Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 18, 2007
LIEUTENANT: I think we can handle one little girl.
LIEUTENANT: I sent two units. They’re bringing her down now.
AGENT SMITH: No, Lieutenant, your men are already dead.
There are really only two kinds of people in the world: those who believe drag is inherently funny, and those who believe drag is funny if and only if the person wearing drag is funny. As someone who’s donned an elegant cocktail dress on more than one occasion, I count myself among the latter. This is perhaps why I so despise Lucky Cheng’s, that queer-lite circus show for sheltered suburbanites. It is the Will & Grace of New York nightlife.
I know, I know. Tell us how you really feel, Lex.
Les and I met DangerGirl in the basement of Cheng’s for a comedy show, which was very funny in spite of my reservations about the venue. But after we went upstairs for a post-show cocktail we found ourselves surrounded by tipsy bachelorettes in penis hats. I stepped out for a smoke to calm my nerves, leaping over a puddle of vomit some bride-to-be had thoughtfully deposited at the top of the stairs, and on the sidewalk I witnessed one of those moments of unintentional comedy that makes New York living seem almost worthwhile.
The recipe was explosive: take a 6’1” drag queen in stiletto heels, a gaggle of diminutive trollops from Jersey (one of them presumably the girl who’d forgotten the contents of her stomach at the top of the stairs), and stir in liberal amounts of alcohol. Top it all off with an unpaid tip. I dropped my ciggy and ran indoors when the scuffle broke out.
Les, DangerGirl and I had dinner at an empty sushi restaurant on 1st Avenue. The plan was to finish eating and then retire to ours for a night cap and the usual three-way play: a little girl-on-girl, then maybe a double blowjob, followed by the good old in-out, in-out in a variety of exciting positions. DangerGirl wore a black fedora with a feather in the band — I looked forward to seeing her in nothing but that cap.
DangerGirl wanted to meet another couple she knew who happened to be at a bar nearby. I should have said no; I could have said no. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something evil in the air, that the city was on the verge of exploding into madness and chaos at any moment. But I said nothing.
To be fair, the wife was tall and slender and fetching — a group scenario involving her might have been interesting. We ordered a round, and then another, and before long the six of us had changed venues yet again. I found myself on the street taking pictures of a guy beating the crap out of his friend with an orange traffic barrel. It was only after the kid was left curled up on the sidewalk in a fetal position that I put away the camera and extended my hand.
“I’m okay,” he said, stumbling to his feet with a smile. “I am so gonna kick his ass later on.”
Madness and chaos indeed.
We were in some forgettable pub. In my drunken haze I hoisted DangerGirl upon the pool table and thrust my tongue into her mouth while squeezing her breasts. Someone threw ice at us; it may have been the bartender. I didn’t give a damn. “Fuck you all very much,” I said on the way out.
DangerGirl’s friends lived in one of those recently-constructed, parquet-floored apartments in Battery Park City, the kind of generic abode you swear you’ve seen a million times before if you’ve lived in Manhattan long enough. What the fuck am I doing here? After a minute or so the fetching wife announced, rather abruptly, that she was going to turn in for the night. Hubby was unfazed, as if this sort of thing were to be expected. (Sometimes people think Les and I have the strangest relationship — I submit these two as evidence to the contrary.) Soon a bottomless DangerGirl lay sprawled across the rug in the living room, rising to her knees as I approached her with my cock hanging out.
The girl was talented. Of the women who have sucked my dick, she is among the select few who took to the task as if her life depended on it. I had every intention of returning the favor, that is until she pinned me beneath her and it dawned on me that I was on the wrong end of some sort of wrestling maneuver.
There is something you don’t yet know about DangerGirl. You see, she truly is dangerous, and not just in some vague femme fatale sense. She wrestles men as a hobby. For money. I’m not opposed to rough play but springing this on someone unannounced is as douchey as “accidentally” slipping your penis in your girlfriend’s ass. We rolled around, pushing the couch about and knocking stuff off the shelves. “Tap out bitch!” yelled DangerGirl.
Hubby was apparently too mesmerized for words. Les, however, was apoplectic: “Guys! What the fuck?”
I had by now gotten to my feet, having figured out that the secret to winning against DangerGirl is to not let her get you down in the first place. Still, she clung to my leg and tried to pull me down again. Is this bitch trying to fuck me or kill me? I looked at the leering husband, then at my distressed fiancée, and finally reached for my underwear, borrowing a line I’d heard from some chick years ago: “Sorry, this isn’t erotic for me.”
It had been a long time since I’d said no. It felt liberating.
I ran into DangerGirl at a party a few days later. “Are we okay?” she asked, slipping an arm around my waist.
“Yeah,” I responded, “we’re okay. If we do that again though, I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Sep 07, 2007
I stood on a dance floor in a little nook that was bordered on two sides by curtains. Leslie was kissing DangerGirl, the Hostess of the party at which I’d met Peaches. The two of them were topless. I sipped my vodka and spoke with a tall, slender woman who stood next to me.
“I can’t believe you’re so blasé about your fiancée kissing another girl,” said the fetching brunette.
“It’s not like this is an unusual occurrence. And how often do you think these things would happen if I stood here drooling like a Neanderthal?”
“I suppose that’s a good point.”
I allowed my eyes to wander over her — I was drinking her in, but not in a predatory manner. I’d seen the pretty girl’s picture in a magazine once and was surprised to find her on the circuit. From the tone of her questions I’d pegged her as a tourist.
The rear of the loft, where most of the actual sex took place, was as crowded as a cheap European railcar at the height of the summer travel season. Leslie was going down on her date. The tourist and I were the only ones fully clothed amid this sea of flesh.
“I don’t usually play much at these things; I don’t know why,” I explained, reaching out to paw at DangerGirl’s breasts. Whatever Leslie was doing to her made her wince with pleasure. “There’s something awfully gauche about massive orgies.”
The tourist’s dark eyes searched mine. “So why do you come to these parties then?”
I had to think for a moment. “Where else can I walk around with my cock out if the mood strikes me?”
Leslie, DangerGirl and I found a capacious bathtub in the shower room. “I wonder whether we can fit three people in there,” mused my woman. Once the bath was drawn the two giggling chicks eased themselves into the tub. I shrugged and stripped down to my gentleman’s thong, wincing as I lowered my balls to the hot water. The jungle remix of “Come Together” blared over the speakers on the dance floor and I recalled the previous night’s discussion with Peaches. Synchronicity is a queer thing; I sometimes feel as if I’m the only one paying any attention.
The two women played while a male friend of DangerGirl handed us sex toys. My cock floated in the sudsy water, then stiffened when DangerGirl grabbed at it. I laughed. The tourist stopped in to say goodbye. I admired her ass as she sauntered out. At least now she knew there was something real behind the urban legend of the naked loft party.
The party was on its last legs by the time we emerged from the shower room. I was going commando now and it felt great, as it always does. Leslie, apparently unconcerned that we stood in a high traffic area, opened my button fly and took my penis into her mouth. DangerGirl, dressed in a flowing bathrobe, frowned at me, then cocked her head and said “Why the hell not?” before sinking to her knees. It was probably the oddest thing anyone’s ever said before giving me a blowjob. Two women who stood nearby observed the cocksucking hijinks and chuckled.
I sat on a couch, waiting for DangerGirl to collect a few people for an after-party. A tall black woman with fairy wings approached Leslie, who stood within earshot. “Is it okay if I kiss your boyfriend?” she asked Les, and when my fiancée nodded the willowy beauty sat next to me. I was a bit shy at first, but then I remembered where I was and pressed my lips against my newfound companion. I still held my wet underwear in my fist.
DangerGirl’s room was a righteous mess, the floor covered wall-to-wall in mattresses and colorful clothing and curious knick-knacks. There were six of us now, an Asian woman and two men having joined us for the festivities. The two gentlemen used toys on the Asian girl as Leslie, DangerGirl and I ménaged in our cozy corner. “Put your big sausage in me,” DangerGirl said. Her body was taut yet still soft enough that it jiggled in the proper places. We experimented with the female condom — it was not to my liking.
We were exhausted, the three of us, and eventually sex gave way to sleep. When Les and I awoke from a short nap we gathered our things in preparation for the great escape from Brooklyn, bidding farewell to the three others, who were talking now and still very much awake. I kissed DangerGirl on the cheek; she did not stir.
“May as well take the train,” I told Les as we stood on the sidewalk squinting in the morning sunlight.
“Yeah.”
“She really does look like Lindsay Lohan by the way… I find that disturbing.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Snaps | Apr 21, 2007
Um…
Porno Jim: Are you going to Rubulad tonight?
Lex: I’m going to Bisexual Girls Club first. If, in my wildest dreams, I were to end up with, like, five girls at my apartment then I suppose I wouldn’t go.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Mar 20, 2007
The boundless energy of the preceding days is slowly fading, radiating into the night sky like the blood-red coals of a dying bonfire. My throat is ragged (I am hoping the Mexican antibiotics will kick in by tomorrow, but for all I know the cure will be worse that the disease). My next hardon, I’m sure, will be accompanied by that familiar dull ache of the erectile tissue. As much as it terrifies me to admit this to myself, I might be all fucked out. Yet even in my diminished condition I still carry a sexual charge, and so I persevere, even at the risk of winding up in traction.
Anne’s magnificent breasts are coated in chocolate sauce. Closing my eyes, I carefully, meticulously lap up the spill with my tongue. I furrow my brow when I finally observe the results of my labor and say to her, “I missed a spot.” The naked woman giggles as I return to my task. This is what I wanted, and though scenes like this might be commonplace here, I am no less awed by fantasy becoming reality. Anne’s shapely posterior sways in my face as we climb the stairs to the passion suites. “I knew you’d come out of your shell,” I say, firmly grasping her buttocks with both hands.
Eight of us squeeze into the hot tub—Tammy, James, Doug and Sheree (the couple that offered us lube and dildos this afternoon), Raj, Anne, Les and I—each one of us sandwiched by two members of the opposite sex. I’m fondling Anne with my submerged left hand and Leslie with my right. Raj is asking us all about our sexual proclivities. “So you’ve all heard of the Kinsey Scale, right?” inquires Raj. People nod. “So, on a scale of zero to six—zero being completely straight and six being completely gay—where would you place yourselves?”
People’s answers are about what I’ve come to expect in swinger circles, the girls clustering around the middle of the range and the boys around the low end. James insists he rates a solid zero. “Aw come on,” I say, chuckling. “All swingers are at least a little bi.”
“No fucking way,” he protests.
“Look if you’re comfortable even being in the same room as another man’s hard cock you’re not exactly what I’d call straight.”
A grinning Raj raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “He does have a point.”
Anne leans out of the tub to grab a champagne bottle for us. I seize this opportunity to run a couple fingers along the smooth furrow between her ass cheeks.
“Was that your leg that just brushed against mine?” Doug asks James.
“Uh oh,” sez Raj. “Looks like James is at least a two!”
James smiles and splashes his own face. “Okay now you guys are just picking on me.”
Tammy giggles and pinches her mate’s cheek. “Poor baby.”
The conversation turns to less controversial subjects, and as we fluff about our lives in the outside world I learn, much to my stupefaction, that both Doug and Sheree are in their fifties. The years have been particularly kind to Sheree, as I’m fairly certain I could bounce a quarter off the lithe brunette’s ass. Sadly, I neglected to bring any change. “What’s your secret, then?” I ask.
“We’re both vegan,” answers Doug, “and we don’t drink or smoke or use hard drugs.”
“I knew there was a catch.”
Shivering a bit in the breeze that’s blowing in from the balcony, I towel myself dry, stealing a glance at the porno playing on the television and chuckling inwardly, thinking to myself: What’s the point? Tammy passes by me with a look of determination on her face and a large banana in her hand. I watch, jaw unhinged, as she carefully unrolls a condom over the phallic fruit, and before I can ask her whether she’s really about to do what I think she’s about to do, the girl eases the banana into her cunt. Standing there with her legs parted, smiling at me, she works her makeshift dildo in and out. There’s a knock at the door and the bartender from the courtyard enters the room bearing a bucket of ice. Tammy continues, unfazed. Everyone laughs.
I decide Tammy is the most remarkable woman I’ve met all week.
Les and I are outdoors with Raj and Anne, lounging on the massive shared balcony that faces the black expanse of the ocean. Lightning crackles on the horizon but the storm is so far away that nothing but the white noise of the gentle surf reaches our ears. The women lie stretched out upon the balcony’s ledge, touching each other and then turning their attention to the men. Something about this scene is both beautiful and apocalyptic. The wind picks up, driving the four of us back indoors, and upon entering the room I note with approval that Doug is on his knees before Tammy, his face pressed between the Cali blonde’s thighs. I’m floating above myself, watching myself drift aimlessly from person to person—watch me kiss my fiancée; watch me fondle Tammy’s left breast; watch me place my hand between Sheree’s legs. When Tammy announces her imminent departure (“We have an early flight,” she says. “I put my contact information in your pants.”) I press my lips to hers for awhile, and I tell her: “It’s going to be awfully dull around here without you.”
The six of us who remain pair off. Over the distant din of the surf I can only hear soft moans, creaking furniture and the electronic synthesizer of a throwaway porn soundtrack. Les and I find it difficult to get properly settled—we try a spot on the couch next to Raj and Anne, then an ottoman next to Doug and Sheree, before finally tumbling onto the large four-poster bed. I smile at the sight of Anne hopping about enthusiastically in her husband’s lap, having correctly surmised that this otherwise-shy woman would be a firecracker in the sack. I am on top of my girl. Les and I are straining, aching, sweating, both of us tired and broken at the end of what feels like the longest week anyone’s ever had. When my orgasm arrives I collapse into Leslie’s arms, panting, my head throbbing and my heart pounding. I always come hardest when I’m in pain.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 06, 2007
Repose
Red light district
I saw the dude on the street
And the bitch
Is workin’ his shit
Can you tell me
What is wrong? What is wrong?
It’s the money
That keep the bitch goin’ on
-Anthony Rother, “Red Light District”
“Looks like we’ll be here for the duration,” I say as I toss my credit card onto the counter for the last time. We’re not supposed to be naked in the lobby but no one seems to mind—perhaps management made an exception for the Couple Who Cannot Leave. The fresh arrivals, still in their street clothes, sip champagne and smile at us and chatter excitedly. Already I miss being a newbie.
As has become our custom, we hold court by the pool, dining with the Oklahomans and then, when they leave, sipping margaritas with a Latin couple from Florida. The activities director barks into his bullhorn, announcing a wet t-shirt contest, and the busty Latina at our table is pressed into the competition. I enjoy the unhurried way in which people get to know each other here—you talk and you admire each other’s bodies and if the wind tickles your nether regions in just the right way you might end up rolling around on a soft white bed somewhere. People seduce each other effortlessly, guilelessly. When I lay my head down every night I wonder whether I’ll be able to take even the thinnest slice of paradise back home with me.
I go for a swim in the ocean and I’m a surprised at how easily I slice through the waves—the hours I’ve spent in the water this week have given me a swimmer’s instincts. I stand up and throw my head back, relieving myself into the ocean. Looking up at the clouds, I mumble to myself, “Rain’s coming.” It’s not long before the first frigid raindrops splash against my cheeks, sending me scrambling out of the water and sprinting across the beach in search of a towel.
The storm gathers strength, tossing beach umbrellas about and driving people underneath the large palapa that covers the buffet. I spy Mark and Ellen, who are lounging beside their packed bags and reminiscing about their week at the resort. Shivering, I pull a towel over my shoulders, then lower my head and take a look between my legs. “Look, you don’t understand,” I cry out in a sloppy imitation of George Costanza. “There was shrinkage!” People laugh. I kiss the pretty, dirty blond MILF goodbye and she lingers for a moment, studying my face.
I’m in the jacuzzi, watching the raindrops form little impact craters against the water’s surface. I’m cradling Tammy from behind, my left hand exploring the terrain between her thighs as my right hand hoists a drink. “Now he’s touching my clit,” she’s telling James. “And now he’s touching my anus.” Tony the Tiger’s girl, Delilah, is only inches away from us, and she’s droning on about something mundane. Tammy exhales against my neck, her wet hair matted against my cheek, and when Delilah steals a nervous glance at us I smile. Tammy’s orgasm is close but the friction isn’t quite right.
“Why don’t you come to our room in half an hour?” she asks.
“Uh-uh.”
“What, you’ve already had a piece of my ass so now you’re done with me?”
“It’s not like that. If you come up with something interesting, and preferably outdoors, I’ll do it.”
The skies clear. A young fellow delivers a long-winded, vaguely condescending monologue about how he and his wife are nudists, not swingers, and they have—of course—only the purest of intentions. I crack my usual joke (I’ve heard there are wife-swappers here) and back away slowly. It’s not that I have a problem with an honest voyeur; it’s the hypocritical closet-cases that annoy me. Predictably enough, as Les, Tammy, James and I prepare to exit the tub, the young guy turns to me and says, “Don’t leave. Have sex here!”
Grinning, I tell him, “Look, this isn’t a goddamned zoo. We only have sex in front of swingers.” His face falls as I hoist myself out of the jacuzzi.
We linger upstairs for a moment, drying ourselves with oversized towels. Les and I strike up a conversation with the Latin couple we met over brunch. They introduce us to a greybeard and his young cinnamon-skinned wife (I saw her earlier in the day, after I stumbled out of my room coughing up the beer I’d inadvertently attempted to inhale; to her credit, she seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being). To call this woman busty would be an insult—her round, upright breasts are of some exotic caliber rarely found outside certain fetish magazines. She either visited the finest plastic surgeon in the Western hemisphere or she grew them herself; I cannot decide which possibility is more frightening. She charms me with a schoolgirl smile and extends her dainty hand. Upon kissing her slender digits I say, “We’ve met before. Remember? I saw you in the hallway and you were really hot?”
Beaming now, the girl lifts her free hand to her chest and gasps, “Oh my.”
Tammy laughs. “Oh Lex, you always know just what to say to the ladies.”
Twenty minutes later Les and I are strolling hand-in-hand toward our rendezvous with Tammy and James. “I don’t think I want to have sex,” my girl tells me.
“I’m not expecting you to put on a show. Frankly, I’m a little worn out myself… I need to save some energy for tonight.”
Tammy and James await us in a secluded outdoor nook cut into the corner of a building. “This is nice,” I remark, settling onto a comfortable cushion. I stroke Tammy’s blond hair. “We’re both a little tired, but I’ll gladly finish what I started in the jacuzzi.”
“Okay,” she says, reclining and parting her thighs. My hands begin to roam as James and Leslie curl up on their end of the couch, watching us in reverent silence. Across the courtyard a clothed couple emerges from their suite. They wave at us, and when we respond in kind they approach us—first the man, his hair tinged with grey, and then his svelte, smiling partner.
“Do you guys need any lube?” asks the friendly-looking gentleman. “We have a dildo too,” he continues when our laughter subsides.
“Ooh, I’ve never used a dildo before,” sez Tammy.
The gentleman disappears into his room and returns moments later with two bottles of lubricant and a ribbed latex dildo, handing the loot to me. “This is what I love about this place,” I tell him. “There’s always someone around to lend a helping hand.” Soon I’m holding an upended bottle over Tammy and watching the lube dribble over her pretty cunt like maple syrup over pancakes. She shivers. I grin and ease the dildo into her, working up to a steady in and out rhythm while flicking my thumb across her clitoris. She lets out a sigh.
Meanwhile I’m having a friendly chat with the new couple. And then Tony drops by to make dinner plans with us. I find none of this absurd.
Tammy wants me to press my hand against her belly in addition to everything else I’m doing, but this maneuver proves to be beyond my capabilities. “Guys,” I say, looking at Tony and then the older gentleman, “I need some fucking help here.” Tony—and I can tell he’s been waiting for this—immediately lowers his mouth to Tammy’s as the older gent buries his face in Tammy’s midsection.
The Cali girl’s back arches. Her anguished moans grow louder, echoing throughout the courtyard. I hear doors open as people pop their heads out to see what’s causing such a commotion. “I don’t know whose name to call out!” Tammy cries. She’s an animal when she comes. It’s almost frightening… the writhing and twisting and screaming of her animal self.
Maybe this is a zoo after all. Perhaps we’re only here for the amusement of those who wouldn’t dare do what we do. All I am certain of is that I’d rather be doing than watching.
