Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | May 09, 2006
It’s been said there’s no such thing as a bad blowjob. This is surely a lie. Anyone who makes this claim has never squirmed under a row of sharp teeth, nor suffered friction burns at the hands of a partner who just wants to get it over with, nor endured the lazy manipulations of a mouth that would rather be wrapped around something—anything—else.
There really isn’t such a thing as a bad double blow job, however. For one, any girl who teams up with a playmate to work you over is arguably well acquainted with the act of fellatio. And neither girl wants to look bad in front of the other, so they both bring their ‘A’ games to the, er, court. If having two women at once is like winning the lottery, then having two women worship the knobbed idol of your masculinity is like winning the lottery and the Nobel Prize on the same afternoon.
Leslie and Peggy. Each one, in her own right, an accomplished flautist in the skin section of the orchestra; Leslie with her soft, silky lips and Peggy with her tongue ring and talented fingers. Both of them with their little tricks—a slight flick of the wrist or curl of the tongue. Both of them only too happy to fish Mr. Penis out of my trousers. Unprompted, naturally.
I kneeled and they had me together, taking my cock into their wet mouths, passing it back and forth and smiling as they did so. Their tongues roamed. Each time their mouths met they giggled and kissed each other. They even tried to wrap their lips around me and kiss at the same time, a stunt which only prompted more giggling.
Someone asked me once whether these hijinks ever bore me. As I hovered over my lovely playmates, thinking about the moment when I’d make a mess on their pretty faces, it occurred to me that this must have been the dumbest question I’ve ever been asked.
We went somewhere afterward, I really don’t remember where. I had a big, stupid double-blowjob smile planted on my face all night. People would strike up conversations with me only to drift away moments later, angry that I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t help myself. Even when we came home, when I had the girls again, plunging into one inviting cunt and then the next—even then, I was thinking about those two mouths performing their lovely duet on me.
It never gets old.
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 07, 2006
I’ve decided my girfriend is the best thing ever to happen to the fine sport of bowling. When she sends the bowling ball flying down the lane she bends over for moment, wiggling her round bottom as she tracks the ball’s progress. If she knocks down a bunch of pins she jumps up and squeals and performs a little dance. More bottom-wiggling ensues. Should the ball land in the gutter, however, Leslie jumps up and emits slightly different squeals. Her bottom still wiggles. Either way I win.
As you might imagine, Peggy and I had a helluva time last night kicking back with some beers and watching the Leslie show. Now if we can only convince her to bowl naked…
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Mar 21, 2006
I went to Chelsea that afternoon and bought the gayest non-cowboy clothes I could find, clothes that are paradoxically less gay than the couture one might find on display at the average bridge & tunnel club. (I once joked with Bad Man that I’m going to write a book called The Straight Man’s Guide to Being Fabulous.) Les and I even purchased matching LED bling.
The trip to Brooklyn was frustrating but the party wasn’t without its highlights. The indoor port-a-potties were an adventure, as was the dance floor, which seemed on the verge of collapse. Emma took a snapshot of my cock (“Look at my hard dick,” I said to her. “Isn’t it rad?”). And Peggy, well, the girl knows how to dance. As I stood there with my thumbs in my pockets, observing her fluid movements, I knew I was in for a treat.
When Les, Peggy and I arrived home we raided the fridge for beers and lounged on the couch talking and laughing. The sun would be coming up soon. I was tired, leaning back and listening to music, thinking of turning in, but then my hand found Peggy’s thigh. The two girls kissed, curly hair obscuring their faces, dark and light shades of brown mixing together. Peggy’s pant leg was wide enough that Leslie was able to pull it up like a skirt, and when moments later Peggy cried out in ecstasy I stared at our guest, confounded. Is she really that quick? Peggy returned the favor, the outline of her hand rising and falling underneath the waistband of Leslie’s shorts. When my fiancee is on the receiving end of a practiced hand I can time it. She opened her mouth, inhaled sharply; I started my mental countdown…
The counter hit zero and Les threw her head back, twisting in Peggy’s arms.
The women peered at me with bedroom eyes. I feigned innocence at first, then dipped my fingers into the warmth between Peggy’s legs. I didn’t have to work very hard—she squeezed her eyes shut, arched her back and, finally satisfied, drew her legs together. Not that it troubles me much, but it is unfair that some women are so effortlessly multi-orgasmic. Then again if I were like that I’d never get any work done.
They complained that I still had all my clothes on, the little hypocrites. They undressed me and Les pushed me back down onto the sofa, practicing the skin flute while Peggy slid her hand up and down the shaft. I rose to my knees. Peggy, ever the situationist vegan, took me into her mouth, grasping me with her hand and twisting as her lips parted for me over and over again. “I just knew it,” I told her.
“Wha?” she said between mouthfuls of cock.
“The—the way you were dancing earlier; I knew you’d be a firecracker in the sack.”
Peggy smiled. Soon she lay stretched out on the sofa, her head cradled in Leslie’s lap. I eased into Peggy by way of her pant leg and when she gasped I could feel her hot breath against my chest. I worked myself up to a vigorous, frothy pace and then slowed, repeating the cycle a few times. She pivoted her hips, grinding into me. I kissed Leslie, who was busy stroking Peggy’s curly locks.
Clothed Female Naked Male. CFNM. There’s a vulnerability to being the only one who’s naked, a power-reversal. And fucking a clothed person—without the objectifying influence of nudity—is like fucking someone in a pitch black room: suddenly you’re fucking her and not her body.
Peggy closed her eyes and made a face that was by now familiar. “My god are you gonna come again?” I asked, rhetorically.
“She’s so pretty,” Les was saying. “She’s so pretty.”
Peggy came. I came shortly thereafter.
I’d never even seen her naked.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 24, 2006
Sugar daddy… set me free
Sugar daddy… come for me
C.J. Bolland, “Sugar is Sweeter”
Peggy-with-the-pigtails, sans pigtails, sat at the end of the bar sipping an apple martini, her slender nose buried in a book about meat and sex and feminism. She greeted us with a smile, both innocent and youthful, and the three of us fell into easy conversation. I was in high spirits: there was none of the pressure, no matter how slight, of a date; none of the obligatory kung-fu of seduction. We were simply enjoying each other’s company, trading stories about family and travel and so on.
And then the women kissed. If the two of them were lovely as individuals they were even lovelier as a single writhing mass, a tangle of limbs and parted lips and flowing hair and heaving breasts. Before I could clear my throat or fiddle with my hands or shift uncomfortably in my seat, Leslie broke the tension: “Now I wanna see you guys kiss.”
Peggy and I grinned at each other, brought our lips together in what I assumed would be a tenuous and polite tap-dance of tongues. Yet she didn’t so much kiss me as consume me, grabbing my head and mashing her fresh face into mine. Pleasantly surprised, I pressed my body against her, pushed deeper, harder. As the girl’s silky tongue slid over mine all I could think about was how that tiny metal stud might feel against the head of my cock.
Jen was in town so we headed over to Madame X where the party was already in progress. She was there with 120, a mustachioed gentleman and a few other friends of hers. When we all went out to the patio for a smoke I struck up a conversation with the mustachioed guy and complimented him on his bold taste in facial hair. “Oh this?” he responded. “I’ve had this for thirty-five years.” At the time his response didn’t really register with me—he didn’t appear to be all that old.
Before long everyone in Jen’s group left aside from the older gentleman, who seemed fascinated (naturally) by what was going on between Les and Peggy. We had an amiable discussion that somehow brought us to the topic of drugs, continuing further to the topic of what we would say to our theoretical children about drugs. “Actually, I have a daughter,” the gentleman said.
“How old is she?” Les asked.
“She’s twenty-six,” he responded.
Peggy laughed. “That’s a year older than I am. So, um, how old are—”
“I’m fifty-six.”
I just sat there rubbing my temple in shock. “Give me a minute dude—you just blew my mind. I mean, most of the women I date are around your daughter’s age.”
Soon the two vixens abandoned all pretense of making conversation; they sat on padded stools, facing each other, Peggy’s legs spread wide, her black panties just barely, temptingly visible under her skirt from my vantage point. They kissed and their hands roamed. The older gentleman looked at me and smiled: “You should jump in.”
“Naw, gotta let that shit marinate. Guys who think they can just jump in come out red-faced and empty-handed.” The girls chuckled when I said this but continued snogging, and when the gent took leave of us (“Looks like you’re gonna have fun tonight,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear) they still couldn’t tear themselves away from each other. I guess I couldn’t blame them.
The plush, velvet-red back room of Madame X was empty by now; it was our own semi-private bordello. I grasped Peggy’s pale, smooth outer thigh, sliding my hand under her skirt. She pressed her lips to mine, then bit my lower lip hard enough that a day later Leslie would comment on the small bruise. (“Bruises are lipstick kisses that don’t rub off,” Les had said in Seattle.) I ran my other hand up Peggy’s inner thigh and teased her labia over the silk that guarded what little remained of her modesty. Leslie reached for my belt and within seconds her lips were wrapped around me, our playmate watching us and purring. My fingers found their way under Peggy’s panties, then inside her, and as they pistoned in and out the girl rocked in her seat and gasped. When someone walked by I leaned forward in a lame attempt to disguise a situation that was obviously getting out of hand, yet this only made me want to push the limits further. My head fell into Peggy’s lap. And I tasted her…
“I don’t want to go but I have to go,” she was saying.
I protested. “But you’re so wet.”
“I know.”
I stood up to put my cock away but for a moment it hovered there, twitching, inches from Peggy’s face. She licked her lips and took me into her mouth, all wetness and suction and heat. I heaved a shuddering sigh. Her tongue ring had fallen out earlier so I would have to wait to fulfill that particular fantasy of mine.
Les and I walked her to the PATH station. “Now I’m frustrated,” our playmate said.
Les kissed her cheek. “It’ll be that much better the next time.”
“We’ll have to get together on a weekend night.”
“Oh you bet we will.”
