh and then head over to the bar to settle our tab. On the way out we run into Ruben Rubin, long-haired party promoter extraordinaire. “I don’t know how he still does it after all these years,” I tell Les.
The world outside is hot and bright. Squinting against the light, I flip my shades over my eyes in one fluid motion, then take Leslie’s hand. An old tune runs through my head:
I love New York in June
How about you?
