Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 14, 2008
It started with a tentative slap across her backside as she leaned over the counter. Encouraged by her little yelp of delight, I cupped my palm and delivered another blow, and then another, each strike more furious than the last. Leslie joined me, each of us working a side. Our date’s cheeks turned crimson; my hand felt like it had fallen asleep. She gasped when I bit down on the pale, lovely flesh above the crease between buttock and thigh. She purred when I clamped my teeth around her nipple.
I am not certain what prompted the spanking but this pretty newcomer had coaxed something out of hiding. Like Leslie, she was agreeable and giving and just shy enough that her depravity was a delightful shock to me.
Men in relationships often outsource their perversions, or so I have read. This is not for me. My wife has always been my favorite whore. Over the years Leslie and I have done unspeakable things to one another. If I am not as open with our naked guests, it is less a matter of hard limits than of trust.
She is a rather perverted bitch, my wife. She thinks it’s funny, for example, when I try to make her gag while fucking her face. “Gok, gok, gok,” is all I have to say when I want to get a laugh out of her. As our guest looked on I pummeled the back of Leslie’s throat and waited for those lovely sounds: gok gok gok. She furrowed her brow when she disengaged. “Lex!” she protested in her sing-song voice. To our guest, she said, “That gives me the sniffles sometimes.”
The new girl nodded. “It makes my eyes tear up.” Her hair was not quite red and not quite blond. I grabbed what little of it wasn’t already gathered into a tie and pulled her to me, watching as her lips parted and slid down the length of me. Leslie slipped a finger up my ass. Tensing for a moment, I cradled our date’s head in both hands and flattened the tip of her nose against my abdomen. I held her like this, marveling at her ability to open her throat, and thought about what this might look like in x-ray vision. Her eyes were watery by the time she uncoupled from me. “See what I mean?” she said, blinking rapidly.
Leaning over her, I kissed away her tears, certain now that I had to do the thing that had been on my mind all day.
“I don’t know,” she demurred when, eventually, I made my intentions known. “You might be too big for me.” I smiled because I knew this game. It is the game Leslie plays with me: my wife, Our Lady of Perpetual Anal Virginity until I’m deep inside her and she’s begging me to pound her into oblivion.
Our guest uttered a breathy moan when her asshole gave way to the probing of my index finger. Rising from the couch, I let her gobble me up so that she was now impaled at either end. Not satisfied that our date was receiving enough attention, Leslie crouched behind her and lapped at her cunt beneath my pumping digits.
Such exquisite torture. I almost took pity on our new friend.
I still laugh when I think of what Leslie said years ago after I’d convinced her to give assfucking a try. That’s not bad at all! It’s like taking a shit over and over again. She knows how to relax for me now; she knows how to angle herself. I bent her over the easy chair, easing into her, and as I penetrated her ass I watched her round buttocks jiggle. There is something subtle, I think, in the way her smooth muscle wraps around the glans that makes our assfucking feel like love.
An ardent voyeur, our date sat some distance away and studied us as if she expected a quiz on our technique. When her turn came she made me wait, kneeling over her overnight bag and fiddling around with something in there. As she stood, stretching out her taut frame, I saw that she now wore eyeglasses.
I reached out to wrap my arms around her waist. “Oh my god.”
She smiled. “What?”
“How did you know I have a thing for hot lasses wearing glasses?”
She straddled me. My wife grasped my cock and slowly, delicately pushed me into our date’s lubed asshole. The girl closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. “Mmm.” I shuddered when I felt her capitulate and then tense around me. She lowered herself onto my lap, hesitatingly, the way one might step into a very hot bath. I rose inside her.
I had her lie on her back and our negotiations began anew. I ventured a little too far at first, causing her to wince, but soon she drew heavy breaths, her slender body melting into mine as I began to fuck her ass in earnest. I pushed my thumb to her lips and she opened her mouth, biting down on the nail. Leslie crept behind me and again stuck a finger in me, saying, “How do you like that?” The sensation was not unpleasant. I pressed our guest’s legs against her chest so as to get a better view of the in-and-out. “Careful,” she cautioned. “I am not as flexible as your wife.”
I am sure Leslie felt satisfied to hear this.
“Oooh, her toes are curling!” came the cry from my wife. Our date was on all fours now, wrapped tight around me and receiving deep strokes, her head bobbing, her eyes closed. I studied the arc of her spine and the tempting mounds that cushioned my thrusts. Her puppy-like mewling only spurred me on. I felt my wife’s hands on me. When everything went out of focus I told the lovely creature pinned beneath me that her ass was surely about to make me come…
“It always hurts at first,” she was saying as the three of us lay entwined on the couch, “but then it feels great.” I knew what she meant, having been on the receiving end of Leslie’s toys. Pleasure has its price. My dick, for instance, was sore, and yet this did not stop me from having my wife again. In an effort to be a gracious host, I first handed our playmate a vibrator. As she pressed the buzzing chrome bulb between her legs and my wife wrapped her lips around me, I was struck by the decadent absurdity of this scenario.
Our calico kitten has a stripper name. When it was time for good girls to say night night, my anal princess held our kitten to her porcelain bosom. The two of them looked adorable together — innocent even, although neither of them really is innocent.
The contradiction gets me off.
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.”
