Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 25, 2008
My life is a parade of threesomes and eager sexkittens and orgiastic delights.
Except for when it isn’t.
I never see these moments coming, the moments that leave me battered and bruised, the moments that make me want to find a dark corner and hide.
The lithe young woman rode my leg, reverse cowgirl, mashing her lips against my wife’s, moaning as my fingers slipped into her black panties and up her shorn but not completely shaven cunt. The three of us stood in a bright stairwell. People smiled as they pressed past us. I cupped a heavy breast in my palm and whispered something into the young woman’s ear.
It should have been brilliant. But it wasn’t. An awkward series of maneuvers ended our spell and the three of us shot off in separate directions like expertly struck billiard balls. Leslie and I weren’t communicating well that night and it showed in our play. I tried to find solace in a bottle of gin.
The next afternoon found me utterly, maniacally horny. It is a state I often find myself in when hungover: once the alcohol evaporates there’s nothing left but hormones. I called my mistress. “I’m gonna fold you in half,” I growled.
She was always willing. “You can do anything you want.”
Sometimes, instead of dealing with my problems like a rational being, I double down. I thought this was what I needed, that I had to get out of the house and fuck someone else. In my crazed state I headed down to the spot where my mistress tended bar, taking a seat and thinking about what I was going to do to her when her shift ended.
My reverie was interrupted by a dreadlocked rasta who sidled up to me and tried to get handsy. “Yo,” I said, grasping his shoulder and pushing him back to a safe distance, “even if I was into that you’re doing it all wrong.” He retreated. I no longer felt comfortably anonymous.
A fetching Asian woman bought me a drink — pleasant enough, I thought — but before long she insisted on having my home address so she could come over the next day and show me her erotic novel-in-progress. By the third time she asked (“I’ll give you five hundred dollars!”) it dawned on me, all too late, that she was not well-acquainted with sanity. She was possessed by that subtle kind of crazy that draws you in and makes you feel like a nutter for even having glimpsed it.
I was relieved when last call came and my mistress gave me permission to tell everyone to get the fuck out. My relief yielded to apprehension when I learned the crazy woman had followed us to the after hours place. When the woman started in again I told her I’d had enough, after which she found another guy to torment. (The next day I would learn the woman had professed her love to the poor guy, only to flee the bar in tears when he turned her down, blowing up his phone with messages through the morning.)
That night the city I loved — the city that had always taken care of me — had gone prickly and tense. People surrounded me, salivating, teeth bared and claws out. I wanted to bolt but I felt the outside world would be even worse, that knives were drawn for me, snipers were waiting amid the urban ruins and landmines were set. After another guy made a grab for me I went to find my mistress. “Take me home now,” I insisted, my firm tone at odds with my shaky resolve. “Please.”
“I am so sorry,” she said to me as we clung to each other in the back seat of a yellow cab. She had nothing to do with this madness though. It was my fault for leaving the house without my warrior’s armor, for placing too much trust in my adopted hometown. It was my fault for doubling down. This flaxen-haired southern belle had always been kind to me — her kindness having been what drew me to her. Most women expect me to play the part of the dashing playboy, the rake, the ideal lover: mysterious and cool and collected and eternally throbbing. My mistress, however, didn’t need me to be a towering inferno of manhood. My weaknesses, my humanity, did not lower me in her eyes.
I made good on my promise when we arrived at hers, which is to say I folded her in half, I fucked her like a beast and I let her gag on me, just the way she liked, my creativity owing as much to her compassion as to my sex drive. A breathless wow was all she could muster when we were finished. It should have been brilliant but I still felt tormented. I thought about my wife, who probably lay across the covers now, half-dressed, having forgotten to turn out the light. Leslie and I could have curled up on the couch and talked and healed the rift but instead I’d pulled away. Perhaps this strange, unsettling night had been my punishment.
My mistress fell silent after awhile. She began to snore lightly. I was too tired to leave and too agitated to sleep peacefully. What am I doing here? I thought over and over as I drifted in and out of sleep. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t my wife’s fault. The blame was all mine.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 19, 2008
The room is crowded. People are on their third or fourth cocktails. We are talking about weaknesses.
“What’s your weakness, Lex?” someone asks.
I bite my lip, trying to formulate an appropriately clever riposte, when DangerGirl interjects: “Blowjobs!” She lets out a hearty laugh and pinches my midsection. Her dark eyes pierce me.
“What can I say? This woman knows me.” There is much rejoicing.
Later on I’m alone on the patio getting some air. The heavy door opens. DangerGirl leans out to say goodbye. I frown at her. “Get your sexy ass over here and give me a hug.”
We kiss. There is something heavy in my jeans and when I place her hand upon it she smiles. I rush to undo my belt and free my cock, which is by now standing at full attention. She lowers herself, gracefully, to her knees.
DangerGirl’s soft, divine tongue belies her sadistic streak. As she works her mouth around me, her tongue seemingly in motion over the entire surface area of my cock, I am not, I realize, the slightest bit tempted to guide her. Lost in the sensation, I take shallow, shuddering breaths.
She may be on her knees but there’s a fierce intensity in her eyes. She knows she’s got my number.
I hear laughter coming from the other side of the door. We’ll have to stop soon but for now I want to enjoy this. I place my hand over hers and sigh, my gratitude radiating out to the cosmos for bestowing upon me the gift of such understanding friends.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 18, 2008
If I am an orgy guy I am ambivalent about it. The sublime is what I am after — the kind of transcendent experiences that stay with you — and if these pleasures are more rewarding than self-gratification, they also require empathy and patience. Fuck and run just doesn’t cut it.
I try to keep my non-monogamous karma in balance by attending a polyamorous event now and then. Really though, when people tell me about their loves and lovers (and I blanch at the thought of all the scheduling involved) I start to feel like polyamory is an in-joke I’ll never get. Maybe I’m a contrarian, but I am always looking for a third way.
I hadn’t given much thought to what to do about the date — it had all been so heady and unexpected — but we did share a philosophical skepticism about things and a common love for my wife’s perfect ass. So when I decided to drop by the poly cocktail hour I invited her along.
“My ex is here,” she told me after Les and I arrived. If I disappear from certain scenes for months at a time, this is why — these little communities are all so incestuous. New York appears to shrink with each passing year (it has limits!). Most of the night I made my rounds, checking in now and then with the date, and most of the night her ex hovered around her, eyeing me like I’d pissed on his hedges. I wanted to pull him aside and let him in on my little secret, that if you learn to let women go you’ll have to beat them off with a stick.
If I was reserved it was because I didn’t want to be one of those people who come to poly parties so they can slobber all over their lovers like status-seeking primates. The sly seductress kept brushing up against me though, and so I pressed her to me as we stood by the bar talking about the sex people think sex-writers have versus the sex they actually have.
“You know, I go to sex parties fully intending to hook up,” she said, “but I’m not often comfortable enough to make it happen.”
“I’ve been going to sex parties off and on for years now… if you’ve seen one big sweaty pile of bodies you’ve seen them all.”
She laughed, and when she did so I tugged at one of her pigtails. “And then there are the creeps, and the people you don’t want to see naked.”
“Right. It’s so much more… fulfilling with people you trust. I guess that’s why I prefer the kind of parties that happen in my living room.”
Later on, over dinner, Les and I conducted our customary debriefing — well, we gossiped like schoolgirls — while our date listened, very much amused at our take on things. Something set me off and I went on a far-ranging rant about how so-called sex-positive communities are still not safe spaces for women, after which I felt slightly self-conscious. Then it struck me that it is probably okay to relax around a woman whose ass I’ve fucked.
Leslie disappeared for a while. We would find out later on that she had been pulled into a comedian’s routine and had, of course, held her own against him. That’s just how my wife rolls. “Theoretically I’m poly,” I told our date. “I also adore my wife. Maybe I’m overly picky, but it’s hard for me to justify taking time away from her to be with other women just because I can.”
There was a time when I was after the perfect fuck, or else the perfect love. These are illusions. I am more confident now that as long as I approach life with a spirit of openness and adventure good things will come my way. Because I’ll never really be the orgy guy, with his eternal hardon and his unending parade of partners, and I’ll never really be the poly guy, with his new-agey philosophy and his five totally serious girlfriends.
There may not be a name for what I do, there may not be an off-the-shelf identity that fits, or a community that reflects my particular viewpoint, but I am content, for the most part, with the path I have chosen.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Nov 08, 2008
I am drawn to the troubled ones. They are my lost little angels. I don’t go looking for them. They find me. They find Leslie. They find us for the same reasons perfect strangers confess their sins to us — for the same reasons people just seem to know they can trust us.
Why us? I always ask the women we’re with some variation upon this question. The answer is always the same: Because I felt so comfortable around you.
Joy’s troubles were overwhelming. She needed sanity, not adventure. She needed therapy, not us. And so we let her go. She began the hard work of fixing herself. It isn’t fair that you have to fix yourself when someone else breaks you but this is how it goes.
This thing we do is light and fun and oh-so-hot but it also requires maturity. And though no one who knows me would ever accuse me of having lofty intentions when it comes to women, I cannot allow my pleasure to come at someone else’s expense.
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.
