Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Apr 10, 2007
“I just want to love everyone — and be loved by everyone.”
It’s not what she said but how she said it, choking back tears, her voice quavering, her expression a mixture of joy and sorrow. We were at Viviane’s apartment. Leslie was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, and someone — I think it was Rachel — was comforting her. This was the most… authentic thing I’d heard anyone say in ages. Here, at last, a moment of truth, of genuine vulnerability.
We were in the right place: if anyone would understand, it would be our fellow perverts. And yet it’s funny how even those of us who live on the fringe find it difficult to express our hopes, our fears, our doubts. Maybe it’s the boundless energy of the city. We all try to be bigger than ourselves.
She wore a sheer evening gown, under which she wore only pasties and a thong. Resort wear. We were still processing what happened during that magic week. We were still adjusting to the quotidian flow of life in the civilian world. Our minds struggled with the dialectic: freedom versus restraint, pleasure versus obligation. I should have known emotions would run high.
My own moment of truth wouldn’t arrive until months later at a downtown orgy. But that night, at Viviane’s, all I could do was gaze upon my fiancée, thinking she’s too kind, too gentle, too good-natured for this world. I was afraid. People out here, in the world beyond the gates, go about their business with teeth bared and knives drawn.
The evening hours found us at a lounge on the Upper East Side, in the company of a Latin girl and a friend of hers. I wasn’t hot for the Latin girl but all was well. I rather enjoy spending time with friendly Homo sapiens. People cast sidelong glances at Les. We laughed. A bouncer approached: “Yo man, your girl’s gotta cover up.” We canceled our order and left, but not before Les mooned the establishment, her gesture evoking memories of our encounter with that stripper in Vegas. (“You want to see an asshole?” our companion had said to the middle-aged man who’d insulted her. “I’ll show you an asshole!” She made good on her threat, flashing the rooftop of the Palms.)
“Civilians,” I said, shaking my head. “You were the most exciting thing to happen to that place all year.” The previous night’s party notwithstanding, our efforts at bringing some of our newfound freedoms home with us had yielded mixed results. For one, there was too much commuting involved. And my swingdar was anything but reliable. I’d never been less enthused about being back in New York.
We found an agreeable place on the wiggity West Side, where Leslie’s outfit drew compliments rather than complaints, and after awhile people seemed to forget there was anything unusual about us at all. This is how it ought to be, I thought.
Perhaps there was hope for us yet.
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?
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 Dispatches | Apr 05, 2006
What struck me most about Monday night’s reading was how normal it felt. This is not to say the sex bloggers in attendance were an ordinary bunch. On the contrary, they do things most people are ashamed to dream of. They have the courage to stand in front of an audience and share what most regard as Too Much Information. They risk the hasty judgments of a society that is in love with its own ignorance.
As I listened to their stories and essays, I found myself impressed by the talent and poise of the speakers. And I was surprised—surprised that even the most explicit, debauched tales sounded neither dirty nor scandalous; surprised at how much the audience identified with the people on the podium. This shouldn’t have been a revelation to me but it’s hard not to see it as such when you live in a culture ruled by shame; when you live in a world blinded by fear of the desires, needs and emotions that make us human.
Tony Comstock read a thoughtful essay lamenting the mainstream film industry’s unwillingness to take human sexuality seriously. Cherry Bomb talked about how people involved, however tangentially, in sex work face harsh recriminations at the hands of family, friends and complete strangers. Indeed, a few of the bloggers I spoke with were concerned about being captured on camera, or else running into people they know who might not approve. And just the other day I received a note from a blogger who didn’t even want me to mention his presence at a particular event.
Sadly, we all have very legitimate reasons for wanting to remain anonymous—the culture of shame demands we make the agonizing decision between living in the closet, so to speak, or else outing ourselves. Worse yet, those among us with families or careers on the line are robbed of that choice. I have newfound admiration for people who put themselves out there, nattering nabobs of negativism be damned.
I snapped some nice photos on Monday. Had some interesting conversations. Rode the train back into Manhattan with Chelsea Girl (who’s really starting to grow on me). Learned a lot about some fascinating, well-rounded individuals most of you only know as sex bloggers. I’d like to share so much more, but I cannot.
And that’s a damned shame.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Meta | Mar 27, 2006
Be afraid. Be very afraid. One week from tonight I’ll be reading at the NYC Perverts’ Saloon along with other members of the New York sex blog mafia. There’s more information on the official site.
