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.
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 | Mar 31, 2007
I get the news I need on the weather report
Oh, I can gather all the news I need on the weather report
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile
And here I am
The only living boy in New York
-Simon and Garfunkel, “The Only Living Boy in New York”
The morning is bright and beautiful, the sky spattered with benign white clouds. Les and I climb the stairs to the rooftop, where we snap nude portraits of each other. An employee is kind enough to take a few shots of the two of us together. My girl giggles. We won’t be naked again for a long time — at least not like this.
We swim in the ocean and then take our last tour of the grounds, happening upon the Oklahomans by the pool. I tell them I’m surprised they didn’t sleep in after last night’s drunken debauchery. We say our goodbyes. Before turning away, I leave them with a final thought: “It’s up to you to keep things interesting around here.”
***
I step out of the hired car, tossing an empty beer can into the trash and squinting at my surroundings — this is our first contact with the civilian world in eight days. Only now, at the airport, do I appreciate the state of preternatural relaxation that came over me that first night in the jacuzzi and never left. I don’t bother putting my shoes back on after walking through the metal detector. Instead I stand in the terminal and smile as a Mariachi band plays.
I cannot get over the feeling that people must be able to sense there is something different about us. As we meander toward our gate Leslie and I play a little game, picking attractive couples out of the crowd and imagining how they’d fare if they spent a night or two in paradise.
I wonder whether there is such a thing as gaydar for swingers.
***
Overhead, multiple LCD screens unfold, the servomotors emitting a high-pitched mechanical whir. I am strapped in, unable to escape. This is unfair: I’ve felt so much better since I went on a media diet. A music video plays. Porn lite. It is a sad reminder that I am returning to a nation of voyeurs — to a land of people who are obsessed with sex and repulsed by it in equal measure.
***
New York. You can’t come home again — I never thought about what this meant until now. We may as well be returning from Mars, and if that Mexico feeling stays with us I’m quite sure we’ll frighten the natives. Drifting over the Triborough, my eyes fixed upon the gleaming lights of Spaceship Manhattan, I almost feel ashamed, as if I’ve cheated on my first love and the day of reckoning is upon me.
***
No sooner do we step over the threshold than my fiancée asks, “Do you want to get a drink?”
“Mos def,” is my reply.
A yellow cab takes us to Morningside Heights, where we claim a couple of stools at one of our regular bars. We run into a few people we know and regale them with tales of our adventures in paradise. I hear my own words tumble out and I barely believe them. Standing here, in a small watering hole in Manhattan, it is hard for me to believe a place like Desire even exists.
Overhearing us, a comely young woman approaches. When she smiles I see that she has lopsided dimples. The three of us talk for awhile. “Here, let me give you my number,” she insists.
I turn to Leslie. “The more things change the more they stay the same, eh?”
“Yeah. Too bad there’s no jacuzzi here.”
