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 Opinions | Jun 22, 2006
As many of you may already know, the Exotic Erotic Ball (& Expo) came and went last weekend. Les and I had been excited about attending until about two weeks beforehand, when it became clear the organizers weren’t very, um, organized. It didn’t help that my and Viviane’s polite inquiries concerning VIP/press passes met with utter indifference—way to reach out to the community guys!
Les and I chose to spend our night elsewhere. Others were less fortunate, but every cloud has a silver lining: people’s frustrating EEB experiences made for some funny and trenchant observations. We’ll begin with Dacia’s incisive post mortem:
But anyway – the Exotic Erotic Ball. Speaking of awesome – it really wasn’t. Being immersed in my little bubble of people who are highly critical of the sex industry while also loving and embracing parts of it in a rabidly idealistic way, I forgot that there are lots of people who aren’t totally jaded by it and are in awe of porn stars and whatnot. We call these people “civilians†in a slightly derisive tone – (the royal) we are not very nice. There wasn’t dress code to the evening, so people like me were dressed to the nines, but there were also many, many dudes wandering around in tank tops and shorts. Not to mention the high numbers of people in Halloween costumes – and not in a fetishy way, either. Peculiar and sort of amusing.
What was not sort of amusing, but probably something I’m going to have to get used to (diva-on-the-rise alert), was the way that said civilians acted around me and mine – there was lots of “stealthy†photo taking. Dude – I can see you, especially when you are dressed like a viking and the flash on your camera goes off when you are pointing it at me, and it is only polite to ask “Can I take a picture of you?†This is a little thing called objectification – and I felt it cut me like a creepy knife last night.
Dacia’s right on here. Reading sex blogs and such, it’s easy to forget that the porn world—and the average rabid porn fan—isn’t as (to put it delicately) liberated and sex-positive as we might like. I have nothing against porn conventions per se, but when your event caters to compulsive wankers rather than hedonists you’re going to end up with a room full of shut-ins and creeps. A New York Press article on the Expo paints a vivid portrait of the kind of people I’m talking about:
... A swarm of eager men gathered around the booth, flush from being so close to their favorite girls, and feeling safe in their sympathetic community. In that, it wasn’t unlike a Star Trek convention, or perhaps a Harry Potter book signing.
Whether it was the expo or the ball itself, the same people were in attendance. The men who bought tickets looked like they worked out too much or not at all, and wandered around in tight packs with their camera phones ready to fire. The women came with their hair dyed and their bodies modified, and their tattooed boyfriends stayed close by. Wherever they came from, not enough of them showed up.
At the ball on Saturday night, maybe a thousand people were there, made smaller by the voluminous, empty space in Pier 94 that echoed around them. ... The crowd surrounding the main stage was subdued, and many of them came to the costume ball without any costume. With no mob to get lost in, people refused to abandon their inhibitions. Instead, most were content to remain mere spectators, searching for anybody they could stare at.
Yikes. On a lighter note, Joe Brandi takes the prize for the funniest writeup:
I arrived Sat night at approximatley 9:30 PM and left at close to 2 AM out of boredom. The most exciting part of the night was watching some drunk guy with maskara and a pot belly get slapped in the head by a guy who knew that the drunk wouldnt slap back, then having KSEX’s Wankus with stripped pants on looking like a Ice Cream man stand in between and trying to get the guy who wasnt going to do anything anyway to walk away.
I basically stayed for the time I did waiting for something to happen….anything! After 3-4 hours I decided to leave and go to a regular bar. When its 12:00 on a Sat night and people are leaving who flew in from California to go back to their hotel rooms you know it sucks.
At the end of the New York Press article, someone opines that perhaps New Yorkers are “weird about sex.” It sure doesn’t seem that way from where I sit: I know of at least four other sex-themed events that were taking place on the very same night as the Exotic Erotic Ball.
Nevertheless, I do hope the organizers learn from their mistakes and give it another try next year. Maybe next time they’ll get to know the locals first.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | May 31, 2006
Effortless music from the Cameroons
The spinning darkness of her hair
A conversation in a crowded room going nowhere
The open palm of desire
Wants everything
It wants everything
-Paul Simon, Further to Fly
She positioned herself astride my cock, facing me, leaning back with her arms braced against the coffee table, and we both gasped when she lowered herself onto me, the smooth muscle of her little puckered asshole stretching to accommodate an unwelcome intruder. I pressed an index finger to her clitoris as she impaled herself over and over again. Leslie’s mouth was open; her eyes were shut. That old saw came to mind again and again like an incantation: why fuck around with hamburger when you have steak at home?
Why, indeed. I haven’t been terribly interested, lately, in what anyone else has to offer. Oh, I’ve looked—it’s a man’s evolutionary burden, after all—I’ve flirted, I’ve teased, I’ve even tweaked a nipple here and there, but I have not done these things, as a lawyer might say, with intent. Like window shopping on the day after Christmas, my forays into the world of extracurricular sex have felt a little pointless, a little indulgent. Double blowjobs notwithstanding, there’s nothing about my sex life right now that cries out for the addition of a third. Or fourth. And so on.
This revelation first struck me at one of Porno Jim’s legendary soirees. Les and I were fooling around with a young, busty babe from Chicago (in the bathroom no less, after watching her take a piss) and at some point I realized I was done; I didn’t need to take it any further. Jim was surprised when we decided to leave just as the orgy was heating up, but all I wanted to do was take my girl home and have her good and proper, her face in the pillow and her big round buttocks in the air, beckoning me to do my worst.
We talk about our best sessions for days afterwards, Les and I do; I call her at work and remind her of all the dirty little details, egging her on until she’s begging me to stop.
A couple weeks after the Porno Jim soiree we were juggling invites to a few different events, trying to figure out how to spend our weekend. Les asked me whether I wanted to go to the bukkake party or whatever the hell it was and I said, without really thinking about it, “Oh it’s just a sex party.” My fiancée cocked her eyebrow at me as the import of what I’d just said finally sank in. “Wait, did I really say that?”
It’s just a sex party. A few years ago I was burning with curiosity about this debauched world and now its rhythms and peculiarities are familiar to me, comforting yet also mundane. It’s a queer reversal of our culture’s conventional wisdom: sex with your partner is supposed to get boring, to the point where you go into therapy or else buy marital aids to spice up your sex play, to the point where you have to train yourself to avert your eyes from the forbidden fruit. What the morons who dispense relationship advice don’t realize is that freedom has a funny way of making a man content with what he has, that sometimes he tastes the erstwhile forbidden fruit and finds it’s gone rotten.
A the Chemistry party a couple weekends ago, someone who’d never been to a sex party before asked me whether people go for reasons other than winding up on a bed in a sweaty tangle of bodies. I explained that I for one enjoy the permissiveness of an anything-goes atmosphere, and that there are nearly as many reasons for going as there are attendees at any given party. Les and I had spent most of the night catching up with friends and flirting with a pretty Russian MILF, yet in the end we went home to have our own fun.
There is a vast and largely unexplored wilderness between lock-step monogamy and indiscriminate hookups, a place Leslie and I call home. I’ve come to understand that what I enjoy—again, double blowjobs notwithstanding—what I enjoy most about our “lifestyle” is going on the occasional date (even the weird ones can be fun), going out on the town with other kinksters, and generally engaging in behavior that would be scandalous to straight-laced couples. I’ve come to learn that simply having sex with other people does not a kinkster make, and that standing in line for the next available orifice only to tap in like a professional wrestler is not my idea of a good time.
On the relationship-oriented end of the continuum, dealing with other people’s sexual and emotional issues can be exhausting. Like, a massive pain in the ass. Leslie wrote about her disenchantment with the male of the species, and I’ve experienced a similar disenchantment with the female of the species—the young, urban North American female being an erratic and capricious bird indeed. Although Les and I have agreed, in principle, to dating separately should the right moment arise, I still haven’t bothered asking anyone out.
As Les and I cabbed home the other night I asked myself a simple question: How many of the women Les and I have dated together would I have dated were I single at the time? The answer is a disturbingly small number. Which is not to say that none of the others were attractive enough, or nice enough, and so on—indeed, most delivered what the situation called for—but there was always something lacking. A profound lack of the kind of sexual creativity I’m accustomed to enjoying at home, or else a profound lack of the kind of affection I suppose I’d taken for granted.
And most women here, most people here, are lazier than long-haired cats on a hot summer afternoon. They’re all waiting around for someone to come along and tell them what to do, what to think, how to feel. New York spoils us with convenient access to everything, the result being that anything not within the immediate reach of our fingertips is seen as too much work. There’s always someone else, something else; some shiny new object upon which to squander one’s attention.
At first I was concerned about my lack of interest in other women—frankly, I was even a little embarrassed, ready to see a doctor or a shrink and get a prescription for anti-apathy pills. Now I realize it’s just that I know what I want; I know what turns me on and what turns me off; I know what I’m looking for in a relationship or a casual encounter. And I’m willing to forgo hamburgers indefinitely. As I told Les, we’ve had some great lovers and some truly wonderful experiences. If I’m thrilled again by someone or something there’s nothing to stop me from acting on my desires, but in the meantime I’m as happy with my relationship as anyone has a right to be. To torture a metaphor, Abu Ghraib style, if I’m going to head out for seconds, that meal damn well better complement the steak I have at home.
So, as a beautiful summer afternoon gave way to a beautiful summer evening, I fucked my fiancée in the ass, with my finger pressed against her clitoris, and I watched, fascinated, as she rode me like one of the girls from those naughty videos, impaling herself over and over again. Her smooth brown skin glistened with sweat and her pretty curls, some of them matted to her face, rolled to and fro. When I came I groaned and panted and clawed at the furniture, lost in my animal self. And as my heart pounded away it crossed my mind that this was the best sex I’d ever had, or ever will have, with anyone.
