Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 17, 2009
You can take your BAR and shove it up your ASS. I’m watchin’ TiVO!
-Aston Kutcher
I’ve got five tabs open in Firefox and two desktops going and four GNOME terminals and the IDE of course and the Rhythmbox player and I’m trying to just finish this one Thing before the gin buzz kicks in and I won’t be able to think logically anymore. I’m distracted though so I’ll write a line of code and then I’ll flip over to VideoBox and laugh at the witty comment someone just posted to She Is Half My Age #6, write another line of code and flip over to a post someone wrote about distributed key/value stores, then flip over to one of the apps I’m working on and watch it spit out the expected errors. I know what I have to do now but first I’m gonna scan the tweets of this chick I’m kind of into for signs she’s thinking about me.
There are signs. The funny thing is she’d have no way of knowing I’m KindOfInto her because it’s not as if I display any outward signs of being KindOfInto her because in spite of being somewhat of a savant in the sex department I’m really really atrociously bad with people. So the takeaway from this graf is Lex = Idiot Savant — heavy on the idiot, light on the savant.
When I do what I need to do I reload my app and everything Just Works. I love that shit. I put on some Shostakovich and breathe and then I want a cigarette. A good coding session is like a good fuck.
COPS is on. I never leave the house on a Saturday night without my COPS fix. It’s just bad juju if I don’t see my COPS. A white man on the teevee is talking about a “colored fella.” “ARE WE NOT LIVING IN FUCKING 2009!” I yell at no one in particular. And then AMW comes on and I’m flipping out because the actresses hired to play the perps are way hotter than the actual perps and I wonder whether crime porn fuels a cycle of criminality, y’know, like a snake eating its own tail.
Les and I have a terrible fight on the train. People must think we hate each other, but by the time we reach our destination she’s teary-eyed and we’re cooing and promising each other the world.
I say the most beautiful, romantic thing ever to the coat-check girl, so much so that both she and my wife gasp at the magnificence of it. And the thing is, it’s not contrived at all; I just open my mouth and the most perfect symphony of words emerges. But the other thing is — and this makes me sad — the other thing is I make a play for her at the end of the night because I cannot stand to waste this perfect moment and she’s all like “oh no I’ve got a borefriend.” Which just goes to show that those rare flashes of genius in life never go unpunished.
A friend of mine is there. We always have the same conversation. It goes like this:
Me: If the two of us had sex it would be epic.
She: I know, but I don’t know if my boyfriend could handle it.
Me: One day we’ll work this out.
She handled my cock once. In a bar. She has soft hands. I just need to find a way to put my cock in her. The answers to some urgent questions of mine lie inside her cunt, I am sure of it.
The chick with the Sideshow Bob ‘fro is from Puerto Rico. Leslie was frightened at first because she saw the wild blond ‘fro and thought a dude was trying to molest her, but when my wife spun around she was pleasantly surprised. Sideshow has been slyly checking us out for half an hour so I know an indecent proposal is in the offing. “I wanna watch you guys,” she whispers in my ear.
“She’s a voyeur,” I whisper in my wife’s ear. I try to be accepting of everyone’s kinks — it’s a big tent after all — but something about voyeurs sets me off. For one there’s too gods damn many of them. For two, voyeurism is uncomfortably close to that leering love-the-sin-hate-the-sinner kind of attention people like us get from the Straights.
And sure enough, she’s not into Actual Sex (with me anyway), which is a shame because she’s hot and funny-looking and she has the kind of fat round ass that makes me go all dreamy. So I content myself with slipping my hand down the back of her jeans and grabbing a handful of that fat ass. There is only so much convincing a man can do.
But god, that fat ass. The things I would do. I feel bad for her.
We put on a bit of a show anyway. I lift my wife’s dress and spank her, and, well, have you ever seen the movie Airplane? People line up to swat Leslie’s fine ass and I’m like where the fuck did all these people come from?
I find myself in the arms of a pretty blonde. Dunno where she came from. She most definitely wants to fuck me right now, and I’m not just saying this out of some overinflated sense of self-worth. I just know these things. Idiot savant, remember? But her husband needs to be involved and so on and even though Leslie gamely flirts with him he’s a nervous nellie, so I content myself with sucking on the blonde’s nipples and giving her bare and pretty pussy a thorough inspection. I feel bad again, because I know she’d love me to lay some pipe but the men in these women’s lives always seem to go all floppycock when reality hits.
We’re kind of on our way out when the cute bespectacled bartender latches onto my wife and the three of us have a pleasant, handsy time on the dance floor. My wife, in her silksmooth Spanish, asks the woman to come home with us. “Oh I so would come home with you,” is the sexy little thing’s reply, “but my boyfriend only lets me hook up with girls and I know I’m not going to be good around the two of you.”
Then be bad, I’m thinking, be oh so very bad.
Can’t find my wife now. A grey cat slinks by. I hoist him to my shoulder and the two of us set off in search of Leslie. He lasts a good five minutes before he politely asks to be let down. People say pussies are difficult but this is unfair. Pussies just demand a little patience.
“You are so full of shit,” I tell my wife when we get home.
“Why?”
“Because you talk about how chicks aren’t really into you and I’m the chosen one, but man, if you could only step back and see the way they look at you.”
Morning finds me utterly useless. I am ruined, a dessicated husk. I’ve forgotten how to drink and live to tell the tale of my misdeeds. Leslie pounces on me anyway. “I’m raping you, bitch!” she cries as she thrusts down on my cock. When I summon the energy to flip her over I see that her ass is covered in the black and red and blue evidence of last night’s brutality. There’s even a full handprint, and I’m pretty sure I could make out fingerprints if I bothered to put on my glasses.
As the day wears on I’m still staggeringly horny and I’m mulling over my options. I kind of want to jerk off because it’s been a couple days but then I’d have to clean up after myself. I kind of want to put it in my wife’s ass but that’s such an elaborate production on a hangover day. I’d call someone up but then I’d have to explain why I never call.
The couple’s been texting my wife all afternoon. “Where are they staying again?” I ask.
“The dubya hotel.”
“Christ. I barely have the energy to blink. They’d have to make this so easy for us. And, like, buy everything, because if I’m gonna be a whore I’m gonna be a high class whore.”
It’s not in the cards though, because even though they reallywannaseeus, hubby has to make a point of saying there are no guarantees. Taken at face value, this is a fair statement (and something that ought to be implicitly understood by all practitioners of sex). Experience, however, has taught us that this actually means hubby won’t be able to get it up and they’ll have a big fight in front of us and it’ll be really awkward.
In time my sex madness passes and it dawns on me that what I really want to do right now is curl up with my wife and see what the television has to say.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Nov 21, 2008
Whiskey river take my mind
Don’t let her memory torture me
Whiskey river don’t run dry
You’re all I’ve got, take care of me
-Willie Nelson, “Whiskey River”
The White Rabbit. Yeah, no. The last time I was here a dude tried to grab my ass and a chick tried to become my stalker. Crazy town, man. Crazy town.
***
The Axe Man tries to talk my wife and me into buying raffle tickets but I’m not yet drunk enough to try my luck at anything.
***
Viviane is all like I haven’t seen you in a while and I’m all like yeah I know I’m an unreliable friend.
***
I cannot think of anything intelligent to say to Tess and Selina because I’m tall and their cups runneth over.
***
The Bad Man shows up and everyone sez “Oh hey!” And then Sinclair shows up and I give her a hug and I’m meaning to ask her for tips on bending hotchix to my will but then someone says something and I forget.
***
Gotta get some air. The Calico Cat is lost so I text her directions. “How do you spell Forsyth?” I ask the Bad Man.
“Does it matter?”
The Calico Cat looks like a pharmaceutical sales rep. “Nice power suit,” I tell her.
***
The Axe Man and I try to convince the Bad Man to give his eager 20-year-old a go. Having been frustrated in the pursuit of an ideal, I’ve learned to err on the side of pleasure.
Ronen snaps some pictures of us while we’re talking. Leslie is confused because he does not give her time to pose. “He’s taking anti-portraits,” I explain.
***
Morpheus tells me I’m the only one who’s made the connection between his name and the name of the bar we’re standing in. I feel special.
***
I admire the Bad Man’s tenacity. When I meet his former paramour I can see why he’s been holding out. “She’s delightful!” I announce. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but she reminds me of someone.
Leslie takes a shine to the Bad Man’s former paramour’s saucy, tattooed friend.
***
I hold in my hand a slip of paper that entitles me to take liberties with Rachel. Do I just come right out and ask?
I come right out and ask.
She removes her glasses and bends over the bar. I am not satisfied with my first attempt, but the second blow lands solidly upon her right buttock.
When Leslie takes her turn a man tries to sidle up to the bar. “Back off!” she cries. “Spanking in progress.”
***
A youngchick is there for her birthday party. She cannot find anyone to sign her calendar so I lead her around the room introducing her to people. “You should come hang out with us,” she sez.
***
On my way past the coat check I spy a tallchick with curly blond locks. Hot and a little funny looking. Just my type. I stop in my tracks and drink her in head to toe. She smiles. I wait a beat and turn around.
***
Bad Man and company are headed elsewhere. “If you pick these girls up you are welcome to bring them out to meet us,” he sez.
“Dunno. I’m getting a straight vibe and I’m trying to avoid straight women right now.”
***
The tallchick stands on the sidewalk looking bored. Les and I strike up a conversation with her. The woman is Puerto Rican and speaks with a lispy accent. We meet her husband, who does not seem the least bit put off that we are chatting up his wife. She invites us back inside, where she buys us a round (and, egads, a couple shots). I speak with a friend of hers while Leslie slyly obtains the tallchick’s number.
***
We leave, fully intending to hop on the train or whatever, but then I see that Katz’s is still open. I order a pastrami on rye. The sandwich guy hands Leslie a bunch of pickles. We walk down the block to Bereket and while Leslie’s in there ordering falafel I tear into my deli sammich, which is so savory I have to steady myself against a wall lest my buckling legs give out.
I had forgotten that it is sometimes possible to feel the presence of God.
***
The Slipper Room, scene of Leslie’s impromptu burlesque many moons ago. The Bad Man is there with his former paramour and his former paramour’s friend. Leslie falls into an intense conversation with the paramour’s friend while the Bad Man stands, rather stoically, against a booth. I inquire as to the origin of his discontent.
Shrugging helplessly, he says, “She’s in love with someone else.”
All night she’s been happily feeding him the hangman’s rope. It’s like watching someone get kicked in the nuts. Repeatedly. You cross your legs in sympathy.
I’ve been there before.
***
The torture continues. I don’t understand why people play these games — games which serve no purpose other than to introduce bitterness into the world.
***
“I finally figured out who you remind me of,” I tell the paramour.
“Who’s that?”
I am grinning now. “The most evil woman I ever dated. I still remember the moment I decided to break up with her: We were lying in bed one morning and she decided to call in ‘sick’, but when her secretary answered she yelled at the poor girl for picking up on the third ring.”
“Hey! I don’t even have a secretary.”
***
A man in a suit offers me a smoke. It’s weird how people latch on to me. “So what do you do?” I ask him.
“I fuck chicks.”
***
Another strange night draws to a close. The Bad Man’s girls leave, and in time so do the rest of us.
“Forget about her,” I call out as he shuffles across the street. “You deserve someone who wants to be with you.”
So do we all. So do we all.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Oct 26, 2008
Our sexy neighbor couldn’t make it to the party, which was a shame because I really wanted to twist her into a pretzel, and so I found myself going home on the train unreasonably drunk and foolishly loose-lipped.
Nearby a young Latin dude shifted in his seat. “What are you guys talkin’ about?” He wore a Mets cap. At least he wasn’t a Yankees fan.
“We’re talking about a girl we’re trying to have a threesome with,” responded my wife before I could lie.
“Oh lord,” I muttered.
Facing me now, he said: “Your girl is cool man. I… I could go home with you. Serious man, we could all have a good time.”
I smiled weakly. It’s not like I’d never put Leslie on the spit roast before, but this was a little sketchy even for me. If only hotchix were this forward. “Ah, yeah,” I replied, dragging out the vowels in an imitation of the boss from Office Space, “I think we’re all set here.”
He looked sad, not realizing I’d done him a favor. The men who talk a big game usually can’t get it up.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Snaps | Jul 03, 2007
NLP on the go
In a fit of drunken stupidity, I hit the Apple Store at about 4am last Saturday. The results were entirely predictable. A word to the wise: if you’re going to carouse in a town where one can purchase expensive electronics after midnight, leave your credit card at home.
UPDATE: Everyone’s been asking me for my verdict. I’ve had the iPhone for almost a week now and I’m quite pleased with it. The device feels sturdy in my hand and slides into my pocket in such a way that I can grind against a chick from behind without inadvertently poking her in the ass. Call quality is merely average but I haven’t had any problems using the speakers or the headset in noisy environments. The microphone attached to the headphones works well and the inline pause button is a sweet touch. The bright, high-resolution display is gorgeous; it looks more like a plasma screen than an LCD.
The real killer app for me is the browser — when I’m out on the town I can quickly pull up Naked Loft Party — and I’ve found AT&T’s EDGE network acceptably fast here in NYC (I’ve been averaging around 170 kbps). Email, text messaging and Google Maps are also a joy to use. I was pleasantly surprised by the keyboard’s auto-correction feature; I’m already typing as fast as I did on my old Crackberry. The calendar is so slick that I haven’t bothered synching with Outlook — I’d rather just enter appointments on the iPhone as needed. The camera doesn’t offer much in the way of options, but it does take decent pictures and the photo browser is superb. From what I’ve seen thus far, the battery will love you long time. Heavy web surfing over wi-fi will eventually send you running for your charger, but listening to music non-stop barely dents the meter.
The iPhone isn’t without its faults. For instance, I can’t figure out why Apple launched this sexy device without multimedia messaging, IM, Flash, or even a fucking to-do list (something a competent developer could code in about an hour). Equally puzzling is Apple’s decision to close the iPhone to third-party developers (although hacks are emerging by the minute). Plus, if you have any self-awareness whatsoever you will likely feel like a hipster douchebag for owning one. But when you actually start using the iPhone none of these flaws seem to matter so much anymore. Certain other road warrior devices may be crammed with more features but they’re also bulky and difficult to navigate. The iPhone just feels right, like a 21st century phone ought to feel. It is easily the most compelling handheld device I’ve ever used.
And the chicks? They dig it.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Apr 12, 2007
I am drunk now. Please excuse me.
Kurt Vonnegut is dead. I quoted him a couple of times. I suck compared to him. I am a dilettante — an artiste of the slightly funny deal. IAMANIDIOT. I think the difference is that he didn’t really give a shit what you people think of him.
I just fucked a married woman and I am sitting here smelling my fingers. The fingers of my left hand smell like Leslie’s pussy. The fingers of my right hand smell like the married girl’s pussy. Why does pussy juice smell so fucking good after it has dried up on your skin? I don’t want to shower.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” the married girl said.
I know the feeling…
She lives in the suburbs and drives an expensive car. I find this amusing. My life is weird. I used to be self-righteous and smug about not fucking married girls. Now I’ve joined the rest of you hairless apes.
I’m listening to the same Red Hot Chili Peppers song over and over again. My obsession with the song has something to do with what happened this past weekend. The song goes like this:
I like pleasure spiked with pain
And music is my aeroplane
It’s my aeroplane
Songbird sweet and sour jane
And music is my aeroplane
It’s my aeroplane
Pleasure spiked with pain…
That motherfucker’s always spiked with pain
My arm was sore. And the next night someone dropped a heavy chair on my foot. I walked with a limp. Also, I felt fucked up inside.
But I think everything’s okay. I feel like I’m coming along as a human being.
And you know what’s fucking bullshit? I quoted Steely Dan in one of my journal entries and when they (they meaning the Man) published my scribblings in a book of short stories they had to remove the lyrics. Turns out they couldn’t use the lyrics without paying an unreasonable sum of money. What happened to fair use? I hope the bean counters hang when the revolution comes. Fuck em all.
Less than 24 hours ago I was fucking another girl. I think she’s my mistress or my bitch or something. She wants me to call her my bitch. “My body is yours,” she said to me last night. I really love women. Maybe I love them too much but I cannot help it. I took a nice picture of my mistress (my bitch?) in the morning but sadly you’ll probably never see it.
I’m still scratching my head — winter sucked and then spring came and I’ve been getting laid left and right, but Les and I have also taken another step in our relationship. We’re seeing people separately. I really enjoy fucking, but I also want to love everyone. And I want everyone to love me. Why now, when I’m getting married in a month? It’s a Hegelian thing. This is synthesis.
Fucking Vonnegut is dead — shuffled off his mortal coil or whatever shit. And my oblivious cock (what is a cock if it’s not oblivious?) was inside a married woman tonight. Can you believe that shit? I can’t even summon a single tear for my main man, yet take me to hear Bruckner’s 7th at the Philharmonic and I’ll weep like an infant. How pathetic is that?
Anyway. The phrase echoes in my head: The system of the world. That’s all it is. None of us ask for this. But we deal with it. And then we die. Blah blah blah.
Bummer.
Maybe I shouldn’t give a shit anymore.
