Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | May 11, 2007
Now don’t be wishin’ of switchin’ any positions with me cuz when you in my position, it ain’t never easy to do any type of maintainin’ cuz all the gamin’ and famin’ from entertainin’ is hella strainin’ to the brain and… but I can’t keep runnin’ I just gotta keep keen and cunnin’
-The Pharcyde, “Runnin’
”
Peaches fell into my lap.
She spoke in a high-pitched southern twang, her voice cracking a bit as if she’d been up all night: “Hi, how are you?” I’d met the strawberry blonde before, at Audacia’s porno party. I introduced her to a few friends sitting nearby. “Hey, this is Peaches. We’ve been dating for six months.”
Grinning, she smacked my arm. “Now why don’t I remember any of this?”
“Oh baby, I’m hurt that you don’t remember all the wonderful times we had together.”
Eventually Peaches played along. Women love little games like this.
Leslie and I had come to the Poly Cocktail Hour at Madame X to shake off the late-winter blahs (the name of the event is surely false advertising, as the cocktail “hour” tends to run well past midnight), and, perhaps, to take some practical steps in the direction of seeing people separately. “Now that I’m getting married,” I was telling Porno Jim, “I need to have adult relationships. No more girlfriends for me — they’re my mistresses now. Doesn’t that sound so much more sophisticated?”
I recalled that it was only last year when Jim and Dicie made the leap my fiancée and I were now contemplating. But for the moment at least I wasn’t in any hurry to get involved with someone else. I wanted to put the long winter behind me and have some fun. Also, I desired mental respite from our marriage preparations — oh I like the idea of being married well enough, I just don’t care for the drama of getting married.
Peaches and I wound up on a couch feeding each other animal crackers. Every time I looked up I saw Leslie flirting with people, charming everyone with her bright, dimpled smile. She fell into the arms of the fetching, Lindsay Lohanesque hostess and already my naughty gears were turning. At that moment I decided I want to be reincarnated as a bisexual woman. In between mouthfuls I kissed Peaches, both of our tongues dry from the crackers. I peered into her blue eyes and told her she was the sweetest girl I’d met in a while. This was actually true.
Peaches is in show business. “Think you’d like to audition for the part of my mistress?” I asked her.
“Listen to you!” she responded, indignant but laughing. “I never let guys talk to me this way.”
“There’s a first time for everything, sugar.”
I enjoy being outrageously forward with women; it feels, at any rate, more honest than regurgitating the usual warmed-over stock phrases that pass for seduction in the postmodern era. There is a fine fucking line between turning a woman on and offending her, of course, but if one toes that line anything is possible. You give me a hard-on and I enjoy spending time with you — is there any better compliment? Maybe this is what I will say to Leslie on our wedding day.
When I left Madame X that night I felt the first hard kiss of spring. I felt positive that, much like expanse of park across from my bedroom window, my inner landscape was about to change radically — and, I hoped, for the better.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Apr 13, 2007
Y’alls niggaz better recognize
Focus your eyes cause my homey is high
Y’alls niggaz better recognize
E… E… E… E… Eastside
-Warren G, “Recognize”
I barely drank during my birthday celebration. I could lie and tell you that, panicked at the thought of my advancing age, I’d resolved to become an upstanding citizen. I wouldn’t, however, be fooling anybody. In truth, the party was something of a three-ring circus. For one, we’d accepted Chris’ gracious offer to host us in the downstairs room at Katra, a Moroccan-themed club on the Bowery. And my dear, sweet Leslie invited a fuckton of people — swingers, sex bloggers, sex workers, sundry perverts, a handful of kink-friendly vanillas — including a couple of old flames whom I hadn’t seen in ages. People were instructed to wear a shirt that “makes a statement” and, much to Leslie’s delight, most people showed up wearing wild blouses, or else t-shirts with slogans on them.
I wanted to get soused. I truly did. But then I’d find myself reminiscing about Mexico with Frank and Lana, or talking shop with Viviane, or catching up with Jamye, or discussing the philosophy of sex with Selina, or trying to keep Jorge from getting bounced, or flirting with Tess, or trying to decipher the meaning of the t-shirt Flint gave me, or grabbing the Greek girl’s ass. And if this weren’t enough, I was pressed into the role of matchmaker (“Your friends are all so sexy,” Lisa told me).
By the time Miriam showed up — Miriam being the tasty piece of cake we’d picked up at CAKE — I was clipping a pretty good buzz, even if it had nothing to do with the alcohol. I was pleased to see that the Bad Man immediately took a shine to Miriam’s equally tasty friend. I didn’t say much to Miriam, the frantic pace of the proceedings forcing an economy of words upon me. But then again, when it comes to talking someone into exploring your bedroom you can say a lot without saying anything.
“I’m not afraid to go for what I want,” she told me.
“And what might that be?”
She smiled. “Oh, I think you know.” Miriam’s wholesome appearance belied her depravity. I always appreciate this in a woman.
Later on, speaking to Miriam and Flint, I said, “I’m just helping people get what they want tonight. I’ll take the leftovers.” Upon hearing this Miriam laughed and struck my arm.
A few days earlier Les and I had reprised the conversation we have each year as my birthday party approaches. “What do you want for your birthday?” she asked.
“The usual.”
“And if I can’t get a girl in time?”
“Then a nice sweater, maybe?”
The birthday threesome has its origins in the darkest days of 2001, when Leslie brought a shy 18-year-old flower to my birthday dinner. And though that threesome later metastasized into a foursome when another woman showed up, I’m not nearly lecherous enough to expect that sort of thing year after year.
Now it was a simple matter of logistics. Fearing I might wind up with an unreasonable number of people at my apartment — and having had my fill of circus sex in Mexico — I decided upon a venue change, knowing this would pare the group down to a few stragglers. Frank pulled me aside before we left, nodding in Miriam’s direction. “She is hot!” he said, wide-eyed.
Sip was crowded with uptown revelers, a diverse mix of college students, local homeboys and homegirls, and grizzly old fossils still hanging on in the hope of snagging a young piece of ass. Jimmy snapped pictures of us. I pinned Emma against the bar and pressed my lips to hers. When Leslie and Miriam began making out I braced for trouble. Fortunately, the men arrayed around them got the hint and politely retired from the fray. “What the heck are we still doing here?” I asked Miriam.
Raising her eyebrows and grinning coyly, she said, “Maybe we’d be more comfortable at your place.”
Not even at home could I get my drink on. Martini glasses were pushed aside as soon as I filled them. Leslie straddled Miriam’s face and then lowered her torso, my fiancée’s curly hair spilling over our playmate’s thighs. Miriam tilted her head backward and I eased myself into her mouth. Her blowjob face was divine. When Leslie came up for air I dove between Miriam’s legs. The girl was no delicate flower: she had hips; she had ass; she had curves. She had a plump, well-groomed cunt — the kind of cunt I’m only too happy to bury my face in. “Oh fuck!” she cried. “Oh! Fuck!“
Les, still straddling Miriam’s face, asked our fuckdoll how she wanted to get off. “Penetration,” was her answer. And so I pistoned into her. And her pretty grey eyes locked with mine over Leslie’s brown ass cheeks. The girl lowered herself onto me now as I sat upright on the couch. I took her big, pale, jiggling tits into my mouth. Leslie played with Miriam’s ass and my balls as Miriam bounced up and down. She got off, shuddering in my arms. Her chest was red, as if she’d suffered a nasty sunburn. It’s funny how some women wear their pleasure on their skin.
I fucked Leslie from behind. Miriam bent over my girl’s body, perpendicularly, kissing her and whispering into her ear. I laid a hand on each of their asses. When I came I pulled out and splashed across Leslie’s ass and the small of Miriam’s back. I’d nearly forgotten how intense threesomes can be.
When I opened my eyes in the morning Leslie was already in the throes of ecstasy, our playmate employing her tongue and hands with devastating results. When Leslie was spent I settled between Miriam’s thighs once more, and once more she cried out, “Oh fuck!” I fucked Leslie again while Miriam lay curled up next to us, smiling.
“I’m glad we found each other,” she said later on. “Can I come back?”
“You can come back anytime you want,” answered Les.
Anyway, that’s why I didn’t get trashed on the night of my birthday party. I’ll try to do better next time.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Apr 04, 2007
Motherfuckers are so nice
Suck my dick
Lick my ass
In the mix we have sex
Every night with my famous friends
-Miss Kittin & The Hacker, “Frank Sinatra”
Slip into your tank-top — the one with the busty, machine-gun-wielding babe on the front. Pull on your black velvet pajama bottoms. Ease into your narrow Prada loafers. React with surprise when your girl appears before you in nothing but an undershirt, a thong and knee-high leather boots. It is too bad she cannot dress like this more often. Head to Jimmy’s for pre-game drinks with your underwear-clad friends, who compliment you and your girl on your healthy tans. “I’m almost black now,” you quip to a smiling Lisa. Forgo the weed; you need to stay sharp tonight. Autumn’s balmy air crackles with possibilities.
You’ve never been to CAKE before and you just couldn’t resist the lingerie party, coming as it does on the heels of your Mexican adventure. It’s been less than a week. You still carry that powerful sexual charge.
Don’t hesitate to act when you see the dirty blonde standing at the bar, facing outward, cradled in the arms of a tall black dude. Take your fiancée’s hand and nod in their direction. “They’re swingers,” you say. “How do you know?” she asks. “I just know,” you answer. The whys and wherefores aren’t particularly important to you right now. She’s sexy, this one, in her bustier and lacy boy shorts. Make the proper introductions. Nod knowingly when she tells you she’s from the Midwest. She has that look about her. You make mouth noises at the girl and she smiles, and then you talk to the guy she’s with, watching as the dirty blonde places her hands on your fiancée.
Perhaps there really is such a thing as gaydar for swingers.
Find your friends on the dance floor. Cavort with them for awhile before striking out to explore new territory. On your way downstairs the dirty blonde finds you. “Where are you going?” she asks, and when you tell her she promises to meet you down there soon. Recall the rules of Slut Club. No one owes anyone anything. The night takes on a hazy quality. You are distracted by everything. You want to touch everyone. Stroke your woman’s curly locks as she squats in front you, hungrily gobbling your knob. Use your other hand to steady yourself against the bar. When your fiancée stands up a young man approaches. “You’re my hero!” he exclaims. Don’t say anything — just tilt your head forward and smile.
The dirty blonde shows up as promised. Watch for a moment as she and your woman suck face, well aware this beautiful stranger can probably taste you on your fiancée’s tongue, and then turn your back on them. Let that shit marinate. You talk to a lone woman at the other end of the bar but she’s not as interesting as you hoped she’d be. Turn your back on her too. Another rule comes to mind: If you’re not having fun, go do someone else.
What are you waiting for?
Stand before your fiancée and her new ladylove. Unleash the beast from your trousers and tell the girls the snake petting zoo is open for business. Shudder at the silkysmooth caress of their delicate hands. Blondie peers up at you and smiles. Grey eyes. Slender nose. Neat rows of white teeth. She is unsettlingly attractive. Tell her you’d like to put the thing she’s holding somewhere else. Let the women huddle again; watch as digits are punched in and negotiations concluded. She’ll see the two of you alone. Try not to perform a victory dance upon hearing this. It’s only natural. Three is the magic number.
The balance of the night is a blur of bodies in motion. Let a random woman grab your ass. Stick your tongue in another’s mouth. Paw at yet another one’s breasts. Find your friends again and dance. You’ve entered a state of grace. Is it you? Is it the party? Did you bring some of that Mexican Mojo back with you, packed into your suitcase along with the lingering scent of the surf? Just know that it all makes sense now. Everything makes perfect sense.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Oct 12, 2006
A big thank you to all the sexy perverts who came out to my birthday bash last Saturday. I had a great time and I wasn’t even drunk or on drugs or anything (I wonder, am I getting boring in my old age or just more selective about my vices?). Judging by the number of steamy spit-swapping sessions that took place right under my nose I should be running a matchmaking service.
See y’all at Leslie’s party, date and theme to be announced.
