Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 17, 2009
You can take your BAR and shove it up your ASS. I’m watchin’ TiVO!
-Aston Kutcher
I’ve got five tabs open in Firefox and two desktops going and four GNOME terminals and the IDE of course and the Rhythmbox player and I’m trying to just finish this one Thing before the gin buzz kicks in and I won’t be able to think logically anymore. I’m distracted though so I’ll write a line of code and then I’ll flip over to VideoBox and laugh at the witty comment someone just posted to She Is Half My Age #6, write another line of code and flip over to a post someone wrote about distributed key/value stores, then flip over to one of the apps I’m working on and watch it spit out the expected errors. I know what I have to do now but first I’m gonna scan the tweets of this chick I’m kind of into for signs she’s thinking about me.
There are signs. The funny thing is she’d have no way of knowing I’m KindOfInto her because it’s not as if I display any outward signs of being KindOfInto her because in spite of being somewhat of a savant in the sex department I’m really really atrociously bad with people. So the takeaway from this graf is Lex = Idiot Savant — heavy on the idiot, light on the savant.
When I do what I need to do I reload my app and everything Just Works. I love that shit. I put on some Shostakovich and breathe and then I want a cigarette. A good coding session is like a good fuck.
COPS is on. I never leave the house on a Saturday night without my COPS fix. It’s just bad juju if I don’t see my COPS. A white man on the teevee is talking about a “colored fella.” “ARE WE NOT LIVING IN FUCKING 2009!” I yell at no one in particular. And then AMW comes on and I’m flipping out because the actresses hired to play the perps are way hotter than the actual perps and I wonder whether crime porn fuels a cycle of criminality, y’know, like a snake eating its own tail.
Les and I have a terrible fight on the train. People must think we hate each other, but by the time we reach our destination she’s teary-eyed and we’re cooing and promising each other the world.
I say the most beautiful, romantic thing ever to the coat-check girl, so much so that both she and my wife gasp at the magnificence of it. And the thing is, it’s not contrived at all; I just open my mouth and the most perfect symphony of words emerges. But the other thing is — and this makes me sad — the other thing is I make a play for her at the end of the night because I cannot stand to waste this perfect moment and she’s all like “oh no I’ve got a borefriend.” Which just goes to show that those rare flashes of genius in life never go unpunished.
A friend of mine is there. We always have the same conversation. It goes like this:
Me: If the two of us had sex it would be epic.
She: I know, but I don’t know if my boyfriend could handle it.
Me: One day we’ll work this out.
She handled my cock once. In a bar. She has soft hands. I just need to find a way to put my cock in her. The answers to some urgent questions of mine lie inside her cunt, I am sure of it.
The chick with the Sideshow Bob ‘fro is from Puerto Rico. Leslie was frightened at first because she saw the wild blond ‘fro and thought a dude was trying to molest her, but when my wife spun around she was pleasantly surprised. Sideshow has been slyly checking us out for half an hour so I know an indecent proposal is in the offing. “I wanna watch you guys,” she whispers in my ear.
“She’s a voyeur,” I whisper in my wife’s ear. I try to be accepting of everyone’s kinks — it’s a big tent after all — but something about voyeurs sets me off. For one there’s too gods damn many of them. For two, voyeurism is uncomfortably close to that leering love-the-sin-hate-the-sinner kind of attention people like us get from the Straights.
And sure enough, she’s not into Actual Sex (with me anyway), which is a shame because she’s hot and funny-looking and she has the kind of fat round ass that makes me go all dreamy. So I content myself with slipping my hand down the back of her jeans and grabbing a handful of that fat ass. There is only so much convincing a man can do.
But god, that fat ass. The things I would do. I feel bad for her.
We put on a bit of a show anyway. I lift my wife’s dress and spank her, and, well, have you ever seen the movie Airplane? People line up to swat Leslie’s fine ass and I’m like where the fuck did all these people come from?
I find myself in the arms of a pretty blonde. Dunno where she came from. She most definitely wants to fuck me right now, and I’m not just saying this out of some overinflated sense of self-worth. I just know these things. Idiot savant, remember? But her husband needs to be involved and so on and even though Leslie gamely flirts with him he’s a nervous nellie, so I content myself with sucking on the blonde’s nipples and giving her bare and pretty pussy a thorough inspection. I feel bad again, because I know she’d love me to lay some pipe but the men in these women’s lives always seem to go all floppycock when reality hits.
We’re kind of on our way out when the cute bespectacled bartender latches onto my wife and the three of us have a pleasant, handsy time on the dance floor. My wife, in her silksmooth Spanish, asks the woman to come home with us. “Oh I so would come home with you,” is the sexy little thing’s reply, “but my boyfriend only lets me hook up with girls and I know I’m not going to be good around the two of you.”
Then be bad, I’m thinking, be oh so very bad.
Can’t find my wife now. A grey cat slinks by. I hoist him to my shoulder and the two of us set off in search of Leslie. He lasts a good five minutes before he politely asks to be let down. People say pussies are difficult but this is unfair. Pussies just demand a little patience.
“You are so full of shit,” I tell my wife when we get home.
“Why?”
“Because you talk about how chicks aren’t really into you and I’m the chosen one, but man, if you could only step back and see the way they look at you.”
Morning finds me utterly useless. I am ruined, a dessicated husk. I’ve forgotten how to drink and live to tell the tale of my misdeeds. Leslie pounces on me anyway. “I’m raping you, bitch!” she cries as she thrusts down on my cock. When I summon the energy to flip her over I see that her ass is covered in the black and red and blue evidence of last night’s brutality. There’s even a full handprint, and I’m pretty sure I could make out fingerprints if I bothered to put on my glasses.
As the day wears on I’m still staggeringly horny and I’m mulling over my options. I kind of want to jerk off because it’s been a couple days but then I’d have to clean up after myself. I kind of want to put it in my wife’s ass but that’s such an elaborate production on a hangover day. I’d call someone up but then I’d have to explain why I never call.
The couple’s been texting my wife all afternoon. “Where are they staying again?” I ask.
“The dubya hotel.”
“Christ. I barely have the energy to blink. They’d have to make this so easy for us. And, like, buy everything, because if I’m gonna be a whore I’m gonna be a high class whore.”
It’s not in the cards though, because even though they reallywannaseeus, hubby has to make a point of saying there are no guarantees. Taken at face value, this is a fair statement (and something that ought to be implicitly understood by all practitioners of sex). Experience, however, has taught us that this actually means hubby won’t be able to get it up and they’ll have a big fight in front of us and it’ll be really awkward.
In time my sex madness passes and it dawns on me that what I really want to do right now is curl up with my wife and see what the television has to say.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Advice | Oct 30, 2008
A sexy reader by the name of Kate inserted the following into my inbox:
I’ve been an avid reader of your blog for several years now. At long last I’m dating a lovely gentleman who shares my proclivity for swinging. What we are now discovering is the minor issue of how one goes about pursuing a swinging “lifestyle.”
We have been very fortunate in that a mutual female friend has resulted in several threesomes. Sadly she lives in Florida and is not available on a regular basis. So I thought I’d consult an expert on how we could meet someone/several someone’s who would be interested in our desires.
We attended Le Trapeze about a month ago and were very turned off by the whole experience. The clientèle left quite a bit to be desired in that A) They did not ask to participate, B) They were relatively unattractive and older as a whole and C) No actions were taken towards sexual safety.
We are in our mid-20’s and are a rather attractive couple. I’ve read about your exploits in bars, but must confess it sounds easier said than done. I’m very attracted to men and women, and would love to seduce a girl to bring back with both of us, but don’t quite know how one broaches the subject. “Hi, I think you’re cute and was wondering if you wanted to fuck me and my boyfriend” just seems a bit forward. So I guess I’m wondering where you go and how you create the circumstances you want. Also, how on earth do you get invites to the amazing parties you attend?
Thanks for getting in touch Kate. It’s always nice to find out someone has been reading NLP for a long time.
Le Trapeze sucks, as you discovered, but there’s really nothing magical about the parties we attend — it’s possible to have a shitty time anywhere. You have to make the magic happen. Talk to everyone, including people you aren’t interested in shagging. Ask them what events they’ve been to recently. Befriend kinky people, be they swingers or sadists. Get out of your comfort zone. Ask someone to show you the ropes (perhaps literally). Don’t overthink it. As an arbitrary starting point, try Chemistry on November 15th. The people who attend Chemistry represent a cross-section of New York’s sexual subcultures. Let your curiosity guide you from there.
I cannot overstate the importance of having an open mind, of enjoying the journey itself. You’ll learn a lot about yourself just by seeing what’s out there.
By all means be bold. Be forward. That will get you everywhere. On the night before our first swinger party Les and I spied a cute couple at our local bar. Leslie approached the female half, and after a few minutes of mild flirtation Les said: “My boyfriend shaved his balls for the first time tonight and he’d like to get your opinion on whether he did a good job.” After the shock subsided, the girl shrugged and stuck her hand down my pants. The newbies ended up coming back to our apartment an hour later.
So yeah, don’t be afraid to venture forth and make some heads explode. Directness is refreshing. (In that vein, I am disappointed that you failed to enclose a picture of your tits.) With enough practice you’ll find that perfect mixture of saucy and sly that renders you irresistible to either sex.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Advice | Nov 16, 2007
After reading the responses to my last post it occurred to me that speaking in koans all the time — while fun for me — is less than informative for my readership. It’s also apparent people are suffering from frustrations, misconceptions and frustrated misconceptions.
Girl, for example, has several bones to pick with the men of London:
Please could you print out this post, copy it onto, I dunno, 3 million billboard-sized posters, and plaster them all over the walls of my city, so that the men here grasp just what it means to be sexually liberated – and then that might finally stop all their bullshit, lying and cheating.
‘Compassion’ worries about measuring up in the sack:
For “Dude”, if he doesn’t actually believe he’s better than average in the sack (this blog sets the bar reasonably high, though maybe not from your perspective) and his sexual performance is important to his sense of identity it’s easier to imagine why the idea of sharing his girl with another man might be uncomfortable.
Echoing Girl’s comment, long-time reader Charlie believes there aren’t any men out there who are good enough for his lovers:
[M]y problem has always been the deep conviction that NO man is good enough for my girls, so I have always been very hesitant to sign off on the hunting license.
And in the most poignant of the comments, AJ finds it unlikely that anyone can make a connection in this mad world:
Jealousy type stuff may be a problem for some people, but not most. The major problem lies with anyone finding anyone else attractive and the extremely bad odds of it working both ways. This is true of many of the couples and all of the single people I know.
I cannot say anyone is wrong for having these thoughts. I’ve been frustrated on more occasions than I care to think about. Like I told Bad Man a while back, I wasn’t born a Chick Whisperer. Seduction wasn’t built into my genetic code: I had to practice and learn just like other mere mortals. There’s a lot more that goes into making the sausage than what I share here.
But I’d like to do more than just tell dirty stories while my readers sit around the cathode-ray campfire blinking in disbelief. To this end, dear readers, if you have questions about how we do what we do — anything from meeting partners to setting boundaries to bedroom logistics — then go ahead and ask them here.
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 Dispatches | Apr 29, 2007
Generally, the initial reaction of a thwarted animal is to try harder to attain its goal. A starving chicken (Gallus domesticus) prevented from reaching its food by a wire fence will make increasingly frantic efforts to get through it. Gradually, however, this behavior is replaced by another which has no obvious purpose. When unable to find food, for example, pigeons (Columbia livia) will frequently peck the ground even if nothing there is edible. Not only will they peck indiscriminately, but they start to preen their feathers; such inappropriate behavior, frequently observed in situations of frustration or conflict, is known as displacement activity. Early in 1986, just after he turned thirty, Bruno began to write.
-Michel Houellebecq, The Elementary Particles
Karl Marx observed, with some humor, that on the eve of the storming of the Bastille, French intellectuals were still preoccupied with balancing the Estates, oblivious to the great transformation that was already well under way. Today we might refer to such behavior as rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Examples abound. The much-hyped political upheaval of November 2006, to name but one, brings to mind another of Marx’s witty asides about history repeating itself — the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.
But I don’t intend to drone on about politics; I long ago developed Cassandra syndrome, having learned everything I need to know about the future from the yellowed pages of Orwell, Dick, Burgess, Huxley, Gibson and Stephenson.
You see, during the winter months I found myself struggling to balance my own Estates. In Mexico I birthed all sorts of new ideas, and though I carried them around with me, largely unexamined, in the weeks that followed, I had by Halloween succumbed to postpartum depression. I’ve heard this is not uncommon, the return to reality being a jarring experience to freshly tanned and fucked swingers. I suppose this is why resorts like Desire get so much repeat business, why some people even make biannual pilgrimages. However, I am a stubborn, serious-minded hedonist. Banishment to a sex-positive ghetto, no matter how well appointed, is not for me.
I knew I had to move forward, to make some changes in my own life and, perhaps, inspire others (if I were more ethically flexible I might establish a cult or religion). But I was at a loss. I felt alone. Sure, Leslie and I made the rounds, sharing wondrous tales of enlightenment. And I would sit at my desk filing reports, sipping from a glass of straight gin, drawing out the process as long as possible, clinging to the memory of that feeling that came over me for a few days in late September. I, however, couldn’t be certain anyone understood me. Indeed, I’m not even sure I understood myself. “The problem is that we haven’t taught women — or men — how to say ‘no’,” I told someone at a cocktail party, “nor have we taught them how to say ‘yes’.”
People disappointed me. I fell back on old habits yet I couldn’t help but compare every experience to Mexico. Leslie confessed to me that our project felt like more trouble than it was worth; I agreed with her. I remember fooling around with an ex, aware that we were both too deeply embedded in our own narratives to truly let go. Now I realize no one was ever at fault. The conditions weren’t right. People can only join us when they are ready.
But as surely as a long winter must end, so must our confusion. It dawned on me I had been surrounded by people who understood me all along, that we sexual revolutionaries squandered so much energy emphasizing our differences we’d neglected to celebrate our commonalities. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt this way: it was as if we’d all woken up one morning with the same idea… and the resolve to do something about it.
By the time the last patches of dirty snow melted my Estates didn’t matter anymore. A new feeling came over me nearly overnight. No wall was torn down, no statues came tumbling to the ground, but it was a revolution nonetheless.
