Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Nov 22, 2005
The little dogs bark the loudest—they bark and nip at the heels of the big dogs, trying to claim turf they cannot possibly hold. It’s a big dog world. The little dogs are scared shitless.
We’re in the back of a police cruiser, hurtling the wrong way down Fifth Avenue. We’re trying to hunt down little dogs. One of them thought it would be funny to lay paws on my girlfriend, and when I snarled and gave chase the pack scattered, as little dogs are wont to do.
The cop’s talking to his partner, “Man, I wanna scare the shit out of those punks.”
Me too. The problem is these creatures never stick around—they aren’t in it for the confrontation. They lurk in the shadows because standing in the light would reveal them for the vile little beasts they are. The dogs have scampered off into the night and we have to content ourselves with the thought that we at least did something.
The sad thing is I’m used to it. I remember, years ago, walking in the Village with Les and Leea, the three of us arm in arm in arm, when some fool attempted to sweep my leg out from under me, falling flat on his face instead. I just laughed and asked him how he’d like to proceed. Wanna have a go at me? He ran off, of course: little dogs are generally toothless unless traveling in packs.
We’re not even entirely safe at swinger parties in spite of all the rules that govern such affairs. You see, little dogs are missing the part of the brain that allows one to grasp the concept of boundaries—I believe that lobe atrophies after many failed attempts to lure that hawt bi babe into a threesome with your bored and reluctant mate. Put these idiots in a sexually open environment and they’ll treat it like a free-fire zone, grabbing every ass and sniffing every crotch.
Like pickpockets, they always strike when your back is turned, when your attention is diverted elsewhere—hence the preferred rear assault. They may be white or black, young or old, hulking or diminutive; it doesn’t matter. Overwhelmingly male but sometimes female, the thing little dogs have in common is fear borne of inadequacy and rage borne of entitlement. Their haunches tremble before the big dogs. They want, nay, deserve what the big dogs have.
I was already steamed before we went out—I was steamed because another breed of little dog sent me a missive regarding my writeup of the Halloween party. It seems the Swede was unhappy with how his night turned out. He wanted to make it my problem. Unfortunately for him, it’s not my problem. He could have dealt firmly with the interloper; he could have negotiated boundaries with his wife ahead of time, as any sensible first-timer ought to do.
But I suspect none of that would have made a difference. He’s the classic control freak: happy enough to pawn off his wife for his own purposes but unable to confront the reality of her sexual desires. I should have spotted the red flags as they went up: the way he thrust his wife upon us, his territoriality, his tantrum (though not directed toward us) and inability to confront the source of his anger. All torn from the swinger edition of the little dog playbook.
So I wrote him: Thanks for reminding me why we play almost exclusively with unattached females.
Non-monogamy isn’t a pissing match. It’s not about marking your territory. It’s the exact opposite of this, actually: you let your lovers go, let them play, confident they’ll come back before too long. It’s why you won’t find me joined to Leslie’s hip, why upon seeing my girlfriend’s arms wrapped around some bloke I’m not thinking about bashing the dude’s face in.
And perhaps Girl was right. Perhaps I do love women. Enough to say ‘hello’ instead of sneaking up on them from behind; enough to seek permission before sticking my snout where the sun don’t shine; enough to treat women like thinking, feeling human beings with their own wants and needs. I always thought this was the minimum that should be expected of a man.
Then again, perhaps I was wrong.
People ask me why we rarely involve other men in our escapades. The sad truth is there are way too many little dogs out there—too many wanna-be alpha males jockeying for status, sniffing crotches and whatnot. Sex isn’t a competitive sport for us. All that yapping gives me a headache. So we vet guys carefully. Does he try to sneak in a grope when I’m not looking? Does he need to control every aspect of the interaction? Does his significant-other have that look of terror in her eyes?
This is not to say women are perfect. I wouldn’t want to place them on a pedestal—they’d only fall and break something. In the long run they are just as likely to become little dogs (and it’s a truly frightening metamorphosis). In the short run, though, they are better team players. That’s a motherfucking fact.
Am I a big dog? I don’t know. Never gave it much thought. There’s too much to be thankful for. The cops are kind enough to drop us off at our destination, where we’ll eat and drink and make merry with our lovers. Then we’ll take one of them back to our place and fool around and laugh and collapse into bed together.
And those little dogs? They can run home and lick their shriveled nuts for all I care.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Sep 14, 2005
And know this day these deepened wounds don’t heal so fast
Can’t hear me croon of a million lies that speak no truth
Of a time gone by that now is through
The Von Bondies, “C’mon C’mon”
The cloying theme song to I Dream of Jeannie roused me from my power nap. “Aw, crap!” I exclaimed as I lunged for the phone. My feet got tangled in the sheets and I nearly tumbled off our dangerously high pillow-top mattress. I flipped the phone open and muttered something that sounded vaguely like a greeting.
“Hallo Lex.” The female on the other end spoke in a charming English lilt, classy yet not affectedly so.
I imagined there must have been little sleep bubbles bursting over my head, the kind you might see in Saturday morning cartoons. My eyes wobbled in their sockets. “Oh, hey.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Uh no—I mean yes. Sorry, I’m a little out of it at the moment. So this is weird, huh?”
She laughed. We gabbed for a bit and discussed the evening’s plans, then promised to touch base later on.
I went to see Jose for a haircut and listened to the Spanish-language news, trying to pick up bits and pieces of information regarding our latest national tragedy. The open drawer at my barber’s station was filled with Trojan condoms and I could not help but stare at them. Later on Girl would tell me English barbers have a tradition of handing out condoms to their clientele. I assume Puerto Ricans must do the same.
In the early evening Les and I were scrambling to get ready, or at least I was. “Better make it eight o’clock,” I informed Girl. “Leslie’s still running around naked.” More laughter, this time in stereo.
The weekend trains were running on screwy schedules as usual so Les and I spent eons waiting on the stuffy subway platform. My girlfriend’s eyes fixed upon something in the distance and I just knew she was scoping someone out. I peered over my shoulder—the object of her lust was a tall black man standing with his back to us. “You slut,” I teased. “Been a long time since we’ve done that.”
“You always have us picking up girls.”
“Oh, so untrue, dear. You get man-digits all the time and never call—you’re just too damned picky.”
“That’s because I have you, baby.” She looked up at me with those big brown puppy-dog eyes and wrapped her arms around my waist. The train arrived and when we stepped onboard my eyes were immediately drawn to one of those MTA propaganda posters exhorting us to tattle on our fellow citizens.
“This train is making all local stops,” came the announcement over the crackling loudspeakers. Fuck. Gonna be late. I paced and tapped my watch. We disembarked at 86th and hopped a cab. I checked my messages. Thankfully, Girl had train troubles too. After much huffing and puffing Les and I stood on 14th outside El Rey, sharing a fag and scanning the passersby for large-bosomed women in black dresses. Girl called and said she was in the vicinity. I spun around and saw a woman strutting down the sidewalk with a phone pressed to her ear. We both laughed.
Sitting out back in the garden, we sipped sangria and snacked on nachos, having the kind of free-associative conversation that only people who analyze everything to death can have. After the entrees arrived our conversation turned to more serious matters. “People are under the impression that I’m with a different bloke every night,” Girl was telling us, “and that’s not true at all. I’m really just an ordinary girl.” When she said bloke it sounded like blowke.
“Remember that guy who thought I was a jet-setting playboy with a trust-fund? Life’s much more glamorous in print.”
“Right. I only do what everyone else wants to do. People project all their desires onto sex bloggers like us. It’s a kind of celebrity, really.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, dear, but I think you’re the next Belle.”
She smiled. “Except I’m not—”
“—a whore, obviously. And you’re not living in a sugar-coated Jimmy Choo fantasy land either. The Girl’s life is messy; it’s real. That’s what I like about your writing anyway.”
“You’re both putting yourselves out there,” Les adds. “But still, your fans have such ridiculous expectations—I don’t know how you cope with that.”
“Yeah we’re internet-famous,” I said, tongue lodged firmly in cheek. “That might even mean something one day.”
We were distracted by a series of explosions off in the distance. The girls at the table next to us tittered nervously. I turned to one of them and said, “Those are fireworks, I hope. But you never can tell these days.”
“You can imagine what it’s like in London right now,” Girl added. Everyone nodded knowingly. Satisfied that the world wasn’t about to end just yet, we returned to more agreeable subjects.
The Girl prefaced a number of her confessions with “this is off the record,” or “please don’t blog about this.” She provided her name but insisted upon being introduced under an alias. As fascinating as it was to hear the story behind the story, it was disconcerting to deal with this influx of secrets. Our philosophies regarding anonymity are a little different—I’m not terribly concerned about the people I know reading NLP; in fact, my blog has become a sort of conversational shorthand in certain circles. Girl, on the other hand, keeps even her closest friends in the dark.
She seemed a little unnerved to learn a few of our party friends would likely be able to put two and two together. Though I did my best to allay her fears I still sensed a little tension on her part. This was uncharted territory for the both of us and I imagined that, like me, the Girl already felt a million pairs of eyes peering over her shoulders. And though I’ve been on many blind dates, our encounter felt bigger than that somehow. Which is to say at this point I was rather more interested in feeling her out than feeling her up.
We decided to walk to the party and talked about the usual stuff along the way—y’know, sex, blowjobs and masturbation. Girl objected to our use of the term jerking off. Frigging is much better, she insisted. I told her I’m partial to choking the chicken and polishing the bishop and flicking the bean and discussing the Irish question.
Glancing skyward I couldn’t help but notice the twin columns of light and so I fell silent for a moment and thought of how much my life has changed since that day, how for the longest time I believed I’d wake up and everything would go back to the way it was.
“Lex!” someone cried out behind us. As a cab passed I immediately recognized Lisa’s and Jimmy’s smiling faces but I didn’t let on just yet. “See,” I said to Girl, gesturing in the direction of the cab, “I told you I’m famous.” Soon enough we were all gathered outside the door and I made the necessary introductions before beckoning everyone inside. The party was slow at first but quickly gathered steam. Scantily clad women danced atop a podium at the center of the ballroom as people looked on in delight. Couples scoped. Women flirted. Girl and I discussed the female-centric etiquette of the swinger scene.
Emma arrived later on, looking positively underage with her hair down. When the clock struck midnight Les and I gave her birthday kisses.
“You two seem rather affectionate with Emma,” Girl was telling me. “Isn’t she sort of what you’re looking for in a partner?”
“My feelings about her are complicated—I mean, I’m sure you’ve read at least part of the Emma saga. We do take care of each other, in a way, but we don’t force a label on it.” I rambled on for a while but really couldn’t put my finger on how or why we’ve been seeing Emma for two years now.
“I can tell from your writing that you really do love women, Lex.”
I grinned. “So you saw right through my act then, huh?”
“Very funny.” She was quiet for a bit. Pensive. “You have no idea how excited I am to have met you. Yours was one of the first blogs I ever read.” I was about to respond when Girl seized my arm and pointed at the stage. “Look. I think she’s shaved bare.”
I ogled the fine female flesh on display. “Okay my mind just went blank. Pretend I just said something clever and witty.”
“I think you just did.” We both laughed.
“Oh, now I remember what I was about to say. Our correspondence got a little saucy, and I know we said no expectations but there always are, but I’m totally overwhelmed by simply having met you. I don’t even know who, theoretically, would make a first move.”
“Look, I know you’re good in bed. That’s not an issue. I value our friendship, and if you’ve read my blog you know how I feel about fucking up friendships, so it would almost be better if we—”
“—didn’t.”
“Right.”
I was relieved to free myself from expectations. “It almost feels like reality show fodder—When Bloggers Attack or Clash of the Sex Bloggers or something like that. And I don’t need to put on a show here.” I chuckled. “You know, it’s so much easier with civilians.”
“Civilians!” She, too, chuckled at the thought.
“Besides, I like to circle my prey before going in for the kill.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“As long as we’re being completely honest, I need to get some questions out of the way.” I felt like an amateur journalist.
Her face was inscrutable at this point, but she didn’t seem put off. “Okay then.”
“What’s your overall impression of me—the real me, whatever that means.”
“I thought you’d be more reserved than you are.”
“Mmm… interesting. Are you attracted to me?”
“A little.”
“And Leslie?”
“A little.”
As Girl and Lex, we’d clicked. As girl and boy, perhaps not. I hadn’t salivated over her, but then again I don’t always salivate over someone at first. No, it wasn’t a physical issue necessarily. As maligned as the concept is among men, I had to chalk this up to chemistry. Whether it was the surreal nature of our meeting, or some x-factor, our bodies didn’t quite align. And though the long trip from fantasy to reality had been a letdown I was glad we shared a common mindset.
Meanwhile, Les had brought her top down and the girls were busy applying pasties to her nips. Emma left to meet friends at another party, promising to return within an hour or so. Girl appeared to be getting along famously with Jimmy and so, satisfied my guest was being properly taken care of, I jumped into the fray. Ever the shy one, Les took center stage with one of the dancers. I smacked my girl’s fine rump and smiled. She jumped down next to me and initiated mouth-to-mouth on a pretty Latina. I took up a position behind Leslie. The Latina babe grabbed my thighs and sandwiched all of us together. When I cupped Leslie’s breasts the Latina peered into my eyes and pulled down her own top. “Aren’t you going to touch my tits?”
I, of course, obliged. Jimmy and Girl stood nearby and watched, smiling as if to say “Atta boy Lex!”
Things got all hazy. I was clipping a decent buzz. Everyone in our party left (Girl was, in her words, knackered). The Latina left too, but not before I took her perky breasts into my mouth, one by one, and then had a go at her tonsils. Good kisser, that girl was. I’d gotten so dazed and confused that I had to ask Les whether the girl I’d just kissed was, in fact, the same chick we’d been dancing with earlier.
Emma returned with two tall friends in tow, one an Asian girl, the other a blonde who looked a little tweaked. The Asian girl said she had vodka back at her place so we all left and hopped into a hired car. We sat around at the Asian girl’s place shooting the shit until well after sunrise. On the way out I noticed her neighbor’s door, which was decorated with magnetic stickers more commonly found on automobiles. Support Our Troops, they read, or else God Bless America, or even Jesus Saves. The door was a museum of our national nightmare, a Wal-Mart parking lot’s worth of bland political sentiments crammed into a few square feet. “These must be ironic, right?” I asked Emma.
“They’re a comment on magnetic stickers, probably,” said Emma.
Leslie peeled one off. “Don’t touch it,” I hissed, looking over my shoulder as if to check for museum guards.
Outside we tried to hail a cab for the blonde and met with no luck. “Let’s walk over to Broadway,” Emma suggested. It would be, in retrospect, a fateful decision. When we were halfway down the block we heard a commotion behind us. I turned to see a disheveled-looking woman and her male companion approaching. The woman screamed at Emma’s blonde friend, said something that sounded vaguely like: “You stole my money!” Over and over again.
“—the fuck?” I said, and shrugged.
Emma groaned and gestured at her friend. “She dropped the money I gave her for cab fare and this crazy woman must have seen her pick it up.” Ah, anything that touches the street is hers. Got it. We kept walking but the woman wouldn’t back down. I could taste trouble coming—literally—a bitter and metallic slick upon my tongue. Finally the deranged woman stepped into the blonde’s path and physically accosted her.
Something touched a raw nerve. This is not the day, I thought. I charged like a bull and our tormentor stumbled back. “Bitch,” I growled, “If you lay a hand on her I’m going to fucking kill you.” She screamed obscenities and bared her teeth. I charged again, chasing her around a parked car. As it had four years ago that morning, time slowed; my heartbeats seemed to come minutes apart. And I thought, absurdly, Yup, this is my glamorous life. Dear Penthouse, I can’t believe this happened to me, but yesterday I chased a deranged homeless woman around a parked car.
I spun around and menaced the woman’s male companion, then heard a bottle crash against the pavement. I blinked in disbelief and almost smiled. Bitch threw a bottle at me! She stood on the other side of the street now, brandishing a flimsy stick and clearly scared shitless. Leslie dialed 9-1-1. I knew the cops would be useless so I hurried our party along to Broadway and flagged down a cab. The girls were too slow and the cab took off. By now some neighborhood people had converged upon the warring parties in an attempt to defuse the situation. Our pursuers were relentless, however. Though earlier on I’d felt a slight pang of sympathy for the poor deranged people, I was livid now and prepared to inflict bodily harm. As I pivoted to face our assailants, two squad cars skidded to a halt nearby.
I was almost disappointed.
After a brief “interview” the cops let us continue on our merry way. We tucked Emma’s friend into the safe confines of a yellow cab and walked briskly in the direction of Emma’s apartment. “Can I come home with you guys?” Emma asked.
“After what just happened I don’t think I want you staying around here,” Les responded.
As we shuffled toward Amsterdam one of the cruisers rolled up beside us and a poh-lice officer leaned out the passenger window. “Where do you folks live?” the cop asked. We answered. At first I thought he was going to offer us a ride home and my mood brightened a bit.
But no.
He scolded us for being on the street and told us to get out of the neighborhood—yes, Emma’s own neighborhood. He informed us our crazy little friends were likely on our heels, ready to rob us blind. New York’s finest hadn’t done a goddamned thing.
I felt that raw nerve throb again. “Listen, we live here. We didn’t do anything wrong. Why don’t you do your fucking jobs and get those people some help?”
“Hey! You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I sure can, asshole!” Because God or Allah or whatever deity must clearly be on my side, a cab materialized and whisked us away just as the cochon hauled his fat ass out of the cruiser. I flipped him the bird for good measure.
It was such a beautiful morning too, already bright and pleasantly warm, the sun just beginning to shine through the canyons of spaceship Manhattan. Just like four years ago. It’s not that tragedy bothers me so much, it’s that the gods have such a twisted sense of humor.
We debriefed on the way home. “Told you not to bother with the cops,” I said. “They were perfectly happy to let the wolves feed on us. To protect and serve my ass. Damn, how many times have we gone out of our way to help those bastards out?’
Emma groaned.
“Like the time I translated for that guy who was attacked,” said Les, who was still a little shaken. “But you must understand, dear, that I didn’t want anything to happen to you.” She fell silent and watched the park scroll by. “Actually, it was romantic that you were trying to protect us.”
“In a sick, twisted way maybe. Funny thing is, that shit woulda never happened in the Barrio.”
Emma was seated on our couch, the crack of her pale ass visible above the waistline of her low-slung jeans. She was talking to me. “Quit your yapping,” I said, walking over to her and freeing my erection. “It’s your birthday and I’m going to fuck your brains out.”
We retired to the bedroom. The three of us clung together, or rather, Emma held Leslie and I close to her. I dove between Emma’s thighs and lapped at her hungrily. She pawed at Leslie’s shorts but Les, being out of commission, pushed her hand away. Emma straddled Leslie, offering me both a nice view and a convenient point of entry. I pistoned into her from behind while Leslie spread our playmate’s ass cheeks. “You should take a picture,” Les said.
“Yeah, but I’m having too much fun here to bother with it.” I slipped a thumb up Emma’s pink asshole; she protested and tensed around my digit, then relaxed. My thumb went in further. She moaned. “Bite my nipples!” she commanded Leslie. “No… harder!” Things were getting out of hand. I pulled Emma’s hair and she gasped. I brought my hand down hard upon her rear end, marking her fair skin with angry red welts.
She challenged me to fuck her harder. And harder. She took a quick bathroom break and came back for another round. I stood up, still pointing like a signpost. “I’m not finished with you yet,” she said, then pushed me onto the bed and mounted me. She thought she wasn’t good enough on top. I told her I didn’t care. “Let’s see how much better you can do,” she said, tumbling into Leslie’s embrace without uncoupling from me.
I don’t know how long this went on. We fucked and we talked and we laughed. Leslie watched and cooed and fondled. I pumped. Emma writhed. The three of us exchanged violent, probing kisses.
I lay atop Emma, my body draped over her tiny frame, my energy nearly spent. I felt my girlfriend’s gentle hands on my ass and balls. My lips formed a seal around Emma’s. As my lower body convulsed I moaned directly into her mouth…
I awoke in the early afternoon. I was alone. Were it not for my throbbing head and the torn condom wrapper on the floor I might have dismissed the previous sixteen hours as a fevered dream. My phone reminded me of the date. Yeah I remember, Mr. Phone. I knew now that things would never go back to the way they were, nor did I want them to. Four years had been enough—I’d graduated from the school of terror.
When my hangover subsided I threw on some clothes and emerged from my den of debauchery to enjoy the sunlight. Those cops might have been assholes but I still loved my adopted hometown. The Red Sox may have lost but at that moment even the Yankees didn’t seem so bad. Life was complicated and messy, but life was good.
