Naked Loft Party

Date Night

2008-07-17T20:04:10Z

For a moment I thought I couldn’t be seen with this girl, that she provided the definitive proof I was a lech. It didn’t help that the pink tank top she wore made it appear as if her breasts weighed half as much as she did, nor did it help when I took my wife’s hand and Joy said, gleefully, “I’ll take the other one!”

She walked with a slight hunch. This is understandable. I felt bad enough that I offered to walk behind her and bear her heavy burden.

***

I contentedly munched popcorn as we watched the film. Joy’s left hand found my thigh. Her right hand found Leslie’s. This presented me with a dilemma: enjoy my popcorn or respond to her touch? I couldn’t do both at once as I was holding the bag in such a way that I wouldn’t coat my lap in grease.

I set the bag on the floor and then placed my hand over Joy’s. After a minute or so I retrieved the popcorn and went back to stuffing my face. I felt satisfied to have devised such an ingenious plan.

***

When we arrived at the Bad Man’s regular night spot, Leslie and Joy settled into a booth. I remained by the bar chatting with him.

“Lex!” the girls called out in unison. They wanted me to come sit with them.

“Just give me one minute ladies,” I said over my shoulder, before turning back to Bad Man. “I don’t know why I make my life so complicated.”

“You have what I call a high-quality problem.”

***

Joy bounced in my lap. My arms were wrapped around her slender waist. “You’re my little Sexican,” I said.

She giggled. “Sexican!”

***

The girls left in search of a pharmacy, leaving Bad Man and I alone in the booth.

“What’s wrong with Joy?” he asked.

“Um, well, she has a UTI.”

“Oh.”

“I had one of those once. In high school. The pain was… indescribable. Every time I took a wiz I wanted to kill myself.”

***

Whatever Joy had taken had made her feel much better. “Is your pussy open for business again, dear?” I asked her.

Bad Man immediately began shaking his head, “Oh man!”

She grabbed my inner thigh and laughed. “Yeah.”

Recognizing some people he knew, the Bad Man rose from his seat and shuffled to the bar. I joined him a few minutes later. “Everything cool?” I asked.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just trying to stay out of trouble… I’ve already gotten a lecture about our behavior.”

I chuckled, rolling my eyes. “If either of us were in here sucking face with a date they wouldn’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to get in the way either.”

“Don’t worry about it. This was a last-minute thing — I was going to leave them after the movie but I figured you’re the one guy I know who wouldn’t lose his shit. And she thinks you’re great so obviously I wasn’t mistaken.”

***

When I returned to the booth Leslie held her fingers under my nose. I smiled at her, “You didn’t…” But the scent of pussy told me everything I needed to know. “The two of you are getting Bad Man in trouble.”

Joy didn’t appear too concerned. “Where’s your penis?” she cooed, pressing her hand against my fly. “Oh, there’s your penis.”

If we were going to be in trouble anyway, I reasoned, we may as well have fun with it.

***

We stopped in a park on the way to Joy’s and I reached into my jeans to retrieve my cock, whereupon my wife squatted in front of me.

Suddenly shy, Joy protested: “But we’re in public!”

I slipped a hand down the back of her pants and pressed her hand to me. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

***

I suppose I am a lech. It is all I can do to keep up with the girls.

There is no such thing as rejection

2008-07-09T06:42:31Z

I reject your reality and substitute my own

-Adam Savage, Mythbusters

The Bad Man wrote a post on seeking rejection as a means to finding success with women, and though I trust his judgement enough to leave him with the new girl I’m not 100% sure about while Les and I step out for a smoke — which is to say, quite a bit — I have to decline membership in his rejection club.

Because there really is no such thing as rejection. The concept of sex as a competition to be won or lost was foisted upon us, in biblical times, by the evil corporation that owns Just For Men, aided and abetted by the beer, nightclub and automobile industries, and, in more recent times, by irritatingly nasal guys posing as pickup artists.

Rejection is for loan applications. In seduction you can only lead the way. It does not reflect poorly upon you as a man or a human being if a woman cannot or will not walk the path with you. Seduction is a mutually pleasurable and often unpredictable set of escalations. The question isn’t where is this going next but am I having fun right now?

What does rejection even mean?

I fled a woman’s apartment once. She probably thought she’d offended me but in reality her place was tiny and I, um, really had to go to the bathroom (yes, it was a George Costanza moment).

I was blown off multiple times by an extraordinarily contrarian woman who, it turns out, had no problem with me inviting Leslie out on our second date. The three of us were lovers for six months.

A woman fooled around with me once only to flip out on me two days later, calling me a “half-breed.” In this case she did me a favor (as Mistress Matisse helpfully reminds us: never stick your dick in crazy).

And then there was Harker, the girl who chose another man over me only to confess, two years later, that I was the most interesting man she’d met.

When I was doing my bit with the Pope shirt probably half a dozen women scurried away from me in what might have been genuine terror. Did I feel rejected? No. For all they knew I could have been a maniac. Nor did I reject them. I’m sure they were nice girls. I was looking for someone who wanted to play a game with me. And when I found her I picked her up.

What is rejection? I don’t know.

It strikes me that if you go out looking for rejection from women you’re most certainly going to find rejection. If, on the other hand, you go out looking for fun you’re most certainly going to find fun. And having fun with people leads to all kinds of wonderful things. Whenever I feel like I’ve lost my mojo — when I become too serious and start to see rejection as something real — I take it as a sign I need to learn how to have fun again.

I am all for clubs, however. I was a founding member of Slut Club and I am the designated emergency penis for the Bisexual Girls Club. Maybe it’s time for a Meet as Many Interesting People as Possible and Just Have Fun With It club. Who’s in?

UPDATE: Calico and Bad Man have each weighed in. (Thanks to Viviane for the heads up.)

Christ Our Hope

2008-07-06T05:33:44Z

Yankee Stadium, 2008

Feeling unknown
And you’re all alone
Flesh and bone
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
I’ll make you a believer

-Depeche Mode, “Personal Jesus”

Joy

“I know it’s hard for you to be less than perfectly honest but you have to flake on her tonight,” said I to my wife. “Trust me, it’s the only sane option.”

Molly

Called her on the phone. Spoke for a few minutes. Kind of a soft blowoff. Other than her pussy, the reason I was into her was that she laughed when I told her I dumb myself down when I’m speaking to other Americans because Americans are stupid.

“You shoulda come out tonight,” my wife told me later on. “The girls wanted to meet you.”

“For future reference, making the after-party sound like a carnival of cock is not the way to get me to reach for my dancing shoes.”

Dinner

Things were looking up by the next afternoon. My best man was in town for gay pride weekend. He brought his amusing Southern friend. They were staying at ours.

I was playing No More Heroes while everyone watched. I was killing some guys. Killing some guys is fun. When I finished killing some guys I put on the silkscreened Pope shirt, the one that sez Christ Our Hope and has a picture of the Pontiff holding up his hands like he’s raising the roof.

Dunno why I went to see the Pope. He’s German so there’s that. And I took European History in high school so I’m sure Mr. Dudley (God rest his homophobic soul although I’m not quite certain he’s dead) would be proud that I went to see the Holy Roman Emperor. Catholics believe in eating their deity, something I find both silly and oddly appropriate.

Jesus is love though. That time I was walking on the beach and there was only one set of footprints? He was totally carrying me. If I had to make out with a guy my first choice would be Jesus, followed by Johnny Depp if for some reason the J-man weren’t available.

The four of us went to dinner, our gay friends in their tuxedos, I in my Pope shirt and Les in her fuck-me jeans. We must have made an odd foursome.

House Party

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as triple-dees,” I told my wife.

“She insisted she has triple-dees.”

“When you say that I keep thinking of that girl from Total Recall with the three breasts.”

I don’t know if she really did have triple-dees but her breasts were large. She was tall. She had sleepy eyes. “My friends went to see Eartha Kitt,” said I to the tall chick.

“Eartha who?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Catwoman?”

“Um.”

I met a young Indian dude, a percussionist who aspired to play for the Philharmonic. I wished him luck. The drinking games started. We left.

“When you reach the age of majority,” I was saying, “there’s no reason to make a game out of drinking. You just fucking drink.”

Dubai

I wore a paper lamp shade on my arm, light emitting diodes on my fingers. People were, of course, asking me for drugs. Someone offered me shrooms, but I misheard him, thinking he was asking for shrooms and so I pointed at the lamp shade on my arm, saying, “If you eat one of these you’ll get really high.”

The Pope shirt was a hit, as were the lights. I bathed each woman I met in the technicolor radiance of my holy LEDs; I asked each woman I met whether she had accepted Jesus Christ as her LORD and SAVIOR. The few who didn’t immediately run away turned out to be quite fun.

Rachel

A young woman handed me a party flier. I squinted at the glossy paper. “You’re holding it upside down,” she deadpanned.

“Really?” I made an exaggerated show of rotating the flier. “Naw, it definitely looks better the other way.” She laughed. I studied the mole on her cheek. “You look like Rachel Weisz.”

Batting her eyelashes, she said, “I’ve never heard that before.”

“If it weren’t so hot tonight I would pick you up — but let’s face it… we’re both disgusting right now.” My eyes stung from all the sweat. “Though I suppose we could shower at my place.”

“Some guy already tried to entice me with the promise of a shower.”

“If you see him again then you should smack him for stealing my material.”

By the time I had the young woman’s number Les had convinced her to doff her top. Remembering, belatedly, that we already had two overnight guests, I sent my ladyfriend on her way. “When you do come over for that shower, I have someone I’d like you to meet. I won’t tell you his name but his initials are J.C.”

Sometimes I’m brilliant with women. Other times I’m a perfect idiot. I never know which Lex will show up until the words start tumbling out of me. This phenomenon keeps things interesting.

Score

“If you eat those things you’ll get really high,” said the guy.

“Oh hey, it’s you. I thought I’d pissed you off.”

“Not at all. That was hilarious.”

“On a more serious note, how much?”

Joy Again

My wife spoke with Joy the next day. Joy and Molly were no longer on speaking terms, the result of an incident that had occurred around the time I’d called Molly. I rolled my eyes at this, as young chicks often have dramatic falling outs, but at least it explained the brush-off.

“If I have to choose,” I said, “then obviously I choose Joy. I’m drawn to her, even though I’m positive this won’t end well.”

Rachel Again

“Just so I know I’m speaking with the right guy, you’re the one with the lights on his fingers who was saying crazy shit about Jesus, right?”

“Yup.”

“I’m glad you called.”

Another Party, Days Later

“If you eat those things you’ll get really high,” said the hot bartender.

“Wait… what? How do you—”

“Word gets around.”

“And to think I wasn’t even high when I said that. Hey, there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to. I won’t tell you his name but…”

And on and on and on and on until the break of dawn.

Twilight's Last Gleaming

2008-07-05T06:08:55Z

Independence Day, 5:24 AM

There were one quadrillion nations in the Universe, but the nation Dwayne Hoover and Kilgore Trout belonged to was the only one with a national anthem which was gibberish sprinkled with question marks.

-Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

Earlier…

Burning

2008-07-03T21:36:51Z

Fire dancer

Ever feel that, y’know, burning sensation… down there?

Credit to Leslie for the pic.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

2008-07-03T20:40:43Z

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.

Milka: Adorable Anal Slut

2008-07-02T22:42:51Z

It’s hard to stay motivated when I’m knee-deep in image-processing code, so I use porn as testing fodder. When I do something right I get a nice surprise. (See more of Milka at Explicite Art)

The Straight Girl

2008-06-28T02:42:29Z

I’ll call her Red because she wore red pantyhose and she never did give me her real name. I suppose I could have found out what her name was. I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. They come up a lot, stage names do. Everyone has a part to play.

“I was hoping you’d come,” she said, smiling at me. “I enjoy your writing.” It’s always a little jarring to hear this. She had my dossier. I had nothing on her.

The broad, multi-hued horizontal stripes on her tight dress were the sort of thing only petite women can get away with. The front of the dress was zipped only half way, revealing a sports-bra that strained to keep its heavy payload in place. Red’s curly hair framed a kind and intelligent face.

I mumbled something about having a smoke. “I’ll come with,” she responded. Leslie, who had been flirting with a shy couple, snapped some pictures of us,

It was only later, as we sat side by side on a couch by the dance floor, that I found out Red was straight. I hadn’t known there were any straight girls left. She lived in Brooklyn, not far away from the party. “So, the after-party is at your place then?”

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you!” She laughed in a way that told me she was now playing the part of the coy ingenue.

“Is it?” I grabbed a handful of her ample ass. “Because I could have sworn you’d planned this.”

When we arrived at her charming apartment on the top floor of a classic brownstone, Red plied us with exotic rum. And smoke. “My friends are going to think I’m such a slut,” she remarked, which I found odd since our mutual friends ran, you know, a sex party.

Red wanted to show us a video of her performing at a reading of erotic stories. She wheeled out a little teevee, and when she bent over to put the tape in I sprang from my seat, unsheathing my hard-on and lifting her dress in a single fluid motion. “Oh,” she said as I rubbed against her ass.

Red’s story was abstractly sexual yet stimulating nonetheless. I sat squinting at the screen, trying to reconcile the Red on stage with the Red sitting next to me. Leslie was delighted by the story, but then she’s a sucker for anything that employs animal imagery. “You’ve never considered starting a sex blog?” I asked Red.

“I don’t think I’d want to be exposed like that.”

When Red slipped away to use the bathroom I stood before Leslie, my beautiful wife immediately taking me into her mouth. I barely noticed when Red appeared behind me. “I was hoping you guys would be doing that.” I could taste mouthwash on her tongue. She settled next to Leslie, admiring her work, and then leaned toward my midsection, her mouth open, peering up at me. “Do you like it when two girls suck your dick?”

They were working either side of the head. I sighed.

Lying next to me now, her legs spread wide, her pantyhose and underwear lying in a pile on the living room floor, Red held her hand over her cunt. “Let’s see it,” I insisted. “Oh, that’s a pretty pussy.” The girl laughed, as did my wife. “We’d probably be more comfortable in the bedroom,” I continued, and moments after tumbling upon the bed I settled between Red’s thighs while my naughty wife licked my balls and ass from behind.

“I want to see if I can take you all the way,” said my new playmate. I made her wait, plunging into my wife instead, and when I took Leslie from behind Red placed one hand on her ass and another on mine. I slipped out, my cock twitching, glistening with Leslie’s wetness, inches from Red’s mouth. Respecting her boundaries, I didn’t ask, but she did it anyway, wrapping her lips around me and then, when I was good and clean, carefully pushing me back into Leslie’s pussy.

I thought about the labels we assign to ourselves. Straight. Bi. Gay. What does it matter where pleasure is concerned? We are all hairless primates. And compared with the rest of the animal kingdom, even the most genetically gifted among us really do look ridiculous naked.

My eyes widened when Red removed her top. “Wow,” I told her, “I’m not usually a breast man but you have magnificent tits!” As the sky brightened I tore into her, the two of us tumbling into an absurd number of positions. Everything but what I really wanted: face in the sheets, ass in the air, affording me an unfettered view of her shapely buttocks, her puckered asshole, her wet cunt. I think she’d been denying herself, because when I finally had her from behind she gasped: “You’re filling me up! You’re filling me up!”

I came hard, kissing my wife deeply while I was balls deep in new pussy. I needed this; I needed to fuck someone I didn’t already know. And I needed Leslie to be there for it.

By the time we left an inch of snow had accumulated. Brooklyn never looked so beautiful. “That one was for me,” I told my wife. “The next one is for you.” She took my hand and I continued, “I think I prefer it when you’re the center of attention.”

Red emailed me a couple of weeks later, telling me she’d been deliriously happy since our encounter, that she could see how much Leslie and I loved each other and had been inspired to find her own love.

We really are doing the Lord’s work.

Natürlich

2008-06-25T06:58:51Z

My friends say no don’t go for that cotton candy
Son you’re playing with fire
The kid will live and learn
As he watches his bridges burn
From the point of no return

-Steely Dan, “Babylon Sisters”

Molly came home like I said she would. “What’d your little girlfriend say about it?”

“Nothing,” answered Les. “I think she’s still pissed off. By the way, Joy asked me to give you a kiss for her.”

“Wait, am I supposed to be her girlfriend now too? If so I’m gonna need a cute dress.”

I was quietly relieved. Unwilling as I was to entertain Molly’s attention-seeking antics, it’s not as if I was dispassionate about her fate. Nor, frankly, was it ever among my life’s aspirations to be named a “person of interest” in the disappearance of a pretty white girl.

And so, my schedule cleared of any potential Dateline NBC appearances, I let myself relax about the coming weekend.

Well, not entirely. “The little one is great… but stay away from that other garl,” Chris had told me during our wild night out with the two young vixens. “She’s trouble man. I’m tellin’ ya.”

He ought to know; Chris has been working at bars and clubs since the tender age of five. He studies human character as carefully as I study women’s faces for signs they want to fuck me. Chris met the first girl we ever fully seduced, and most of the rest. He’s never been wrong.

And I’ve never listened.

Worlds Apart

2008-06-24T05:29:13Z

You couldn’t figure out the “Worlds Theory” for yourself? It’s just common sense. Anybody knows, ya gotta keep your worlds apart.

-George Costanza

Leslie and I joined a volleyball league at the start of last year. During my recent self-imposed exile from the land of hedonism, volleyball was probably the only activity that kept me sane. At the very least it did wonders for my ass and shoulders.

But last year I was trying my hardest to keep worlds from colliding. You see, physical activity releases endorphins. And pheromones. I was surrounded by fit, young and flirtatious single women. I realize this is a bit like complaining about someone getting chocolate in my peanut butter. At the time, however, I wanted to participate in at least one group activity that had nothing to do with sex.

Not that I was blind to the curious mating habits of New York singles. The league was like a junior high dance: no one made the first move. “Guys never ask me out,” lamented a teammate. It didn’t make any sense to me. The league should have been a meat market.

I stayed out of the fray. I stayed focused on the game. Got good. Damned good. And even if I had wanted to go there, I told myself, good girls should be with good boys, not married perverts like me.

On a Friday night a girl named Denise showed up at open play.. She must have been 5’10”, with curly red locks and a small gap between her front teeth that did nothing to diminish her smile. She was, I believe, Lithuanian. She had a killer serve. So much for the worst-laid plans.

I tried to avoid Denise — really — but she kept laughing at my stupid jokes. She sat next to me on the sidelines. She kept touching me, damn it. And so, when it became apparent that no other man would approach the second most beautiful woman in the gymnasium, I invited her out for drinks with me and Les. She readily agreed.

Another guy was sort of hovering around us. It would have felt wrong not to invite him as well — maybe they’d hit it off and I’d remain safely compartmentalized. But as soon as we were seated my hand drifted under the table, onto Denise’s knee, and she said, “You guys are married?” and I said, “I’m sure my wife won’t mind us spending some time together, right hon?” and my wife, stroking the lovely creature’s back, said, “Why not?” and the poor guy’s face said WTF?

A couple weeks later Denise showed up at my birthday party with her beautiful, raven-haired friend. The three of us sat together, Denise’s friend sandwiched in the middle, feeding each other candied hearts printed with suggestive phrases like SPREAD EM and LICK ME. Denise made an offhand remark about vibrators. Our fingers crept together atop her hot friend’s thigh…

And that thunderous crash in the distance? That was the sound of worlds colliding.