Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 06, 2008
She started this.
She started this but she is yours now.
Take her on a tour of the apartment. When you reach the walk-in closet, grab her by the loops on the waist of her jeans and press her ass against the aching monstrosity in your pants. Her voice is high and sweet: Oh! This is what you wanted to hear.
Lead her to the front door and prepare her for your wife’s return. Remove her top. Admire the ski slope curves of her breasts. Take one large nipple and then another into your mouth. When your wife opens the door she sees the two of you and she purrs.
Remind yourself that most wives, upon witnessing this scene, would file for divorce.
Let the lovelies frolic. Undress them and watch approvingly as they melt into one another, brown skin pressing against white. When you free yourself your wife latches on and you grab a fistful of her pretty curls and you slip an arm around your guest’s waist. Leslie’s mouth releases you, leaving behind a glistening coat of saliva. Glance downward and then peer into the new girl’s eyes. For emphasis, rest a firm hand upon the back of her neck. She sinks to the floor, easing you into her mouth, and then into her throat, never breaking eye contact. You let out a sigh. Say something romantic now: “You look beautiful with a cock in your mouth.”
She is on all fours, her face nestled between your wife’s thighs. The flash bulb bathes the room in cold light. As you frame the shots you think about how this thing… this thing you do with your wife is an elaborate ritual, one that has, over the years, taken on a kind of spiritual significance. Entire religions, after all, have been founded on the basis of phenomena nearly as improbable as your sex life. It is not that you envy the foot fetishist or the sadist, but life would be easier if your desires involved fewer moving parts.
“I want you to fuck her while she’s eating me,” comes the breathless command from your wife’s lips. Ever the obedient husband, you apply a condom and drop to the floor. The pretty newcomer arches her back for you, and you watch, fascinated, as her plump labia part to make way for your intrusion. The hardwood floor makes hamburger of your volleyball-bruised knees. Oh, does it ever hurt! But you hold on, waiting for your wife to orgasm under your playmate’s tongue and fingers, before leading the women to the couch, where you’ll have each of them properly, one after another. Their cunts make noise, more or less simultaneously, when you change positions. This is what cunts do. Your wife seems embarrassed but your new friend reassures her, saying, adorably, “That just means it’s happy.”
Laughing, you tear into your wife from behind, pinning her midsection beneath your white-knuckled grip. Always attuned to you, she starts to come. Pop the question: Do you want me to come on her tits? The young woman has been on her knees, watching you, and when you spring from the couch she leans back to receive your offering. Relax. Let go. Release. She is a mess and the two of them are kissing and this moment is perfection.
It is 5:30 in the morning. The wife is catching a nap before work. You code better when you’re exhausted and your date’s shift at the strip club doesn’t begin until the evening, so the two of you sit together and talk. “I’m sorry I never responded to your email,” she confesses. It is a probably a blessing that you had not remembered sending a note — you might have held her silence against her. Promise yourself that from now on you will be more like the Buddha.
Don’t be surprised when your cock makes you aware of its presence again. Pull her onto your lap. Let her ride you. You didn’t expect her to be like this, did you? So soft, so slow, whispering into your ear (I’m so wet) while you palm her ass, pressing your middle finger against her anus, your eyes fixed upon the surgical steel between her legs. Pull her closer. Kiss her. Exhaling against her slender frame, you hear yourself saying: “You are delicious.” Lead her to the kitchen and lift her onto the counter, where you will penetrate her under the skylight as dawn breaks, watching that pussy of hers — the one you forced yourself to forget about — surrender to you over and over again. Fuck her harder now, on the leather bench. Her ass is in the air. Her voice goes up an octave.
The two of you rouse your wife by smothering her with kisses. You ought to tell Les to take the day off, but your playmate tells you her pussy is sore anyway, though you are quite sure this would not deter her from another round. Eventually, the two beautiful women will leave you and you will slump in front of your machine, picking up where you left off as if this improbable thing hadn’t ever happened.
Only later on, when you’re cleaning up, do you notice your playmate’s scarf draped over the easy chair. When you fold it you catch a whiff of her perfume. It is cute, actually, when women leave behind little reminders of themselves.
And it is usually a promise of things to come.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Opinions | Jul 03, 2008
If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
You would think we’d done something wrong, sociopathic even. I had to check my calendar to verify that it was indeed 2008 and I hadn’t come unstuck in time. I had to check my surroundings to be sure I really was in New York and not Topeka.
Our date was a handful, that’s true, but our canoodling, I think, wasn’t shocking enough to warrant anything more than a slightly raised eyebrow. The straights, after all, flaunt their straightness at every opportunity. Turnabout is fair play.
Oh but the ladies and their dagger eyes; the gentlemen and their creepy stares.
My girls, bless their big hearts, didn’t seem to notice. But it was the Bad Man’s local watering hole and he was getting a lecture from one of the staff (who so obviously wanted to fuck him she may as well have been wearing a sandwich board covered in bright bold lettering: PLEASE BANG MY BOX BAD MAN!).
Later on, when I made an innocuous remark about Chemistry, one of the aforementioned leering gentlemen turned to me. “Dude, you have to stop talking… you’re killing me.” He went on and on about how I was harshing on his Weltanschauung.
Maybe Madonna had been right about New York. Maybe this town has lost its edge. I know I didn’t come to this glittering, boozy playground to surround myself with the kind of people who think a wild night out is having one strawberry daiquiri too many at the Times Square Applebees.
But I also enjoy doing normal things — watching sports, playing sports, hosting civilized cocktail parties, drinking too much and going home with my wife — so I’ve tried to tone myself down around normal people. Not that they make it easy. Civilians, you see, love to talk about sex as much as they loathe to admit they have sex. Civilian females love to flirt with married men. One slip of the tongue and now I am become Sex, the destroyer of worlds.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 27, 2008
I’ll call her Red because she wore red pantyhose and she never did give me her real name. I suppose I could have found out what her name was. I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. They come up a lot, stage names do. Everyone has a part to play.
“I was hoping you’d come,” she said, smiling at me. “I enjoy your writing.” It’s always a little jarring to hear this. She had my dossier. I had nothing on her.
The broad, multi-hued horizontal stripes on her tight dress were the sort of thing only petite women can get away with. The front of the dress was zipped only half way, revealing a sports-bra that strained to keep its heavy payload in place. Red’s curly hair framed a kind and intelligent face.
I mumbled something about having a smoke. “I’ll come with,” she responded. Leslie, who had been flirting with a shy couple, snapped some pictures of us,
It was only later, as we sat side by side on a couch by the dance floor, that I found out Red was straight. I hadn’t known there were any straight girls left. She lived in Brooklyn, not far away from the party. “So, the after-party is at your place then?”
“That’s awfully presumptuous of you!” She laughed in a way that told me she was now playing the part of the coy ingenue.
“Is it?” I grabbed a handful of her ample ass. “Because I could have sworn you’d planned this.”
When we arrived at her charming apartment on the top floor of a classic brownstone, Red plied us with exotic rum. And smoke. “My friends are going to think I’m such a slut,” she remarked, which I found odd since our mutual friends ran, you know, a sex party.
Red wanted to show us a video of her performing at a reading of erotic stories. She wheeled out a little teevee, and when she bent over to put the tape in I sprang from my seat, unsheathing my hard-on and lifting her dress in a single fluid motion. “Oh,” she said as I rubbed against her ass.
Red’s story was abstractly sexual yet stimulating nonetheless. I sat squinting at the screen, trying to reconcile the Red on stage with the Red sitting next to me. Leslie was delighted by the story, but then she’s a sucker for anything that employs animal imagery. “You’ve never considered starting a sex blog?” I asked Red.
“I don’t think I’d want to be exposed like that.”
When Red slipped away to use the bathroom I stood before Leslie, my beautiful wife immediately taking me into her mouth. I barely noticed when Red appeared behind me. “I was hoping you guys would be doing that.” I could taste mouthwash on her tongue. She settled next to Leslie, admiring her work, and then leaned toward my midsection, her mouth open, peering up at me. “Do you like it when two girls suck your dick?”
They were working either side of the head. I sighed.
Lying next to me now, her legs spread wide, her pantyhose and underwear lying in a pile on the living room floor, Red held her hand over her cunt. “Let’s see it,” I insisted. “Oh, that’s a pretty pussy.” The girl laughed, as did my wife. “We’d probably be more comfortable in the bedroom,” I continued, and moments after tumbling upon the bed I settled between Red’s thighs while my naughty wife licked my balls and ass from behind.
“I want to see if I can take you all the way,” said my new playmate. I made her wait, plunging into my wife instead, and when I took Leslie from behind Red placed one hand on her ass and another on mine. I slipped out, my cock twitching, glistening with Leslie’s wetness, inches from Red’s mouth. Respecting her boundaries, I didn’t ask, but she did it anyway, wrapping her lips around me and then, when I was good and clean, carefully pushing me back into Leslie’s pussy.
I thought about the labels we assign to ourselves. Straight. Bi. Gay. What does it matter where pleasure is concerned? We are all hairless primates. And compared with the rest of the animal kingdom, even the most genetically gifted among us really do look ridiculous naked.
My eyes widened when Red removed her top. “Wow,” I told her, “I’m not usually a breast man but you have magnificent tits!” As the sky brightened I tore into her, the two of us tumbling into an absurd number of positions. Everything but what I really wanted: face in the sheets, ass in the air, affording me an unfettered view of her shapely buttocks, her puckered asshole, her wet cunt. I think she’d been denying herself, because when I finally had her from behind she gasped: “You’re filling me up! You’re filling me up!”
I came hard, kissing my wife deeply while I was balls deep in new pussy. I needed this; I needed to fuck someone I didn’t already know. And I needed Leslie to be there for it.
By the time we left an inch of snow had accumulated. Brooklyn never looked so beautiful. “That one was for me,” I told my wife. “The next one is for you.” She took my hand and I continued, “I think I prefer it when you’re the center of attention.”
Red emailed me a couple of weeks later, telling me she’d been deliriously happy since our encounter, that she could see how much Leslie and I loved each other and had been inspired to find her own love.
We really are doing the Lord’s work.
