Beam Me Up!

First, many apologies for what amounts to a rant. My life over the past couple of weeks has resembled an episode of Paradise Hotel, minus the free booze. Really. From where did all these complications arise?

Shortly after the now-infamous underwear party, Ryder (formerly known as Belinda) sent me a note saying she’d like to get together to make up for our lack of three-way play time at the after-party. I felt a little cheap being so obviously squeezed in around her high-priority appointments with The Cock and Schoolgirl, but, what the hell, I thought, we’ll give this a try. (Both Anya and Ryder, incidentally, carry on ad-nauseum about the delights to be found in the bedroom of The Cock and Schoolgirl, making it sound like a veritable Garden of Eden. For all I know this could be true, but I don’t need to hear it every five minutes.)

Meanwhile, in her conversations with Anya, Leslie mentioned in passing that she felt awkward about not having been included in my play session with Ryder. This was true, but had more to do with the dynamics of the party than anything else. Had there been a better mix of people the party would have gone on longer and we would have explored all the different permutations. Leslie and I had already talked about it and decided it wasn’t a big deal. Anya took the comment to mean that Leslie must have been horribly traumatized by my tryst with Ryder. Ryder, hearing this from Anya, decided that Leslie must hate her. In the process of clarifying that Leslie does not, in fact, harbor any ill-will toward Ryder, we somehow incurred the wrath of Anya. And now we find ourselves faulted for so much chicanery we neither initiated nor asked for.

So it goes. In the immortal words of former US Rep. James Trafficant, “Beam me up!”

Fortunately, there are other people who seem to make this all seem worthwhile. This weekend we’ll be getting drinks with the nice couple we met before the underwear party. And Kayla’s husband has been sending us some choice snapshots of their seemingly non-stop party life in Bermuda. They’ll be in town soon and even offered us a place to crash should we decide to join them on temptation island. Cindy, the sweet Latina of underwear party fame, wants to get together with us next week. And there’s always the prospect of meeting some interesting folks at the next Grego’s.

Do our recent experiences change anything? I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s okay to fuck for fuck’s sake every once in a while and leave it at that. Maybe friendship is too much to ask for. I think our honesty and openness get us in trouble sometimes. To be sure, we’re going to be more careful from now on about what we share and whom we share it with. For what it’s worth, I had fun exchanging emails with Ryder and hanging out with Anya. Oh well. In any case, our erotic adventures are sure to continue.

Reality is Bullshit

What a sham. I thought I would be on a “reality” show, but what I found was no more real than the script created by the producers. This was their idea of how we should have been interacting. They surprised me by telling me last minute that I was going to be the Fifth Wheel. They told me I would be as I auditioned. Then they told me I wouldn’t be when they called back with the date I would be filming. Then, an hour before I met the daters, they told me once again, “Of course you’re the Fifth Wheel. You’re the hottest one here and you have to drive everyone wild. What else would you be but the Fifth Wheel?”

I was thrown into a room full of people whom I wouldn’t normally give the time of day. Mind you, they were not ugly but they were really not my type. The men were actually little boys who couldn’t keep up with me and the girls were straight as boards. Being out until midnight was a big deal to these people. So what was I to do? I figured I’d try to make things interesting. The producers had decided to bill me as the WILDBICHICK, and once they showed the other daters my introductory video there seemed to be no going back. During the ten minute video, I was asked questions in such a way that my answers were forced. I mean, they were mostly my words, but I was asked to repeat myself quite a bit until I said things the way they wanted. Off camera, they asked about the wildest things I’ve done. Then they spit that back at me in question form while taping. “Did you dance in the bar and take your top off? Well, say it like you mean it, like no one will get in your way. Leslie, you’re a wild one. Come on, we want to see that fire. You want to drive people wild. How wild can you be? You have to show the viewers how wild you can be.”
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Let There Be Light

If what Billy Pilgrim learned from the Tralfamadorians is true, that we will all live forever, no matter how dead we may sometimes seem to be, I am not overjoyed. Still—if I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I’m grateful that so many of those moments are nice.

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

I’m coming at you live from Baghdad. I mean New York. I don’t fucking know anymore. It doesn’t matter. There’s no difference. The electricity was finally restored one hour ago—after twenty nine hours of darkness—to much applause from the flashlight-wielding citizens of 23rd. But the manhole cover across the street from me is smoking and the firemen are hosing it down. You see, there was an explosion a few minutes ago, and the shockwave I felt while sitting here in front of my baking monitor. Just a loud gassy pop, followed a few seconds later by the staccato clangs of heavy metal impacting against unyielding pavement. A few more underground explosions could be heard down the street. Aftershocks I suppose. Maybe I should get out of here. I don’t fucking know anymore. The city has been a war zone over the past two years. We need no further proof that the people who run the world are idiots.
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Books, Beaches, Golf and Sex

I made Rosewater an alcoholic in another book. I now had him reasonably well sobered up, with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous. I had him use his new-found sobriety to explore, among other things, the supposed spiritual and physical benefits of sexual orgies with strangers in New York City. He was only confused so far.

Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

My vacation afforded me the opportunity to catch up on some reading. Namely, Zadie Smith’s debut novel, White Teeth, and Kurt Vonnegut’s blackly comic Breakfast of Champions. Both books, unfortunately, drove me to a kind of existential despair.

Myrtle Beach is another one of those scary American experiments. An endless succession of swamps and crappy pine forests laid bare to make way for highways, shadeless golf courses, malls, strip clubs, putt-putts, ersatz Japanese steak houses, Hooters franchises and theme-parks. Where my fat countrymen gorge on buffets, shopping and ridiculous attractions. There isn’t even any ass to be found down there this time of year, just noisy families and tottering middle-aged golfers. Though there was that cute Russian waitress who flirted with me at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Even amidst all the chaos of development, the place retains a sort of sadness, as if it is reaching toward a paradise status it knows it can never attain. Particularly poignant are the businesses that didn’t make it, sporting decaying signs that say BEST PUTT-PUTT ON THE BEACH, or CHEAP CIGARETTES. I took an interest, too, in the golf courses that closed down and now lie fallow, slowly surrendering to the weeds.
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The Last Entry Before the Next

I’m off tomorrow afternoon to spend a few days on the beach and the golf course with my family. Thank God. I won’t be thinking of sex. Rather, I’ll grip my shaft firmly in my paws, tuck my balls into my shorts and venture forth to fill a few dozen holes in as few strokes as possible.

It’s been barely a month since I began this project yet it feels like ages. I have learned a lot about myself; for instance, that I have a sharp philosophical disagreement with some of my fellow naked loft party attendees. I am not out on some quest to collect notches in my belt and somehow prove myself. Nor am I in it to win some kind of popularity contest. Nor am I trying to fuck as many people as possible. Nor, finally, am I out to simply procure genital pleasure for myself. This is all too mercenary. To me, the authenticity of the connection matters far more, and this probably explains why our experience with individuals and small groups has been infinitely more satisfying.

Saturday sort of brought things to head for me. After idling at the SKIN party for a couple of hours, we let a few people we know drag us to this after hours event in our neighborhood, which was predictably lame and under-attended. We had lobbied unsuccessfully for a more intimate gathering at our place. The Cock and Schoolgirl were there, along with Jim and Kathy, and perhaps the large empty space contributed to the distance between us, but I couldn’t help but feel that, curiosity satisfied, they are off to find new sources of amusement. By contrast, Anya, Cindy and a few other people we have met over the past few weeks have shown some genuine interest in us. The lines have been drawn; time to separate the wheat from the chaff, etc. We’ll stick with those most like us, and let the rest wallow in their solipsism.

As I wrote to someone this afternoon, ”[Y]ou have to decide whether … you genuinely desire some good to come to us or whether your approach is more mercenary than that. The latter is fine for some people, and I wouldn’t judge you for that, but the former is what makes the difference, for us, between the person we play with once and the person we want to share our bed with on an ongoing basis.”

Revelations

See the happy moron, He doesn’t give a damn. I wish I were a moron, My God! Perhaps I am!
Dorothy Parker

I fucked a lesbian Friday night and I didn’t, like, know it at the time. More on this in a moment.

The world of boozing has suffered a setback this month. We met a nice couple for drinks over at Ciel Rouge, which is unfortunately shutting down after August 15th. This is truly a great loss, as the bartenders there mix a potent cocktail, and the dark red interior puts me in a conspiratorial mood. As if to pile insult atop injury, my favorite bartender down the street, who has heard so many of my debaucherous tales and witnessed a great number of my pointless shenanigans, put in his two weeks. But the noisy, ugly Portuguese-spewing bitches upstairs are moving out, so I suppose it’s all a wash.
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Mediarrhea

It is no longer possible to smugly ask, as Congress does, what are the effects of media (on reality)? The question has no meaning, since reality itself has become a media scenario; reality experiences its birth and death almost entirely on the terrain of images, symbols, and language. The question is, how does reality now function in media?

As media have become increasingly technologized, there has been an implosion of reality in media, a general instance of the implosion of reality in technology. In this implosion media lost their ability to communicate. We must agree with the philosopher Baudrillard that advanced media exhaust themselves in the technical staging of content. Through media, reality confronts individuals as a code, useful for enhancing the credibility of media, but not intrinsically valuable.

The code is the frantic totality of our imperatives—vote, consume, be informed; it is the familiar, the assumed, the American project’s only common thread, like the titles of recent Tarantino flicks, players in a national election, names of bestselling authors, latest sports scores, latest models of automobiles, and CNN fashion news. … The code is a kind of mediarrhea, the product of institutions that possess ever more sophisticated means of saying nothing. In proliferating the code, media have presided over the death of meaning even as they add exponentially to the store of information.

From the Future Imperfect Manifesto

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Wherein the Author Gets a Physical

We literally fucked and sucked our way into the inner circle on Saturday night. This, the third of the Brooklyn loft parties we have attended, hosted many more people than the last two, as well as several familiar faces and asses from the first party. A little overwhelmed by all the action in the back room, Leslie and I spent some time yukking it up with a few of the regulars in the kitchen. After the relative isolation of our threesome years we are relieved to have finally met some like-minded souls. And it is truly remarkable how many of these people know each other. More often than not, a dropped name elicits a response of “oh yeah, we know them.” Several people knew the BDSM couple we played with at the after party a couple of weeks ago, in fact. Anya, a cute large-breasted Jewess from the first party, arrived in full PVC nurse costume. We smoked together and I hinted at needing a full physical later on. “Certainly,” she said, smiling. It’s true though. I haven’t had a physical in ages.

After a while we meandered back into the cavernous play room and set up camp on a folded futon along the back wall. This afforded us a good view of the action on the big mattresses to the left and the bed to our right. If I looked hard enough from my vantage point I could even discern a bit of flesh in the curtained side rooms. Sex was in full swing in little vignettes all around us. Over on a couch in the corner of the room, two men pistoned into their dates in tandem. Anya mooned the room from her position on the bed as she took a cock in her mouth. A wife was fucked hard by an athletic black man as her husband clambered onto the bed to avail himself of Anya’s expectant twat. A few couples stood around chatting, incongruous in their clothes. There was more going on, of which I couldn’t make heads or tails. Leslie flipped up her little blue dress and I placed my hand between her legs, probing the folds of her tidy little pussy. In less than two minutes she squirmed and orgasmed.
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