Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 04, 2007
“Would you like a kiss?” I asked her, carefully freeing the chocolate from its foil wrapper.
“No, but I’ll have a real kiss.” The actress winked at me when she said this. She had delicate features, pale skin. She wore a purple wig with little green horns protruding from the top.
“Are you making a move on me young lady?”
“I think I am.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this; I’d seen her canoodling with a friend. After all I’ve seen and done it still surprises me when women appear to operate on my wavelength. Her lips melted into mine. It was delightful.
I ran into her at Madame X a few days later. Bespectacled now, no longer wearing the costume she’d worn to the party, she looked like a sexy librarian, like a hot nerd, like the “ugly” girl in one of those coming-of-age movies (who inevitably transforms into a supermodel as soon as she lets her hair down). “You are a woman of a thousand faces,” I told her.
Little did I know how true this was.
Addressing Leslie now, the actress said: “Sit down… I’m going to give you guys a lap dance.” I remained standing, and as the girl undulated over Leslie’s lap she backed her firm ass against me. As the night wound down we sat together on a comfortable couch. The actress pulled down the top of her blouse and offered me a very pink and very erect nipple. “Put your mouth on me,” she intoned, smiling. There was something sweet in her voice — her request didn’t sound at all like a demand.
I offered her my index finger. When she took it into her mouth it seemed like a promise of things to come…
We never did fulfill that promise though: her boldness had been for show. I suppose it made sense, her being an actress. After two tepid dates I summoned my newfound powers of saying ‘no’ and delivered the dreaded words. Let’s. Just. Be. Friends.
It has been asked why men are so often hesitant around a forward woman. Perhaps it’s that women are so often content to nip at the edges of sex. We can never be certain what anything means. Sometimes a kiss is just a chocolate confection — sweet and delightful and forgotten in an instant.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 18, 2007
LIEUTENANT: I think we can handle one little girl.
LIEUTENANT: I sent two units. They’re bringing her down now.
AGENT SMITH: No, Lieutenant, your men are already dead.
There are really only two kinds of people in the world: those who believe drag is inherently funny, and those who believe drag is funny if and only if the person wearing drag is funny. As someone who’s donned an elegant cocktail dress on more than one occasion, I count myself among the latter. This is perhaps why I so despise Lucky Cheng’s, that queer-lite circus show for sheltered suburbanites. It is the Will & Grace of New York nightlife.
I know, I know. Tell us how you really feel, Lex.
Les and I met DangerGirl in the basement of Cheng’s for a comedy show, which was very funny in spite of my reservations about the venue. But after we went upstairs for a post-show cocktail we found ourselves surrounded by tipsy bachelorettes in penis hats. I stepped out for a smoke to calm my nerves, leaping over a puddle of vomit some bride-to-be had thoughtfully deposited at the top of the stairs, and on the sidewalk I witnessed one of those moments of unintentional comedy that makes New York living seem almost worthwhile.
The recipe was explosive: take a 6’1” drag queen in stiletto heels, a gaggle of diminutive trollops from Jersey (one of them presumably the girl who’d forgotten the contents of her stomach at the top of the stairs), and stir in liberal amounts of alcohol. Top it all off with an unpaid tip. I dropped my ciggy and ran indoors when the scuffle broke out.
Les, DangerGirl and I had dinner at an empty sushi restaurant on 1st Avenue. The plan was to finish eating and then retire to ours for a night cap and the usual three-way play: a little girl-on-girl, then maybe a double blowjob, followed by the good old in-out, in-out in a variety of exciting positions. DangerGirl wore a black fedora with a feather in the band — I looked forward to seeing her in nothing but that cap.
DangerGirl wanted to meet another couple she knew who happened to be at a bar nearby. I should have said no; I could have said no. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something evil in the air, that the city was on the verge of exploding into madness and chaos at any moment. But I said nothing.
To be fair, the wife was tall and slender and fetching — a group scenario involving her might have been interesting. We ordered a round, and then another, and before long the six of us had changed venues yet again. I found myself on the street taking pictures of a guy beating the crap out of his friend with an orange traffic barrel. It was only after the kid was left curled up on the sidewalk in a fetal position that I put away the camera and extended my hand.
“I’m okay,” he said, stumbling to his feet with a smile. “I am so gonna kick his ass later on.”
Madness and chaos indeed.
We were in some forgettable pub. In my drunken haze I hoisted DangerGirl upon the pool table and thrust my tongue into her mouth while squeezing her breasts. Someone threw ice at us; it may have been the bartender. I didn’t give a damn. “Fuck you all very much,” I said on the way out.
DangerGirl’s friends lived in one of those recently-constructed, parquet-floored apartments in Battery Park City, the kind of generic abode you swear you’ve seen a million times before if you’ve lived in Manhattan long enough. What the fuck am I doing here? After a minute or so the fetching wife announced, rather abruptly, that she was going to turn in for the night. Hubby was unfazed, as if this sort of thing were to be expected. (Sometimes people think Les and I have the strangest relationship — I submit these two as evidence to the contrary.) Soon a bottomless DangerGirl lay sprawled across the rug in the living room, rising to her knees as I approached her with my cock hanging out.
The girl was talented. Of the women who have sucked my dick, she is among the select few who took to the task as if her life depended on it. I had every intention of returning the favor, that is until she pinned me beneath her and it dawned on me that I was on the wrong end of some sort of wrestling maneuver.
There is something you don’t yet know about DangerGirl. You see, she truly is dangerous, and not just in some vague femme fatale sense. She wrestles men as a hobby. For money. I’m not opposed to rough play but springing this on someone unannounced is as douchey as “accidentally” slipping your penis in your girlfriend’s ass. We rolled around, pushing the couch about and knocking stuff off the shelves. “Tap out bitch!” yelled DangerGirl.
Hubby was apparently too mesmerized for words. Les, however, was apoplectic: “Guys! What the fuck?”
I had by now gotten to my feet, having figured out that the secret to winning against DangerGirl is to not let her get you down in the first place. Still, she clung to my leg and tried to pull me down again. Is this bitch trying to fuck me or kill me? I looked at the leering husband, then at my distressed fiancée, and finally reached for my underwear, borrowing a line I’d heard from some chick years ago: “Sorry, this isn’t erotic for me.”
It had been a long time since I’d said no. It felt liberating.
I ran into DangerGirl at a party a few days later. “Are we okay?” she asked, slipping an arm around my waist.
“Yeah,” I responded, “we’re okay. If we do that again though, I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Oct 04, 2007
I couldn’t tell the difference between laughing and throwing up but I wasn’t throwing up so I must have been laughing.
***
“You really should have some,” Leslie said to me hours earlier, quaffing the last of her mushroom tea from a cheap plastic cup.
“I don’t know… shouldn’t I be the responsible one tonight?”
Les took in our surroundings. The guests at this sparsely attended affair danced, or sat talking with friends, or else laid about in what must have been a shroom-induced state of torpor. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
***
I was disappointed thus far. Not only was the chunky, bitter brew disgusting, but I wasn’t feeling anything. “You feelin’ it?” I asked Les, “Cause I’m not.”
“Me neither.”
A papier mache head of a troll, as tall as a man, stood in a nook by the chill-out room. It began to sort of, well, rock back and forth and for a moment I let myself believe my moment of revelation had arrived. That is, until the people around me confirmed that the head was indeed rocking rhythmically to and fro. A friend of ours crept up to the troll head, bending down and opening the fully articulated jaw. She spun around and giggled. “Oh my gawd… two people are fucking in there!”
Word of the mystery couple’s doings spread around our little encampment and soon everyone erupted into fits of laughter. Occasionally a random party-goer would wander through our area, do a double take, and approach the head to investigate. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” someone would say, or else, “If the head is a rockin’ don’t come a knockin’!”
What a mind-fuck it all was.
The rhythmic motion ceased abruptly. “We just witnessed a pivotal event in the history of the West,” I told someone. “I am certain that hundreds of years from now scholars will look back upon whatever just happened here and say this was the moment everything came to a head.”
When the man laughed I noticed dazzling seventies-style floral prints creeping in at the periphery of my vision. The patterns soon overtook every object in the room, making it seem as if everything in my field of view was crawling with life. And yet faced with this undeniable proof of the fallibility of my senses, all I could think was: This is such a cliché. I closed my eyes, and upon opening them again the scene was recast in glowing pixels, as if I were standing with my nose pressed up against a plasma monitor.
Post-millennial visuals for a post-millennial trip… I was satisfied.
***
Oh, I get it.
The music, the decorations, the tents, the floor-to-ceiling columns of light — they all finally made sense to me. I stepped out onto the roof to take a leak. My piss ran in rainbow colors, as did the chain link fence, as did the brightening sky.
Oh, I get it.
Wandering around, I found Leslie and took her hand. “This is much more agreeable than acid,” I said to her. “I still know where I am, I still know who I am, but I’ll be damned if I’m not tripping my ass off. For example, I know that’s just my friend Jim standing over there but right now the simple fact that he exists blows my mind.”
***
A wave of euphoria washed over me as the black car ferried us back into Manhattan. I thought about the odd series of events that conspired to make the weekend what it was, how I couldn’t have made it up if I tried and certainly never could have engineered it. And I’m pretty sure I laughed, even if it felt a little bit like throwing up.
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 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.
