STRICTLY BI The Best Bisexual Stories By JAMIE JOY GATTO A Renaissance E Books publication ISBN 1-58873-308-4 All rights reserved Copyright © 2003 by Jamie Joy Gatto This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission. For information contact:
[email protected] A Sizzler/Scorcher Edition
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DEDICATION This book is for all the out, open bis and especially closeted bisexuals, bi-curious and bi-questioning people of the world, and to those people who simply find guilty pleasure in reading bisexual erotica. I'd also like to dedicate this book to the members of my newsgroup, A Bi-Friendly Place, which can be found on the Web at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ABi-FriendlyPlace, and to my group moderator, Sabrina Qedesha who so graciously helps me with the upkeep of this group. A Bi-Friendly Place is a safe, comfortable and casual way to meet other bisexuals, to discuss bi issues, to share your stories, to ask questions, and most importantly to find community. I invite you to join us online to share your thoughts, issues, doubts and fears. Maybe you can even help another person learn to feel comfortable about their own sexuality. Remember, we are here for you; you are not alone!
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CONTENTS BEING ME A GARDEN CALLED YOU CIRQUE DU TROIS ONLY IN DREAMS EYE OF THE BEHOLDER A WARDROBE OF SOULS GO YOUR OWN WAY LAST CALL PISSING IN THE MEN'S ROOM THE ADVENTURES OF A BI SLUT DOLLY MY OWN TWISTED URGES AM I A SWINGER? YOU TELL ME: ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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BEING ME Lipstick lingers on my lips from a boy who kissed me wearing the latest Mac Boots lined up by my front door belong to the girl who put me to bed too drunk last night Ed is gay and Bill is not and Jenny is hopelessly hetero Where am I in the middle of minds fixed so rigidly on sexuality and ego? Not lost like a little lamb... I'm just always tiptoeing over your lines I am not a mistaken identity and I do not have to choose Am I the one who's so confused? I know who I am. I'm proud to be me. Don't try to rope me– Never fence me in. Play with me, I'm lots of fun! Please, don't be afraid of me... Can't you see I'm just like you? But, I'm also just like him, and her, Why does it matter so much –who I love– or who I fuck or want to fuck or how I love to you?
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A GARDEN CALLED YOU "What's in a name? ... lots," I mutter to no one, peeling off, then tossing my wet towel across the wood floor, spooking the cat, as I lie sprawled across my big queen bed, wet and naked, skin still sunburnwarm from the bath. "Chaka is just the wrong name for a white chick," I think for the millionth time, damning my mother for naming me after a pop star. "Especially for a skinny white chick, with small breasts. I should have been named Anne or Mary." I grab a little handful of my pale flesh, holding a tiny tit in my hand and I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my fingers around a meaty, black breast, full and creamy, dark brown nipples ... maybe nipples the color of burgundy wine. I start to play with my own nipple, watching it grow tighter, pulling away from the areola into a tight, little pearly nubbin. I think of my hands touching a myriad of black women's bodies: pert tits with perky nipples, ripe like raisins, ready to pop into my mouth; a large pair of pendulous beauties attached to a mammoth woman who'd smother me, and my lips, with soft, seductive flesh. I think of all the black women I've known. Not too many, actually, but I've almost always been attracted to each one, in a different way. I knew a girl in college, Martha. She was a rocker, and I thought she was the coolest chick I'd ever met. She worked in a record store, and knew everything about anything that had to do with hip music. Martha was dark brown, chunky, pointy breasted, and big bellied. She still managed to squeeze into skin-tight jeans, and apparently didn't mind the curves she showed off, regardless of her weight. I think of one particular night, after we'd had drinks at The Club, something she'd said made me laugh, and we were both just roaring, and then giggling, and finally chuckling all over again at the silliness of our private joke. In one brief moment our eyes locked, and I just knew we were so happy to be together, drunk and stupidly laughing. Oh, how I wanted to unsnap her jeans and bury myself in that beautiful belly of hers!
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Martha was definitely special. Martha was definitely hot. I wonder now why I'd never had the courage to reach over and kiss her, or to touch her, or to do anything suggestive at all. I guess I was just too young, too shy. Today things would be different, I think. I'm older, and definitely sexually wiser, at least mentally, although I've yet to taste a brown girl's flesh. I wonder if there will ever be another Martha for me. My hand winds its way down my flat, little, concave belly, and across my bony mons, where it lingers in the damp, tousled fur between my legs. I wonder what a black girl's pubis would feel like, covered in kinky, downy curls. I spread my legs; I open my lips with a straying finger, and I picture myself opening the brown lips of a brown girl, exposing the hot-pinkish flesh underneath. I peel open my own nether-lips, and I let my fingers wander into, and dance within my slippery furrows, feeling their way to my pleasure zone, making me wetter with each stroke. I can see my brown girl writhing with her own pleasure as I put one finger into her, then two... I do it to myself, as I picture her gasping for air, wanting me to go deeper. And so I do, I push my two fingers deep within myself, and in my mind, I also push them more deeply into her. I groan, she moans, we both shudder in little spasms around my fingertips. I touch my clit, and we both explode, the black and white falling away like shattered shards of glass. In my head: the faint smell of chlorine in a summer pool; the taste of chocolate kisses. *** Carl picks me up tonight at eight, and he's always on time. I'm never ready for our dates, probably because my post-bath ritual almost always involves indecent exposure, fingers that wander, a fresh and easy come, and a nice little nap to go along with my blooming afterglow. I cannot forsake my quiet time alone, I cannot give away the time of my dreams, nor the care of my sexual body and sensual psyche. I must engage in a time and simple space for myself. I don't care if it always makes me late. Besides, we're going out to dinner, and a juicy, self-induced orgasm almost always lends itself to increasing my appetite, both for food and for sex.
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Carl's looking handsome, wearing a fresh haircut and a blazer which fits nicely over his thin, midnight blue sweater. He's not the snappiest dresser I've ever been out with, but he manages to look neat and pulled together, especially when we go out on a special date. Tonight, he tells me, we're going to go get steaks. "Oooh!" I say, "What's the occasion?" "I love it when you're lips turn red from drinking too much Bordeaux, and I know you love red wine with steak," he teases me. I reach over and kiss him while he's driving, and he smiles, quickly turning his attentions back to the wheel. I think I could love this man, I tell myself for the fortieth time since he's picked me up tonight, especially since he never comments negatively on my lack of readiness, my constant tardiness. He doesn't even tease me about it. He's patient, I think. And I like patience. And I like steak, and I like wine. And I really, really like Carl, too. Before dinner, Carl orders a bottle of Australian wine – Blackstone, a Shiraz and something else blended together, I think. It's quite nice – but not too fancy, a perky wine, with an even, cool finish. I play with the wine bottle at the table, spinning it a little, picking at the label. I wonder if I'll ever be able to tell Carl about my mostly hidden penchant for also loving women, and more specifically, my intense attraction to black girls. I take a full sip of the wine from a sparkling glass and I let it sit on my tongue for a minute, let it roll down my throat, before I open my mouth to speak. When I open it, my lips seem to hang there, open, hovering at the brink of a thought that won't quite come out. I'm not even sure what I want to say, so I stop. Carl laughs; his eyes wrinkle. He must sense my restlessness; he touches the top of my hand and gets my attention with those warm eyes, "What?" he asks. He seems to know I can't tell him whatever it is I'm trying so hard to say, and then, not to say. He shakes his head, "It's ok," he says, "Tell me later. It can wait." Patience, again. I love this in a man. The steaks arrive sizzling in their plates, juicy and buttery, stripescorched and steaming. The waiter cracks fresh kernels of black peppercorns over our plates, reaching across our tiny table with a
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huge, wooden peppermill. Instinctually I sneeze, and Carl offers me a white handkerchief. I didn't think men still carried those. I thought they went out of style along with men's fedoras. I'm impressed. I'm not sure if it's ok to wipe my nose on it, then hand it back, so I tuck it in my purse. Have I just stolen his handkerchief? I start to giggle. Carl makes me feel happy just because he's so – him. Back at his place, I find myself wanting to be held, to be wrapped in his strong, masculine arms. I feel a little guilty about not being able to share my sexual secret with him, at least not yet. But that doesn't stop me from wanting him. Too much wine has me feeling liquid. I can feel the pull in my cunt, the magnetic cry toward his body, his scent, to the cock inside his pants. As he dallies with the CD player, choosing a selection of discs for the carousel, I find myself rubbing the stiff outline of the seam in my jeans, wedged tightly between my legs: moisture and heat. I lift my fingers to my nose, delicious. Carl finally turns to me; my eyes are lusty torches for him. In bed he is not so patient, no, not tentative at all. Carl is full steam ahead, all mouth, all hands, and a delicious monster cock. He's not huge, but he's hefty: thick and semi-short with ripe, full balls. He plays his tongue along each curve my body offers. He twists me, he turns me, he finds a hole to bite and nibble, sucking my navel as if it were a delicacy of the gods. He pays equal attention to my earlobes, biting, sucking, breathing hotly onto my neck. I melt when I'm with Carl, I'm clay. I'm a white stretched canvas waiting to be painted a thousand colors. I'm a big, exposed blooming orchid of a cunt. My mind falls into an array of flowers, and stamens, and liquid kisses, and wispy pieces of dreams. My head drops away to this place, where these fragments of imagery live. Still my body responds to every touch, stroke, lick, kiss. I cannot speak, I can only do what he wills me. Limp from intensity, I can only experience, not guide. A finger slips in between my legs, lingers at my pussy as it showers erotic rain for him. The same slippery finger finds its way to my asshole, poking tenderly at my puckered hole. Swirling, swirling, one finger pops in, just a touch, and I gasp. Carl lifts me up by my ass
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cheeks and nudges his head between my legs. His wet, pointed tongue begins to lap at my rosebud, opening my asshole involuntarily. The cool tongue swirls, pokes, prods. I smell roses, maybe jasmine, warm cut grass. Flashes of color, icy pink, palest greens, wash over me. He reaches under the bed to grab a familiar toy – a purple ass plug ready to fill me up. He pulls away from me; my cunt and ass throb in response to the sudden neglect. He is rustling around under the bed, fishing for my savior, my filler, what will make me feel whole. My mind cries ... paper is rustling, and Carl is missing, and I am ready to scream. Crimson roses bloom pushing themselves open, then ripping apart. Red syrup drips down their stems like blood, dripping in great splashes over wrathful thorns. He flips me over again, so that I'm belly down on the bed. He pulls my ass up high in the air, and pops the plug firmly into my hole. I scream a tiny scream, high pitched and strange. It's a sound of thanks, of fulfillment. I am satiated for that one moment until my cunt responds in a she-warrior's tone: fill me or die. The smell of vanillacinnamon; my childhood home; old newspapers; rain. Carl enters my cunt in one swift motion, he stabs me with ease as I swallow him whole. I grab on tightly from muscles within, and grip his shaft as he pumps it in and out of me. He bangs me harder and harder, pushing my body toward the edge of the bed. My mouth is open, slack, drooling. I can feel myself dribbling on my own chin. I cannot even swallow, I am stunned into Kingdom Fuck. A daisy petal falls away from its bright yellow head. He loves me, he loves me not. A child is singing. Carl is pounding, and I'm on the brink. My body is hovering on the plateau before the mountain. I can feel my rhythm falling into his like we are one: a synergistic machine. My vision blurs, so I close my eyes, but before I get them fully shut, something catches my eye – something lying on the floor. At first it looks like a garden, so colorful, spots of yellow and red. Then it turns to flesh. Real flesh. Photographs of skin, cocks, man on man. A pile of books on the floor, magazines, colorful g-strings. Men, men, naked men ... men
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fucking men, with huge hard cocks, hard-ons with balls the size of Carl's fist. Men sucking men. When I start to come, I have a moment of free fall. I float above my body and then slam back down into it. My head rushes down to moist black earth; ivy, vines. I think I scream out loud. A moment before I spasm again, I realize that Fate has granted me a guy who jerks off to other guys. I blossom into waves, bouquets falling, white petals shower over me. As I realize my boyfriend, my lover, my cockto-beat-all-cocks is bi ... my ego falls away. Hot spasms force their way up my cunt, through my belly and out my throat, and I wail even louder than before. My howling invocation is one of thanksgiving, of love. I am one tiny voice lost in a thousand flowers, and I have finally found someone just like me.
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CIRQUE DU TROIS The scent of caramel corn mixes with the smell of sodden grass crushed under my muddy tennis shoes. The smells of the Carnival fill my nose and deliver to mind instant childhood memories of trips to City Park, and grammar school fairs. Jon turns to me, offering his finger made fluffy by a sticky cloud of pink cotton candy. I open my mouth wide and suck the remaining fluff from his fingers as it all dissolves slowly down my throat in a sugary rush. Greedily, I bite down slightly on his finger, just a little, so he'll keep it tucked between my lips, and then I suck it slowly, eyeing him suggestively. He laughs, then mockingly acts as if he is trying to tug his whole arm away, as if I were a shark devouring him for a meal. I don't stop sucking his finger. I savor it, working his finger as if it were his stiff cock wedged between my lips. He is pulling in closer to me, breathing a little faster than usual, starting to get into it. I give up my furious vacuum hold on his digit, when Jon's eyes change; he's more serious now. He loosens up, turns closer to me, removes his finger tenderly and kisses me full on, holding my face with both of his hands. Our mouths and tongues mingle with rosy sugar crystals, and I feel reality fall suddenly away. John's kisses always make me weak, even after all these years. I explore his mouth, breathe in his scent and I stop... The sound of kids screeching past us causes me to jerk back to reality, and to realize I'm much too horny to be in an open public place. I pull away, my face a little red, my pale lipstick smeared; my panties are distinctly damp. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, shyly smiling. Suddenly, I remember exactly why we decided not to have kids. "Let's go in there," I say, pointing to a smallish tent hung with a sign that says "Magic Show Tonight." Our eyes adjust to the darkness as we enter through a sagging flap. There, a small group of people are beginning to set up for a show: unwinding cords, setting up props. A large man carries a huge, heavy box, black and strengthened at each corner with silver metal braces.
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He is half-dragging it across the mud floor. We find a couple of dirty plastic milk crates on which to sit, back in a corner. Here we are tucked only partially out of sight from the roadies and pre-show performers. Jon pats his weighty thighs offering me a better place to sit – in his lap. I don't bother to tuck the skirt of my white cotton sundress under me as I plop down, facing him, cozying up to him. I can feel the worn denim of his jeans on the backs of my bare thighs and my ass which is barely covered in thin, pink nylon panties. Jon cuddles up, tucking his chin on top my shoulder, kissing my neck softly. I touch his head, pull him closer to my face, and I kiss him again. One kiss is never enough. I have to have his mouth on mine again. The feeling is almost like a fury. And I dive into it, into him. I know no one cares that we are here, and so I let myself fall into the place where my passions live, I am half in my body: carnal and hungry, half in my mind: in hot, sexual fantasy, and so I whisper to him, "Jon, do you see that man who is setting up the box on stage – the big guy?" It takes him a second to come out of our hot, little two-person cocoon, but when Jon comes to, he shakes his head, "No, which one? There are three guys." "The big one," I say, "The one with the long ponytail, the goat and the 'stache." "Uh, huh," Jon says, kissing my throat as I speak. "I'll bet he has a huge cock. He's such a big guy..." I whisper hotly into Jon's ear. "I'll bet..." Jon says, putting his mouth over my nipple through my white dress, certainly staining the front with his passionate spit. He begins to suck it while he grabs underneath my tits with both hands, pushing them nearly out of the bodice of my sundress. I suck in my breath, I hold it, I can barely speak, he wrecks me with his hands, his mouth, his touch. "I'd love to see you fuck him," I say. "To watch you kissing him, him kissing you..." Jon bites on my nipple and I almost shriek, but he covers my mouth quickly and we both giggle silently like two naughty kids in church. I
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look across the room and the big guy is watching us. "Oh, shit," I say, "we'd better behave." Jon fusses with the top of my dress, adjusting my straps, and then he turns me around so that I'm facing away from him, toward the stage now, and I'm still sitting in his lap. "I don't want to leave yet, Marissa," he says, "Not yet." I'm not sure what we should do, or what to do at all. The big guy is still watching us intermittently, and I'm horny as hell. He is unlatching the box which he's been setting up, and he opens it, facing away from us. Only the big guy can see what's in it. "I wonder what's in the box?" I say aloud to Jon, but Jon is wiggling and wriggling behind me. I can hear him unzipping his jeans. Soon I feel a hot, thick cock pointing straight up at the crack of my ass. If I get up now, Jon will be completely exposed. He goes as far as lifting up the back of my skirts and he tucks his cock so that it is right next to the back of my panties. The big guy looks over again, and our eyes make contact – directly. I smile at him. I imagine my eyes must be glazed over with passion, like I'm high. What a wicked girl! The ridiculousness of my situation is overwhelming me. Certainly Jon won't try to fuck me right here? The big guy smiles back, nods, then continues to play with whatever's in the great big box. Jon is breathing heavily at the nape of my neck. He has begun to work his cock with his hand; he is jerking himself off against my panties, against my ass and lower back. My legs are shaking, both with the force of Jon's actions, and with sheer sexual delight and frustration, and even with fright. It has suddenly dawned on me that we might get caught. It has also occurred to me that Jon isn't going to stop until he is finished. And worse, I'm about to explode. I want to come so badly, I can taste it. A heavy whisper at my ear brings to me something tangible, distracts me, "Tell me what you'd like to watch us do, Marissa," Jon grunts, " Tell me what you want to see me and that big guy doing to one another." He is pulling his cock flesh faster, and I can feel each stroke on my body, falling against me as if he is fucking me for real. I
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want him in my snatch so badly, I must be dripping onto his legs and lap. I can barely sit still, but I know I must remain calm, be patient. Patience is the last thing on my mind, but I close my eyes and I tell him, "Imagine that the big guy is the magician in this show tonight." I smile, because I know Jon wanted to hear something more base, more directly sexual and crass so he could get off right away, but if he is going to torture me in this way, I will gladly reciprocate the favor. "Uh, huh," Jon whines a little, slowing down his hand thrusts. "Pretend I'm in that box, that big, black box in a magician's assistant's outfit. Dolled up in a skimpy little sequined show girl number, all red and sparkly..." Jon breathes out heavily; proof that he loves it when I describe sexy clothing to him. I can feel him relax a little, falling into my fantasy, but he is still as hard as a rock. "My body is barely covered, my breasts are bulging out of the top which is made like a corselet, laced tightly up the back." Creating this scenario description is distracting me a little from the ache in my crotch, but I know it will only build to a crescendo if I don't take care of it somehow, and soon. I tell him, "Imagine that you are up on stage with the magician, that he's selected you out of the audience in order to participate in his trick, for his act." Jon keeps a steady rhythm, shaking us both. "Imagine I am there to assist you in stripping naked for the entire audience to see your cock hard and stiff... You up there on stage naked for all the men and women to see, to watch you. Who knows? They might all want you." Jon moans a little. Exhibitionism is definitely one of his kinks I happened to discover after his delight in being caught skinny dipping one summer. His stiff cock and crazy half-smile gave him away. "You have no idea what the big guy wants you to do, but you stand there erect, open... You kneel before him. He unzips his pants." Jon is panting. "He takes out his cock, uncut, huge, heavy balls spill from his open fly. He's not wearing any underwear. He lets his pants drop to the stage floor."
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Jon is jerking harder and faster, and I'm afraid I might die from the tension building inside me without any hope of a quick release. "You open your mouth. You take his fat cock between your lips and..." Jon is quietly groaning and shooting hot come all over my ass and back. I am hoping it doesn't get caught in my hair, sticky and white and wet – so telltale. After a moment, I turn around and say, "If you don't eat my pussy the second we get to the car..." Jon is pointing, making a slight gesture toward the stage area. The big guy is walking toward us, wearing a knowing smile. He has left his big black box open, up on the stage. I grin, I just keep grinning. I just can't stop. I don't know why he's coming over here, but I have a little chore for him to take care of. I can almost feel his 'stache tickling me, falling against my aching lips, smothering me, his tongue finding my clit. I start to tingle from the inside out. Maybe I should believe in magic after all.
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ONLY IN DREAMS Ethan Hanlin was the first dude I'd ever dreamt about, I mean, sexually speaking. There I was, sixteen years old, a mere soph in high school, and on the soccer team. I was always pretty butch, for a skinny kid, I guess, and I've always had a pretty big dick, which is a nice ego boost to a young guy growing up. Though, really, I think I've always been just a regular guy in many ways. But, that one morning, I awoke with a stiffie and a nasty, sticky stain on my sheets with images of a dream I thought I'd never forget, and well, I guess I haven't yet, even five years later. Yep, a guy made me come. Well, in my dreams, anyway. I don't even think we'd had sex together in the dream, but the ejaculation was definitely attributed to a guy's presence. That, I'll never forget. I'm not sure what happened to me after that night, but soon other guys started to look a little different to me. Not all guys, so I knew I wasn't gay. And, of course, I still went nuts for girls, and dated as much as a skinny sixteen-year-old could, but guys and certain guy parts started to become more and more appealing to me, and to my libido. The first time I'd noticed, I was in the locker room after gym one day, the same year I'd dreamt about Ethan Hanlin. That day, Sean Marrett pulled off his jersey, and for some reason his nipples practically spoke to me. They were puffy, and as pale and pink as a girl's nipples. I wondered what they'd taste like in my mouth. I think he even saw me staring at him, and at them, and that seemed to turn me on even more. I had to leave without changing, just because of the wood in my pants. I sat the rest of the day through classes in my stinky, smelly sweats, because I couldn't, and I'll never, forget those nipples. Damn! I almost wish I hadn't been so scared. After that, I purposefully showered and changed clothes either before or after Sean Marrett was in the locker room. I just couldn't stand the idea of it all. I simply wasn't prepared for those sort of feelings. I never wanted to see Sean Marrett without a shirt on again, although the image of his nude torso was etched into my mind, so I'd
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get hard whenever I thought about it – about him – about those sweet, puffy nipples. I'd even call them pretty. Jesus, I knew I wasn't gay, but there was definitely something going on here: something hot, and it was something I'd rather not have thought about too often, at least until senior year. Two years later, I stumbled onto the greatest jerk-off scene I'd seen in, well, practically my whole life. It was something I'd return to again and again, in my mind, with cock in hand. This, and variations of this scene, would be fodder for jerk-off sessions for the rest of my life, and I'd always come hardest thinking about it. The soccer coach we had my senior year was new. As a rookie, we were his first coaching job, and we all knew it, so lots of guys gave him hell. I was a little shy, and really just too nice to want to fuck with the poor guy, but can't say I didn't get a kick out of some of the stunts the other kids pulled on him that year – the jokes they made, and the shit they pulled, but hey, I'm only human. He was a pretty tough looking guy. He was big and he wore glasses, but he was a little goofy, if you know what I mean. Like inept at social stuff, just a big Duffus, sometimes not too smooth. For instance, he was a chaperone at our high school prom that year, and he didn't even wear a tie. I'm sure he would've worn a suit like all the other guy teachers, if someone had told him, but he was the sort of person who had to be told, if you know what I mean. He just didn't get it. One day after school, I was alone and getting dressed after practice, when I noticed Coach's thick glasses were lying on a bench in the locker room, but Coach wasn't anywhere to be found. So, before I got fully undressed, I decided to try to find him, to return his glasses. Without them I knew he was blind as a bat. As I started to leave the room, I heard a voice, or was it two? And then I heard the shower running. Thinking it might have been Coach, I went to investigate the shower area. Lo and behold, what did I see? Not Coach, but Gary Shune getting down on Sean Marrett's cock, giving him what I thought had to have been the finest, juiciest blow job I'd ever seen. Of course, I'd only
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ever seen blow jobs in cheap, hetero porn videos, but that was not what this situation was about. This was real, and sloppy, and not all slick in brightly lit video. The guys were grunting, and awkward, and totally thin, and young, not super-buff like porno stars, with mile long cocks, but having average, meaty, young boy dicks. Gary was gagging now and then, and Sean looked like an angel to me, lying back, gripping Gary's hair tightly, in a room full of mist and hot steam. Sean was totally nude, and his sweet, puffy nipples were poking perfectly upward, while his eyes rolled back into his head. I hid around the corner, unseen by either of the guys. They were so into it, and I was certainly quiet. I watched as the thick, pink meat disappeared over and over into Gary's mouth. I wondered what it would feel like to have that cock in my mouth, to feel it filling my lips, brushing against my teeth and tongue – so hot, so full. The view was good, almost too good. I felt like I was going to cream in my pants. My nuts started to tighten thinking about it, and of course my cock was straining to get out of my shorts. The second I realized what was going on, I wanted to yank off my shorts and let it rip, join right in on the fun. But I was totally chicken shit, no matter how fucking hot I was for Sean. The funny thing is, I wanted to suck, more than to be sucked... I wanted, for that moment, and for so many more times after, to be Gary Shune, to have my head bobbing in the crotch of Sean Marrett in a steamy locker room, to taste his fuck rod with my mouth – to make me gag on his come. But if I had been Gary, I wouldn't have been able to watch Sean's expression as he came. I wouldn't have this perfect scene forever drawn out, moment by moment, in my mind. No, my private jerk-off sex life would certainly have been different, indeed, and I doubt Gary would've saved my ass the way I'd saved their's that day. No sooner did Sean shoot his white load into Gary's mouth, Coach turned the corner, fumbling, apparently looking around for his glasses. "Jesus, Fuck, man!" Gary started to scream at Sean. "Why'd you have to fuckin' do it in my mouth! That tastes like shit, man." Sean
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started spitting semen all over the tile floor, wiping his mouth out, and off, with the back of his hand. "What's going on in here?" Coach bellowed, kind of staggering, blindly. I poked my head around the tile corner, and moved fast. I wedged myself in between the group, obscuring the scene of the two boys from the great big coach. My adrenaline kicked in and seemed to take over for me in a new, forceful direction. No way was word getting out around school about Gary, or especially about Sean, and no way, was I going to be implicated in this sort of situation. They were my buds, and hell, we were all on the same team. "Sean got bitten by a snake – yeah, a snake bite, Coach," I said with as much authority as I could muster. "Holy Shit!" Coach said, "Call an ambulance." He shouted at me, backing up, almost slipping over a low, wooden bench. I signaled to the two guys, showing them I had Coach's glasses, as they scurried to get themselves decent and dressed. "No, Coach, I think it'll all be ok," I said, "Gary, here, got the venom right out of Sean's leg, and I watched him do it, didn't you, Gary?" I nudged him. "Y-yes, sir! That's what I did, Coach," Gary practically yelled, as he hopped into his pants, "And he's just fine now, Coach, sir..." "Well that is just fine," Coach said, sort of stumbling about, blindly talking in the boy's general direction, "That was a mighty brave thing for you to do." After the guys had pulled on some semblance of clothing, I delivered the glasses to Coach with a, "Here you go, sir." Coach was obviously grateful to me for being honest, for not pulling a prank on him and stealing his glasses. That had been his third pair that year. Coach was also appreciative of Gary for his valor, so much so, Coach had the school newspaper write up two different accounts about us: one about me for finding and returning Coach's glasses, and another about Gary, for his bravery and knowledge of dealing with venomous snake bite first aid. Gary's new nickname at school became Snakebite,
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and I never talked to Sean Marrett again, at least not in person, but, rather, only in my dreams and in lustful daydreams. *** So, I'm dating this girl in college, Susie, for a while now, and she tells me she's always had this fantasy, this dream, about being with two men. "I think I can handle that," I tell her, "I know I'm not really the jealous type," and I'm thinking it could be pretty hot to be able to fulfill her fantasy, since Susie is such a great girl, and she's so good in bed. She really gets me off, why shouldn't I try something a little kinky to please her, right? But then she says, nervously, "There's a little more to my fantasy than just that..." "What?" I ask, a little worried. I wonder if my enthusiasm's too hasty. She twists her hair around a finger, and lowers her head, "Well, the guys have to, you know..." "What?" I say. "Um..." she says, "Be oral." "Be oral?" I ask. "Yes!" she says, "Exactly!" smiling. I scratch my beard and wonder, "Ok, Suze, that's no problem," I say, "You know I love to eat you. I don't see why another guy wouldn't want your pretty pussy in his mouth, too." Then she gets really quiet, and I'm afraid she might freak or cry or something, but instead she holds me, and whispers in my ear, "I want the guys to get oral on each other," she says, and then pulls away, cringing a little. She smiles, then shrugs as if to say, "is that okay?" So, I smile, too, "I'll think about it, Susie," I say. She has no idea, she can't, I think. I try not to grin as widely as a monkey, but I can't believe my luck. Suze beams, "Really? You don't think that's just too gross or weird? I've never told a guy I'd be into something like that." I say, "Actually, I've thought about a similar situation, once or twice..."
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She's bouncing up and down like a schoolgirl. Susie and I hold each other tightly, embracing and rocking happily, and I can't imagine who is wearing the bigger grin. My cock plumps in my pants thinking about all the possibilities. Sometimes dreams do come true. And here I thought it was only in my dreams.
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EYE OF THE BEHOLDER "How do you want me to see you?" Jacob asks playfully, begging me to aim the lens at my face, at least. We are going cam to cam and I'm focusing my thoughts on a woman right now, not a guy, not this guy Jacob. The fluke was simple. My name is Terry, and I'm a blonde, according to my profile, and I didn't lie, I am sandy blonde. He merely assumed the gender and got it wrong. I'm a guy, of course. But he intrigued me with a simple grin, and a good line, and hell, I was bored as shit sitting here with my cock in my hand waiting for someone – a hot redhead – busty and broad – if you must know my fantasy of the evening. But there are no well-endowed firebrands waiting in lust for me in cam-land tonight, apparently. And Jacob is the fourth guy to ping me tonight, no women at all, and the only one to stay on the line, in frame, chatting and nice, really. So we're talking, but I don't want him to see me naked, at least not yet, it just doesn't feel right. I mean I'm half-hard and without a shirt, as well, and he wants to hear my fantasies, redhead and all. He says in that sort of silky way he has, "Tell me how you want to fuck her. That way I can fuck her, too ... in my mind." He's breathing hard, not in a lecherous way, but in a soft, sort of airy way you'd expect a really turned-on lover to speak to you. Frankly it's getting my juices flowing. His voice, there's something about it. I'm not even looking at the screen, no, just listening, listening and thinking of what to say next. Thinking whether I can say what I want, and how it will sound to another person. I've never talked while jerking off, at least not to another guy. "Show me your face, Terry," Jacob says smiling crookedly, "I want to see your lips move as you speak." I dunno. I don't know if I can go through with it. But now he's asked to see me, and somehow it makes my cock plump at the thought. Maybe my cock is the closet exhibitionist, while I'm just the shy guy who hides behind the cam, holding the star attraction in my hand. So I point the cam at my shy face, meanwhile my cock
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struggles for attention both from me, and apparently from the camera. My dick, the celebrity. Geeze. I open my mouth to give it a try. "I ... I," I stammer out. Not a good start. I blush crimson, feeling the heat creep into my cheeks like a dirty rash. Good thing I'm not in color. "Easy," Jacob says smoothly, "Let me help." I close my eyes when he speaks. It's the voice that takes me there. The whole cam thing, it has me jumpy, but that voice... "Terry," he says calmly, evenly, "Tell me what she looks like, describe our goddess. I want details." Our goddess? Whoa, he really is into this. I close my eyes again to picture her, when I open them Jacob is licking his lower lip with his tongue, just a tiny flash, nothing overly dramatic. Just the perfect touch, a flick of shiny tongue, and that does it. I'm ready to spill the words. "She's hot," I say. A porn star cliche' – definitely not what I'm going for. If I wanted to fuck with porn stars I'd rent a video, not try to cam with real people. I'm not so good at this, at the describing, but I continue, "Ok, she's got freckles," I say, "freckles on her chest, on her tits, on her nose." "She's mean," I add, tentatively. I think it sounds strange. "Hot..." Jacob coos. I guess he likes mean chicks, too. "She's tall and she's got really extreme curves. Great big tits, big wide ass. An ass for acres, not a skinny little bony ass you see in pics, a real, bite-into-this-motherfucking-flesh ass." I'm getting into it now. "And, she likes it up the ass. Hard. She begs for it. On her knees, she begs." My heart is racing, a little engine in me cuts loose. I go with it. Let it ride. As I do I slide my hand over my cock; pre-cum is oozing over my head giving me the perfect slip. I always get very drippy. I want to show him my liquid gold, but I'm too busy to move the cam. "Ah ... nice..." Jacob is panting a little harder. I can't see his cock, but I see his torso riding along with the rhythm he's creating by pumping fist over cock. And suddenly I want to see that cock. I want
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to see it real bad. My own cock is engorged and itching for harder action. I think of swallowing his cock for a split-second. I start to come. I hold back, push it back down. I can almost taste his come in my throat. I can't stop talking now. I let it roll. Without prompting I go, I flow, "But before I give it to her in her ass, in her tight little fuck hole, before she gets my cock, she crawls up to me. She's still on her knees, and she dips her head in my lap, shakes her red hair loose all over me, brushing my balls with her firemane. She looks up at me smiling a wicked grin, teasing me because she knows I want her so fucking bad." I'm going with it now, "She takes my hard cock in her fat, full lips, and then..." I pause, now, suddenly teasing Jacob, "Then, she bites!" "OW!" Jacob says, shaken by the imagery. "I told you she was a mean, mean bitch." Jacob growls. He's turned on by those words, his eyes sparkling like black beads from behind the dull gray monitor glare. I hear him grunt, once twice, he must be coming hard, fast as lightning, loud as thunder. He yells a thin yell from squeezed lips. His eyelids flicker. I can't really see it though, the come. I want so desperately to watch his come fly in sheets of white and pool against his thighs, splatter in his lap. But now the storm is over. He's wiping up and thanking me for a hot time. His voice is somehow different. It's weak, it's lost that allure. My cock agrees, waning, but I know it's only temporary. When Rose gets home from her road trip, I'll take her by her red ponytail and fuck her while I whisper this story about Jacob to her in her ear. And when she comes with my cock firmly rammed up her ass, I'll think of him and this and I'll come – my own sheets of torrential rain.
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A WARDROBE OF SOULS Heidi: 1959. I remember her as if she were still sitting on my front porch swing, creaking, gliding, white paint peeling. She always picked at the paint while she swung, her toes barely touching the gray concrete. Heidi, with her chipped watermelon pink toenails; Heidi, with her ruffled gingham midriffs, arms akimbo, blonde braids sprouting colorful ribbons; Heidi, the first girl I ever kissed. We fed each other the juiciest blackberries we'd pick in May. We never fought. She wasn't my girlfriend, or so she said. We were only practicing for when we'd get a "real" date with a real boy. She'd kiss me long and sweet as we'd both lie in bed on sleep-overs, wrestling with our newly budding libidos on muggy summer nights, toes wriggling under sheets. Playing footsie was okay, but our hands were too young, too afraid to explore. Leslie: 1962. She was the first girl who ever punched me right in the nose. Leslie was a spitfire hellion, hair never combed, head always cocked to one side; she taught me cuss words I didn't yet know the meaning of. Leslie was my biggest crush in junior high, except for Jimmy Creed, the pretty, quiet boy whom every girl loved. I think they call it a "crush" because of what happens to your heart and soul after the recipient decides they never want you. Leslie was a known dyke by eighth grade. Then, she still didn't want me. I think I was too much of a pussy cat for her. Melanie: 1963. Melanie was a cousin I never kissed, but I watched her from behind a tree one day, kissing her boyfriend in the car, and I felt strangely faint. I think I forgot to breathe. I'm not sure if I imagined I was the girl or the boy. They were both so pretty, faces flushed and panting, all covered in buckets of teenage lust. Melanie wasn't a girl I wanted, Melanie was a girl I wanted to be. She grew up to marry a black guy, and my family shunned her. Once she had babies with him, they never spoke to her again. I haven't heard any more about Melanie nor did I ever meet all my little cousins she bore. I always knew she was daring in love. I modeled my teenage self after her.
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Michael: 1964. He was a towhead blonde kid, skinny as a rail, but he had a nice, crooked smile. He was the first boy who let me touch his penis – through his pants, of course. My firsthand experience with a hard-on was after begging the skinny boy in pale blue denim to let me feel it. We were sitting knees up, asses sunk deep in a fungus green couch in the playroom/basement. The sound of his mom's feet shuffling above us in the kitchen while she cooked, pans clacking, kept rhythm to my soft strokes on what seemed to be his unusually large cock. All I know is, once I started to feel it, I wanted to see it, smell it, taste it. Denim still gets me wet. I instinctively knew there was more to do than just touch, although – we were both too frightened to try anything more. A week later, he threw a rock at my head, scarring me for life. I'll wear Michael on my forehead 'til the day I die. Alice: 1968. I don't think I can talk about her just yet. Women will take you and eat your soul. Men, they can be assholes too, but women make you bleed. They're wicked like that. Is it because men are so easy to second guess – are they really that transparent? Is that what saves me from the torment of loss with men – that I can see it coming from a mile away? Do I expect it from a man, but not from a woman? Maybe. I'll never know for sure. Women are still a mystery to me, even after all these years. Believe me, I'm a woman, and I'm not a misogynist. I'm just scared to death of other women, no matter how much I may love them. I'm not proud to admit it. Warren: 1970. When Warren and I first got married, I knew I'd found the right guy. He was just quirky enough to keep me interested, and he was always ready to fight with me if he disagreed. I can't stand wusses. I like the passionate ones, the troubled ones, the ones with a history. Warren was all that and more. He was a survivor, a fighter like me, and a very good cook. My specialty was toast. On a good day, I could scramble eggs without burning them. He'd be up at dawn making eggs benedict for two. He'd cook French toast with vanilla. That was someone I could live with. Sometimes we'd lie in bed and talk about love and life and pain as if we shared the same mind. Some days we'd fight so hard, the walls
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shook, the dishes broke, the dog hid under the bed. Mostly we got along. Mostly we did whatever it took to get along just fine. Warren, I later found out, also had a penchant for pantyhose. Not me in stockings, no – he liked to wear them himself. One night we were so drunk, he told me about it, and I didn't laugh at him. I just got some stockings out of my drawer, rolled them up leg by leg, and offered to ease his trembling toes into each nylon bundle, sliding them up slowly over muscular, hairy legs. His cock was so stiff; I'd never seen him so voracious. He fucked me madly, coming more than once. He begged to eat me for hours, savoring each droplet of my come on his lips as if my pussy was his Muse. He drank from me, and I felt myself pulsing into him over and over again. I got lost in his mouth. My whole body became his lips, his mouth, his tongue. I cannot count the orgasms, they all seemed to merge into a timeless place. Bliss. Pantyhose definitely changed our love life. He started shaving his legs. I loved the silky feel of his legs against mine, our legs entwined in the sheets. We'd shop together for lotions and nylons, garters and stockings, adding to his wardrobe of leg accessories over time. Warren was a good man, but, like I said, Warren had a bad temper. I didn't so much mind him hitting me once in a blue moon, when he'd really lose it, but when he hit Ellie, our three-year-old, that did it. I packed us up and left. He cried. I cried. Ellie cried for him at bedtime, damn near broke my heart. He's still a good dad to her, pays her college and all, I'll give him that. Freedom to date was a new idea, and a whole new experience. It was one thing meeting people in high school, and then easy having started classes at a co-ed college in the late 60s, but after seven years of marriage, I had no idea where to begin. I must say, my best date – during that period – was a dildo named Wayne, and a shower massage named Wanda. It took me five years to meet anyone new, real, worthwhile. Sheila:1977. Sheila was a frail thing, wispy-haired and blearyeyed, always sniffling from some allergy. We met in a pottery workshop, which kept my fingers busy in something other than my sex, and kept my mind on trying to build something out of nothing. I
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liked the feel of the slippery clay between my fingertips. I liked the smell of the classroom, and the intimacy of the art form. I liked meeting Sheila after class for a Coke in the rec hall, and finding out her frailties were only surface deep. Her passions were wrapped tightly in the fast-paced, controversial women's movement, in supporting the proposed ERA, and, I found out soon enough, in the art of perfecting the female touch. One day at a Judy Chicago exhibit at the New Orleans Museum of Art, she hovered behind me, snaked her tiny hands around my waist and breathed into my neck, "Your cunt must be more beautiful than even those." She nodded towards the walls bearing canvasses of huge, abstract femalia. I sighed when she put her hands into my jeans, and trembled at the thought that someone might find us in such an intimate pose, hanging upon each other, draped in the reckless intoxication of arousal and newly-born love. My heart pounded an arrhythmic meter, my knees felt impossibly transparent, unable to hold my body upright. Sheila's insistent hand found my center. She barely lingered in my coarse, tangled down, then she slipped her hand away. I nearly fainted from the release of her touch. I don't remember the bus ride home. I only knew we were together after that. She had the strongest hands of any woman I'd ever met. Sundays when my momma had Ellie, we'd meet in her cramped apartment and smoke a bowl. She'd play some Joan Baez or Carole King, maybe Phoebe Snow. I'd lie on the floor, hugging the shag carpet as if it were the finest grassy meadow, floating away into the day, stoned while she massaged my weary limbs from neck to foot. The music would rush over me like a cool, feminine breeze. I would connect with a thousand voices, with all the women who ever lived. I'd die. When I was nothing but gelatinous ooze, meringue in a sea of flesh made buttery soft by her earnest handiwork, Sheila would roll me over, and I'd comply, my body no longer belonging to myself, but to the hands of the goddess who now ruled me, body and soul. We'd always begin with soft kisses that grew more urgent, and finally we'd lock together, legs entwined. Cunts wet with hunger would find one another, and finish what our mouths had begun. With
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our legs scissored, we'd work together, and then instinctively relax, our clits demanding, our bodies taxed. We'd play a rhythm in time with the music, growing faster, clashing furiously, soon creating our own tempo. Time would hang indefinitely, then fall fast and rage into us as we snaked and coiled and rode every pleasure thread we could find in our union. Breasts in hands, and fingers in mouths, cunts in fury, licking, tasting, touching, rubbing, fire, tantrums, exploding, falling, weeping, laughter, happiness. Ellie came to love Sheila almost as much as I did. One chilly day Ellie came home from school, snot-nosed, head low. "Jacob Wasserman says you're a lesbian, Mamma," she whined. "Is that true?" Sheila looked at me as if to say, "I'll take care of this." She bent down carefully, eye-level with my daughter and offered, "Yes, Ellie, your Mamma is a lesbian, but that's not a bad thing. It only means she loves me, and I love her." "Oh, ok," Ellie said, looking relieved. "What's a lesbian?" she asked curiously, a typical eight-year-old girl. My heart was pounding, my brain was trying to take it all in, process the information as it was, for the first time, being spoken aloud. Somehow being in love with Sheila had made me become gay – but that didn't make sense to me. I just loved people; I wasn't gay, I wasn't straight, but I knew I wasn't a lesbian. I had never felt like "a lesbian." I didn't want that label, and I certainly didn't want another person telling my daughter who and what I was, even if I loved that other person deeply. Yes, it was true that I loved Sheila, but it was also true that I'd loved Warren. I'd loved them both, passionately, intimately, even desperately. I didn't feel I could let it slide, that I could allow another person to teach my daughter something about me that simply didn't jibe with my guts, with my heart. I wasn't in denial about my relationship with Sheila. We were open and free with our affections and commitments. But I couldn't let it go, I simply had to stop her. "I am not a lesbian, Ellie," I said firmly, almost in an exasperated tone. I didn't know what else to say. I blurted it out as if it were the
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biggest secret on earth, and I'd been holding it in confidence for a lifetime. Sheila flinched, "What?" she said, her mouth slowly opening. A look of betrayal ran across her face and played along the edges of her eyes. "Mamma is not a lesbian," I said, crouching down, taking Ellie by the shoulders and shaking her gently, assuredly. Sheila went to the kitchen and started banging pots and pans. That night I tried to talk to her, to tell her that my love was abundant, that I'd loved both men and women, and that I couldn't commit to the label of lesbian, but that I'd certainly commit to her love, if she'd only be with me, stay with me, maybe even for a lifetime. I pleaded: I was a person, not a name, not a label. I begged her to understand me. Sheila wouldn't speak. She took up a tiny space in the bed, facing the wall, blending in with the linens, a lost doll consumed by blankets and sheets. I watched the moon as it soared through the night sky and I prayed to her, to the weeping face of the moon goddess. I prayed for peace. I prayed for understanding. I prayed that Sheila wouldn't leave. The moonlight filtering through the trees seemed to play with my thoughts, to keep hope alive, aloft. The moon goddess held me. I couldn't cry; I'd let the moon cry for me. Where did I belong? With my equal love for men and for women, I was nothing but a twilight being, a ghost. I felt alone, banished by the very person who should understand me the most. I knew that night I could never live in Sheila's lesbian world, spotted with friends who were radical feminists, who believed that men caused all the pain in the world. Sometimes I'd see that same glimmer of hatred in Sheila's eyes, too. As much as I loved her, and believed in so many of the things she did, I could not become a lesbian simply to fulfill her idea of the perfect mate. I could not lie to myself, my family, my daughter. I wasn't willing to do that, and I'm sure Sheila understood that in her heart of hearts. I had seen her face withdraw from me. I had felt her love retreat. Her body lying next to mine in our conjugal bed gave off nothing but neutral, cold vibrations. Sheila, my Sheila, was gone.
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Sheila left at dawn, rising and gathering her clothes and a few books. She only came back once to pick up her records on a lone, gray Sunday when she knew my momma had Ellie. Instinctively, Ellie cried only that one night for Sheila, even though I hadn't told her Sheila had been back for a final visit. It was the last time I ever saw or spoke to the woman I now consider my ex-wife. After that, Ellie never asked for Sheila again. Rhody: 1982. Rhody came into my life with all the tact and demureness of a camel wearing tap shoes. Rhody was big, lumbering, and gentle, with a mouth like Judy Garland and the fashion sense of the mother of the bride. A man dressed up like a woman or a woman wearing a man's body, I wasn't sure until we fell into bed after a night of gin and tonics and too much dancing for an out-of-shape gal like me. We met at Charlene's, a dyke bar. Rhody spilled her purse in my lap and then managed to drop her wallet through a gap in my full skirt, popping off a crucial button. With my panties flashing, white satin intermittently exposed, and both of us drunk as skunks, we danced until they kicked us out of the bar. Rhody's been with me ever since. Present: 2001. Rhody says she'll always stay pre-op and simply continue her hormones, but either way, I'll love her and her huge body, and her loud mouth. Her compassion will always hold me close to her heart, her love and ample affection for my now grown daughter will always warm my soul. With her small cock and tiny breasts, she'll always find a way to make me want her. The only thing we tend to argue about is when she steals my last pair of clean underwear.
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GO YOUR OWN WAY Clem's eyes are wide after I tell her about me and Lita, not incredulous, but with a look that shows she is heavily interested in the subject at hand. She leans in closer. She wants to know more. I'm not sure why I even brought it up, but I did. Lita was my lover, yes, and I'm not ashamed of it. It was a long time ago, but I guess by saying it, I want to honor that dead relationship somehow, mention it, bring it's past reality to light. I no longer love Lita, but I did. Does it hurt? Not anymore. But this is not what Clem wants to know. These are not the sort of questions she'll ask. She wants details. Juicy details. Clem's always interested in sex, my sex, but seemingly unable or unwilling to witness the act in the flesh, or at the very least, to talk about her personal encounters. I'm tired of the pious, affected stance. I'm tired of the coquette she plays, the available way she dresses, and then the audacity she has to become angry whenever a man is overtly sexually interested. I'm tired of Clem's pining and yearning for men, always for the ones who are completely unavailable, yet denying eager suitors even a glimpse into her life. The last time she did, of course I had to hear about it. "He was an octopus!" Clem declared about the last man whom she invited home to her apartment, after an apparently successful date. That's all she would say. I wanted to reply, "Well, no shit, you do have tits!" but I didn't. I wanted to yell, "What do you think a grown man expects when you ask him up for a drink, then start making out with him...?" Instead, I just nodded, I just listened, I played the lying through my teeth sincerely interested in your stupid problems friend. I did not remind her that she was no longer in Junior High. I didn't tell her she was nuts. I guess I wasn't drunk enough. Confused is not even the beginning of describing her pathology, and I'm right at the dawn of discovering this fact in my consciousness, instead of absorbing it into the cloak of denial where we keep things safely hidden, especially from our bright, waking selves. Four
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martinis into this conversation, and I'm thinking this. Finally. So this is what it takes. Liquor. I take another sip. I wait for the question, some question, any question. It comes. "So, what's it like to be with a woman," she asks me, smiling, trying to seduce me into fessing up, and I tell her point blank, "Why don't you go find out for yourself?" She barely frowns, a bit confused, but tries to look as though my response has not hurt her, but it does. I can tell. A little poke, a little crack, a little chip, a slight disappearing. I watch her fade from me, shrinking just an inch. Joyous relief! It's the first time I've said anything like that after thinking it at least a thousand times. It's the first time I've said anything outright, without either skirting the sex issue cautiously, or giving in and indulging her details I would have rather held closer to myself. It's the first time I've been drunk enough not to really care what Clem thinks. I am tired of the games Clem plays with me, vicariously having a sex life through me. I won't be her vehicle of lust, I won't live for her any longer. I decide this tonight. I am tired of her stealing my life, my lovers, by tugging out little pieces of my most intimate moments. Get your own fucking life! I think, I want to yell, but I am not drunk enough to actually show the details of my anger. The truth is just beginning to bloom under a black veil led by my newly formed thoughts. The feelings are fresh, virginal. Passive-aggressive action will have to be enough of an answer for now, and I think it's a very fine start. I'm thinking of Lita, wanting now to actually talk about her with a close friend ... but I am realizing that is not going to really happen. Not tonight. Not with Clem. Not ever with Clem. She's just not capable. I sip my warming martini, then stir it. I stare into the little whirlpool I've created, and I watch as the oil from olives collects and rises to touch the angled sides of the glass. I want to lick it, swirl it with my tongue in a mocking gesture that might suggest what sexual deviances I'd had with Lita all those years ago, but instead I ask Clem about Rob.
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Rob is an idiot. He is a pimple-faced coffee shop worker she is currently in lust with. Clem will never tell him about her lust, love, desire or intentions. She has no intentions. Her only intention is to become obsessed with Rob, and to spend more money on iced coffees this month than she'll ever again spend in her life on them. No, Clem will do nothing about Rob, she probably wouldn't go out with Rob even if he asked her, yet she'll tell me over and over about her crush until I nearly go insane from the repetition, and from the futility of it all. I'm a good friend. No, I'm not. A good friend tells the truth, even if its ugly. Why did I even bother to ask about Rob? I guess I'm feeling guilty about the first of it's kind last remark. I guess, because I'm the idiot, I think, and because I'm drunk. Oh well, I begin to realize, denial is a heavy cloak to bear. I'm not ready to give up the idea of trying to have a real friend, a good friend, an equal friend. Clem has been there, and yet not been there, for so long. I am used to it. Clem looks alive, animated. She's ready to start up on her favorite subject: the compulsion to talk about men she doesn't even really know, and will never get to know. The fixation is so acute, so honed, you'd think she'd be an expert on all men after these years of trying so fucking hard. But I am realizing now that all she's ever tried to do was to attract men, only to reject them, and then go on to wish for another. She doesn't want a man, not for a day, not for a year, and certainly not for keeps. Clem just wants to need. I'm not following her inspired monologue, but it doesn't really matter. She's chattering the same things she said about Dave, the guy in that band we saw a few months back, the same gushings she once said over and over again about Jimmy, the guy at the gas station in the suburbs. Clem wasted more gas driving by that gas station in order to see if he was working. One day she did finally get up the guts to let Jimmy fill her tank. After that, I never heard about him again. Tank filled, crush gone. Now I am a little sad facing the first step to losing Clem by releasing a smidgeon of my anger. I fade into thoughts of Lita, I am easing into the acceptance of a new loss. Losing Clem, I hunger once
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again, to be with Lita. Letting myself know, finally just begin know, that Clem is not safe and comfortable and not even really good for me, is drawing me into the past, to the feelings of a warm, responsive friendship, and then to feelings deeper, to lust and to all the want that I once had, feelings that were once felt openly, acted upon, actually fulfilled. I shared a friendship with Lita who was, at one time, an equal friend and an even more enthusiastic lover. I had this one person who loved me and who cared about what makes me who I am. I had Lita, completely. But Lita could only have one person in her world at a time. She too, was obsessed; shrinks and self-help books call it 'codependent.' I learned this the hard way: trial by fire. I know this. I knew this, and yet still, years later I found Clem, and we hit it off right away. Best friends, yes. Always together, yes. Inseparable. Does this make me co-dependent, too? What others might see as the best thing in the world, I have come to know as a dangerous game. I have lost a piece of myself to this woman, Clem, just as I lost myself to Lita. Only with Lita, at least she gave me warmth, strength, fed me sex. Lita shared. Secrets, oh yes, she gave them up to me; she did not only keep them to herself. She did not steal from me my most private parts to hold to her own heart, clinging them to her breasts, as if they belonged to her. Lita may have stolen my heart, but she did not lay claim to my stories, to my private life. Clem grabs a couple more drinks for us. She has a look on her face that says, "I'm interested in you, I'm here. I am present." It's a lie. She says, "So, are you going to tell me all about you and Lita, or are you just going to make me suffer in suspense?" No. I will never tell Clem. I'll never tell her how Lita brought me children's books from the library to read to me aloud when I was so sick, how she washed my body down with the icy, purple alcohol to calm my fever, how she held my hand and my hair when I puked for three days into a wastebasket, and how she always gave me a fresh, cold rag for my burning face. I'll never tell Clem how Lita made the best blueberry pancakes in the world, "buckwheat, soft-as-silk, and my grandma's cake sifter,"
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she explained as she fed them to me one tiny, layered bite at a time, not even letting me cut the sticky, buttery stack with my own fork. I'll never show Clem, never tell her, explain to her, my thoughts of Lita, kissing along my naked waistline and sliding up alongside me, biting and licking the delicate fold between my forearm and biceps – sucking me there, as I writhed, my cunt throbbing for her to take me, as she teased me with hungry licks and kisses everywhere but my sexual center. How Lita wound my hair into a twist, a rope for which to hold my head and forced me face down onto the bed, only to scratch and bite and pinch at my naked flesh, tickling and teasing me, taking me higher, even further into frenzied lust. I'll never tell Clem how Lita made me grunt out loud when I finally came, taking her dildo into my sopping lips and how I shivered so hard, how my body spasmed, how I almost cried. I won't tell her how Lita liked her ass fucked slowly, and licked and oiled and rubbed just so. I'll never tell Clem that Lita left me after I knew I couldn't be her everything in the whole world. It was just too much. I tried so hard, but I needed something more than Lita. I needed me. But, Clem will never know that. She'll never, ever know. Because I'll never, ever say. And then, some day soon, I know it won't be long, Clem will leave me, too, because I cannot be alive simply for Clem anymore. I need something more. I deserve something more. I need myself again. I sip my fresh martini and as a single, puny tear escapes from one eye, I smile. I will soon be alone, again, but at least I am alive, fully alive – just for me, just for myself, my very own way.
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LAST CALL "I have loved strangers, and after them I will go." ~Jer. 2:25 I would've never worn my bathing suit to a bar, especially at night, especially to that bar where I seem to know everyone, unless I was in "a mood", as my husband calls it. The suit was a fabulous, fine jersey knit, a flirty little one-piece 1940s glamour girl number. It was sleek and black with an oh-so-low halter neck and a peek-a-boo skirt that fell just over my ripe, smooth ass. Classic, dangerous, perfect. I simply couldn't resist. But, I put on the suit, and only the suit, with no change of clothing, to go to a pool party where rumor had it an ex would be with his new wife. Actually, not just my ex, but also the ex of my husband and I both, the third person in an extinct triad. It was a messy affair we had with him – a charismatic alcoholic who gave us both a nasty round or two of shrapnel to pluck from our wounded hearts. I couldn't wait to ignore both him and his new wife, Miss Southern Baptist to the bone, the bible-thumping, booze-swilling hypocrite that she was. I wanted to sashay past them both with my luscious bi flesh exposed and my pride intact, even after he had lied about our past to woo her, lied and said that our entire relationship had consisted of a drunken one-night fling, lied and said that he was coerced, and that he had known it was wrong from the first moment of contact, never once told her that he had initiated it and that my husband had been his lover on and off since they were both fifteen. They say happiness is the best revenge when dealing with lost loves. Let me tell you, I looked fabulous, I felt even better, and I couldn't resist showing off in my sexiest best, cute hubby on my arm, two smiles on our faces. Although the pool party was a bust due to a typical temperamental New Orleans downpour, that last lingering stare from Mr. Ex at my husband's crotch, and that one haunting whisper, "You look hot," that way he said it to me with his special brand of diseased yearning, just as we passed in the hall, was all I needed to accelerate "the mood", to
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boost my pride and to take my fine little ass in a suit with my sexy husband elsewhere. I loved the fact that he still wanted us both, but that he had locked his deceitful soul into a lifetime of unfulfilled longing. Something about his pain gave me pleasure, even a bit of closure. Oh, Paul and I were not going home yet, and furthermore, we were walking in the night sparkle of drizzling rain. I practically skipped to St. Joe's bar, shiny sling-back pumps clacking on the pavement, leaving Mr. Ex to his abysmal life and Baptist bride. The bar glowed dimly with the promise of a perfect martini in a Vshaped glass, crystalline chilled and tasting of baby tears, wet with olives and whispers of vermouth. But, the bartender made my mouth water. I knew him by name and little else, and I was thirsty. Figuring that my bare feet couldn't stand in Bette Davis pumps forever, I angled and vied for the only available seat at the bar. Paul kissed me as he slipped away to say his "hello's" and probably grab a game of pool in back. The moist crowd pressed around me as I slid onto a leather-covered stool. Crosses dangled and danced overhead in the breeze of antique ceiling fans, some handmade, some seemingly from churches, others jeweled and sparkling in the glow of a Victorian gothic chandelier. St. Joseph stood vigil over the oak altar crowded with whiskey, wine and import beer, his aureole outshone by a row of fat Christmas bulbs while Ren, the barkeep took my order, "Dirty, up and dripping wet." "How salty do you want it?" he asked. "Filthy," I said smiling, believing fully in transubstantiation. I wiggled on the sweaty stool to keep my rump from sticking to it, then lifted the glass with two hands, savoring each heady sip. A multitude of possibilities surrounded me. The long, smooth neck of a leggy woman invited me, her head tossed back in laughter. The wink of an older man glistened with seedy desire. The biceps of a college boy rumpled boastfully as he lifted a pool cue, pocketing the bright red three-ball. Faces hummed, laughter tinkled, something shimmered inside me just below the surface, at first a pale weakening, then a rush. My seat
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dampened, not only from sweat. I bit my lip and tasted the curve of my lacquered nail. My pinky barely parted my mouth, touched the wet inner surface with tiny traces along my lips. In my head, armies of men lined up for miles, filled me with cocks of every size. They pushed in and out and left their mark on and in me as come flowed out of my open cunt like sweet milk. Rows of round luscious milk-maids followed, each one licking the cream from inside me, their breasts full, brushing my thighs, my face, stuffing pink nipples into my mouth, filling my mouth with rows and rows of their succulent flesh, some breasts small and pert and others meaty and full, each one satisfying a tiny craving, yet never filling me completely. I sighed aloud and the sound of it pulled my attention back to my physical surroundings. I swirled the tiny sword stacked with olives in my drink. My eyes searched the room for Paul, but he was not in sight. Ren bustled about serving drinks. There was really no one else I knew well enough to talk to, much less share the goddess that stirred within. From behind me, a familiar pair of broad palms brushed my hair aside, squeezed my shoulders. "There you are, Paul," I said. "I love it when you do that," he said, "I had to come see the look on your face." "Do what? What look?" "You were biting your finger." "I'm not biting my finger." "You were, and I love it," he said, "It means you're in a mood." He pointed to a small group at a table drinking beer, "I'm with some school friends in back, if you want to come meet them." I really wasn't in the mood to remember names, smile and nod, be polite, not tonight. Play the straight-wife role in my Betty Grable bathing suit, what was he thinking? "No, I think I'll keep my chair," I said eyeing Ren. "Well, behave," he winked. "Never," I said smiling, looking up at the painting. "My Painting", I named it, hung in an elaborate gold frame high above the service
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area. Painted in Roman-style text across the top of it were the Latin words, "Porten Se Bien", loosely translated, "Behave Well". It was done by the same interior designer that had hand-sponged the walls a rich hue of terre verte, having had the sense and taste to leave the ceiling untouched, blotched and burned, aged in a shell-shocked patina that no faux finish artist could ever hope to reproduce. In the painting, a robed, bearded sage floated in a blue sky of clouds, along with a great human eye, a large pair of smiling lips and a single human ear. All seemed to watch over, perhaps even protect, the earthly scene below. On mortal ground, a man whose back was to my gaze, stood nude. Before him a nude woman, arms opened, offered herself to him. On his left, a nude man leaned over, buttocks raised in invitation. Their vulnerable naked flesh was surrounded by thorny blooming cacti, a paradox of potential pain and fleeting beauty. Below the figures, three open roses blossomed under cracked human skulls. Life is short; why should anyone have to choose? Pick both, I urged the faceless man, Go for it. Take the risk before your perfect flesh turns to dry dust. Besides, I laughed to myself, they probably both like to watch. That's when I noticed her. She didn't seem like much at first, just a college girl, especially because she had been seated. When she stood she was at least as tall as Paul, even wearing flats, with caramel legs for days in those little brown shorts. I could not have seen her face because of the way she stood, talking to Paul, with that pony-tail cascading down her back, barely brushing the smooth curve of her spine. When she angled to the left, I caught the warmth of her high cheekbones, her smooth skin. She laughed, shook her head. I glimpsed a taste of her full lips, white teeth contrasted with tan skin. I could not see her eyes, but nearly got up from my seat to do so. When I realized I was staring, I ordered another drink from Ren. "Do you know her?" I pointed casually, pulled my stool closer to the bar. "Who, Alana?" he said, "Sure. She comes in all the time. She works over at PJ's. Why?"
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"Just wondering," I smiled, tried not to look at her. I waited a beat, took a sip of my martini, looked over at the table. Paul and Alana were sitting alone, their chairs pulled close, as if they were whispering to one another. She tugged on her long pony-tail, twisting it around her hand. Finally, I could see her eyes; I could not discern their color, but she looked at him like she meant what she was saying. Paul put his hand on her shoulder, she nodded. He got up from the table and walked toward me. I chewed on an olive, pretended not to see him as he approached. "Having fun?" I asked. "Yes, as a matter of fact," he said, "there is someone who would very much like to talk to you." "Who?" I asked, taking a huge slug of vodka. "My classmate, Alana. You met her before, don't you remember?" "I met her before?" I said, taking another gulp, nearly choking on an olive, "When?" "New Year's Eve, don't you remember? At the Columns." "New Year's Eve at the Columns ... after I drank how many bottles of champagne?" "Oh, I see," he laughed, "You really don't remember her." "Was it before or after I danced on the table with Duncan?" "Uh, I think after. But, don't tell her you can't remember her. She recalls you well." "Me?" I said. I finished my drink in the third gulp. He pushed my hair aside and leaned into my ear, "She wants to talk to you," he whispered, "about sex." I spun around in my seat, "What about sex?" "Ask her," he said, "She likes you," he smiled. "She likes me?" "Yes," he said, "go talk to her." I tugged at my bathing suit straps, "Ok," I said, standing up in time to see her go into the ladies room. As I sat alone at the table, I turned to look for Paul, but he was already chatting with Ren. I watched the door of the ladies room, wished I could go in and fix my hair. I found my compact, then began to touch-up my lipstick.
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"Your lips are beautiful," Alana said sitting down right next to me. I nearly jumped. I was afraid to move, thinking I'd draw the lipstick line halfway up my nose. "So red next to your pale skin." There was a hint of something foreign peppering her voice. It was a gentle voice, although it cracked when she spoke, I found it soothing. She moved in a little closer, turned to face me. She was close, right there. "Thank you," I sounded strange to myself, "Where are you from?" I said, feeling rude, "I mean, you have a lovely accent." "Brazil," she said, "My family is from Brazil." She still wore her monogrammed uniform shirt that smelled strongly of the coffee she must have been serving all evening at PJ's. At last, I could see that her eyes were the pale color of dust. She leaned closer, "I remember the first time I saw you," she said, "at the Columns. You were dressed in that beautiful gown, those gloves. I remember your smile," she said looking a little frightened at her own boldness, "Your lips, they haunt me." I couldn't speak; and if I could've, what on earth could I have said? I couldn't decide whether or not to kiss her right on the spot or to bolt. Instead, I just froze. "Your husband tells me you are like me," she said, "That you love other women, too. I have loved other women, but I have never shown it. I have waited all my life for the time when I could say all these many things that have haunted my heart since I was a young girl. I have waited to find a beautiful woman who could understand the way I feel for both men and women, to teach me, to let me try. When I was a girl, I used to love my cousin, Pilar, so much that I cried when she found her first boyfriend, and I refused to see her since. I have always loved boys, too, so I did not find it hard to meet a man that would show me how to become a woman. I have even been very happy with men. Even so, I have never had the courage to speak about my desires for women to another person, not until I came to this country and found that there is a way to be accepted here, that it is okay to love a woman and not to be disowned by your family, disowned by your husband or your friends. Of course, I could never,
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never tell my family, but, at least here, I have found some courage, some courage to try." I reached out to her, squeezed her hand. She took it to her lips and brushed my fingers across her mouth. "I want you to show me how it's done, to teach me," she said, almost begging me, "I think it would be beautiful." I tried mentally to form a word, but couldn't, so I nodded. She touched my knee lightly, with her fingertips. I could smell her breath, so human, so sweet. "Imagine," she said, "how it will look, you and me. Your ivory skin, and mine, so dark. They way your mouth will feel on my body, the way only a woman's gentle lips could feel on my skin." She opened my trembling hand with both of hers and rubbed a tiny circle on my palm, "How will my breasts feel being touched by your breasts as we kiss, how will they feel being touched by your hands, by your mouth? Will you put your fingers, these small, white fingers," she said, "into me? Inside of me? Will you let me touch you, too?" She searched my eyes, "Will you teach me how to please you," she said, "Will you teach me how to love a woman? I want to learn what it takes to make you, to make a woman come." I opened my mouth to speak, but she said, "Don't answer, not yet. There is something I must ask of you first," she looked worried, "Do you find me beautiful? Because if you don't, I could not bear to be with you. I want to please you so much." "Oh, yes," I whispered, "Oh, yes." I took her hand and kissed it. I kissed it over and over again, wanting to take her right there, to go anywhere where we could be alone. She looked relieved. "There is something else ... I," she looked deeply into her glass, turned it slowly, "I would really like it if my boyfriend could be there, too. You do not have to touch him if you do not like him, or even to let him touch you, only for him to watch. You see, I told him that I would do it for him," she said, "but, what he does not know, is that I am doing it to please me, that I have always wanted to do this, and, of course, to please you, if you will only let me."
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For the life of me, I could not speak. No syllable would pass my lips. All I could think was, She's so gorgeous. All I could do was nod and stare. She said, "Do not answer me now," and placed a business card in my hand. I held it up as if to read it, but my eyes would not focus. I could only see her. "Please, call me in two weeks," she said, "after my final exams. If you want to show me, I will learn. I will promise I will try to please you." She leaned into me, whispered in my ear, "Two weeks," she kissed my ear softly, "Only in two weeks." I sat in my seat holding the business card until I could read what it said, "Alana Zocchio, Assistant Manager, PJ's Coffee." I tucked it in my purse. "Last call," Ren said.
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PISSING IN THE MEN'S ROOM It used to piss me off that it's such a hassle just to go pee at a gay bar, but the fact that I am able to even walk in the front door is enough to make up for it. As a girlie-girl in a man-on-man's world you just have to learn to squat and hover, rely on bar napkins for toilet paper and deal with little to no privacy. Oh sure, they'll give you a key to the ladies' room, if they have a ladies' room, that's if the bartender will wait on you, and that's if he can find it. If you're lucky enough that this exceptional event does, indeed, occur, the key is often attached to a chain appropriate in size for a motorcycle and hung with a huge chunk of PVC piping. It's my guess that being such a rare and specialized item, it must be protected at all cost. After a bunch of cocktails and that first pee, who's going to wait for all that nonsense? Anyway, I'd rather hang with the boys. It's much easier to get into the front door of the French Quarter cruise bars with my obviously bi hub that somehow resembles a Baldwin brother: good hair, straight nose and fervent blue eyes. No matter how glamorous I may look, rhinestones and black feather boas are simply no substitute for the power of having a cute boy attached to your arm. There is only one place that I have a real problem getting in and staying in, The Corral. It's upstairs, above Cafe Lafitte in Exile – a hot little bar full of the scent of semen, man sweat, piss and beer. It's where the man-on-man action is and, of course, that's where I want to be. I can't even think of getting into the back room at Rawhide to live out my dream of kneeling before some Daddy wearing chaps, sucking him off while he shoves it down my throat, gripping my head with his huge hands, tearing out the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck as I choke on his black cock until it fills my mouth and throat with bitter come. Perhaps he'd make me take turns with my hubby, just so I could watch up close, watch my husband's pink mouth filled with meaty mocha dick, study the way he laps at it like a thirsty dog. This fantasy turned reality has somehow eluded me in the Southern city of decadence.
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The problem is, no dark bar can hide the fact that I'm hopelessly a girl. When the boys see me watching, they often stop playing with one another. Sometimes they give me a hard, accusatory stare; sometimes they move on, which makes me feel like I've blown it for them. All I want to do is observe silently from my little corner, and if a miracle occurs, be beckoned to join; simply to watch would be a thrill. We've thought about putting me in drag, but every mental attempt to plan it has always come up with me looking like a short fat dyke. My body just isn't built for jeans. My husband even suggested wearing a ZZ Top beard, to hide my tits, but I figured I would just look like a short fat dyke wearing a ZZ Top beard, and besides, what about my hips? Simply hopeless. I'll stick to my Chanel lipstick and high heels, thank you. I'm not sure why the gay bars in New Orleans are so adamant about the unwritten "no girls" rule, but Oz, the black-lighted thumping disco, adds to insult by charging a higher cover charge for women. Do I care? Of course I do, but at least I can get in to look for bi boys for hubby and me to play with. It's not like there's such a thing on earth as a bi bar, at least not in my world. For entertainment, Oz has bar-top dancers, usually studly modeltypes with blank faces performing the same tired dance moves, a bunch of half-naked hunks going through the motions, gyrating and humping the air. One night, by some gift of fate, we happened to find a happy little dancing boy upstairs, actually smiling, adorned with a ring for the both of us in each of his perky nipples. As we both took turns sucking his pink nipples red, I whispered in his ear, "We're a bi couple into three-ways." He was so hot and bothered, he had to jump off his post to try to rid himself of the trouble we'd caused him. "Oh, man," he groaned, "This has never happened to me at work." His hard, thin cock pointed straight up to his navel and popped right out of the band of his speedos, rosy tip glistening with pre-cum. Of course, we offered to help him out, just to be nice. As Boy climbed from the bar, trying to hide his erection, Hub decided to kiss him. I couldn't just stand by and watch this time, not
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with that hard body and that wet, aching cock right in my face. While the two men sucked face, I liberated his dick from lime green spandex, took a hold of it and that dancer got a hell of a hand job. Some fags do appreciate a woman's touch; I'm living proof. Instead of trying to deal with loud clubs, we usually prefer to settle for cocktails at Good Friends, a cheery little corner bar with a tendency to have a fun mix of people: fag hags, drag queens, vanilla boys and usually a few soft butch dykes. Around Carnival time they feature male dancers with realistic bodies in little bitty G-strings stuffed with great big cocks, wearing nothing else except baby oil and boots. They're usually from out of town, so we get to see new faces each year. For a dollar and a smile, I can reach right in, and if I'm lucky enough to find a boy willing, I can pop that puppy out and give it a nice, long lick. The smell and taste of fag cock is enough to make me give up my very last buck, bouncers be damned. Good Friends is also where we like to spend Mardi Gras night – a cool place to hang out after getting kicked off the streets at midnight. Last year it was too cold on Mardi Gras night to be wearing what we did, but we'd planned it and stuck to it, rain or shine. Hubby was dressed as Miss Cleopatra in a thin white gown trimmed in gold, a black wig and Elizabeth Taylor make-up that made those blue eyes of his talk. I was femmed out in a flirty little French maid's outfit, black ruffles and white lace, and we both wore matching fishnets and shiny black pumps. Good Friends had transformed from a gay version of Cheers into a street festival indoors, since it was after midnight and the cops had closed down the whole Quarter on their trained horses. "Everyone inside, Mardi Gras is over," was a mandatory order announced through police megaphones, "Anyone out on the street will be arrested." The heavy, mechanical street cleaners followed the troop of horse cops, spraying water and mist, flashing lights as we and other costumed folks scurried into the nearest bar where there are no laws about closing time in Orleans Parish. Safely inside Good Friends, we hopped up on the plywood-covered pool table, drenched with spilled drinks and littered with plastic cups,
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in order to make sure we would have a good seat for a while. I didn't care if it made my ass sticky and wet, after wearing spike heels on uneven concrete all day, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. My husband took off a pump and groaned as if on cue, rubbed his foot through ripped up stockings. His nipples poked through the gauzy fabric of his white gown as a gust of wind and street cleaner spray followed in through open French doors. A look around the barroom proved that Mardi Gras after midnight is definitely for the serious, die-hard party folks. Miss Thing in the corner with her high hair cocked, leaning like the Tower of Pisa, patted a false lash back in place with fingers wearing press-on nails. Muscle men wearing golden body paint smudged with men's hand prints, grinned, nearly missed tapping their cups in a toast to an Asianboy Tinkerbell who was outfitted with chiffon wings and a tinfoilcovered dildo wand. Bead trading boys, looking as though their layers upon layers of plastic necklaces might choke them, surrounded us with the warmth of body heat, half-naked, dropping trou, slapping ass, sucking cock, snatching up more beads they'd won for letting the world take a peek, a grope or a suck at their cock. My platinum white sixties-flip wig itched my scalp as my temples began to throb faintly; I started the slow descent of coming down from two weeks of nonstop parades, parties and going into work hung-over. In order to shake the latest impending hangover, I needed another Rum Punch and at least a handful of ibuprofen. I had been avoiding the long lines at the bar and even longer lines to the bathroom; I already had to pee. A shirtless college boy wearing a ball cap approached, nearly tricked my trained eye into believing he was the only straight guy in the bar going for the only biological woman in the place, until he opened his mouth, and with the peachiest of Georgia accents said, "You go, Miss Bette Midler!" I did everything I could to keep from rolling my eyes, wondering why I only got the "You-Look-ExactlyLike- Bette-Midler" line from queer boys in queer bars. It kind of made me wonder if every girl with tits and ass got it, too. He seemed sincere in impressing me, so I played it up.
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"If I wasn't gay..." he said, shaking his head, "Damn!" he took off his cap, scratched his head, put it back on. "What?" I said laughing. "I'd woo you, young lady. You're fucking hot." "Well, the least you can do is buy me a drink," I smiled. He nodded, "Will do." "Ever kiss a girl?" I said. "Once, in high school," he said, looking a little shocked by the question, but not disgusted, not at all. "Want to kiss me?" I asked, getting bolder. "Ah shucks," he said, turned red, looked at the floor, "What are you drinking?" then he left for the bar. By the time I had sucked down the last fruity remains of my drink, Hub was dancing on the crowded pool table with two middle-aged men. They both wore matching eyeglasses with thin tortoiseshell frames, plain button-down shirts and khaki shorts. The only way to differentiate between the two men was by their size: one was thick and one was thin. I could tell they weren't locals. Natives are almost always decked out full-hilt and tourists are usually in street clothes and beads. I couldn't imagine traveling 2000 miles to a citywide masquerade party and not bringing a costume to wear, but the fact that they were getting naked with my husband made up for it. "Rhythm is a Dancer" started pumping out of the speakers and all the boys on the pool table began to stomp in unison. Drinks splattered everywhere, old cups got kicked into the crowds spraying stale, sticky liquor. By the second stanza, Hub had both his hands in the fly's of both the men's khaki's as they all jumped in time with the song. That's when I noticed Mr. Thin was broad-balled huge and Mr. Thick was definitely long and thin. I was starting to get turned on, thinking about the possibilities of being with three men for the first time, but man, I had to go. A line two men wide had wound its way around the crowds from the men's room all the way back to the bar area. Of course, the ladies' room was locked with a sign on it that read, "No Key." I imagined some raucous queen had made off with the sacred key chained to
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PVC, thinking it was some sort of leftover 80s costume jewelry. You wouldn't believe what people might wear around their necks in order to trade beads. What the fuck? I just got in line and started bouncing, trying to stave off the urge to pee, "Rhythm is a Dancer..." When I was about ten feet from the bathroom door, I started to feel like my bladder was going to pop. The door hadn't opened in ages and a group of three men in front started banging on it. One jiggled at the brass doorknob shouting, "Come on ladies!" When a handful of guys finally pushed their way out of the men's room, the line cheered and a few clapped. Only the two guys making out, standing directly ahead of me, were oblivious. I watched them kissing, watched as they held each other, slowly making out. Evidently to them, the rest of the world had disappeared. The dark man stopped in mid-kiss, said something into the short, white guy's ear while pointing to the bathroom door. I couldn't discern exactly what he said, but I was able to pick out a singsong Caribbean accent in the dark guy's voice. Whatever he said caused the white guy to grin and nod enthusiastically. The line inched its way up, man by man, until it was just the two guys ahead of me, still smooching and whispering. As the door flew open, I tugged at the white guy's shirttail, "Can I come in with you guys? I'm about to die," I pleaded, dancing from foot to foot, pulling on my short ruffled skirt. He motioned as he held the door open for me, "Come on." I nearly peed myself just thinking about finally being able to go. The urinal trough was overflowing from men pissing in a toxic stew of spent cups, toilet paper and cigarette butts. The boys would have to use the only john in the room, framed by an open partition sans door. I stood, legs crossed patiently, back against the door, lifted my skirts, hooked my thumbs into my fishnets ready to pull them down in a moment's notice. As the Caribbean man stood before the bowl and took out his dick to pee, the short guy began licking his neck, grabbed his dick and began jerking on it steadily. "Is this what you wanted?" he asked.
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The dark man fell to the wall sideways, let out a long sigh, "Oh, yeah." He braced himself with his shoulder, one hand on the tile wall, the other hand on the head of his lover who was suddenly kneeling in front of him next to the toilet sucking his fat, prominent erection. The white man slid his palm over the shaft, pumping it back and forth, alternating between a sucking rhythm with his mouth and a jerking motion with his hand. The dark man closed his eyes and leaned his head way back, appearing as if he might topple backwards, but he steadied himself and groaned. He began to pant deeply, licking his full lips in between breaths, "Yeah, that's it," he said. My thumbs seemed to be stuck in the band of my stockings, but I carefully shoved my right hand into them, fingered through the maze of fishnet, feeling for the smooth front of my black satin thong panties: wet, so wet. I began to touch myself in time with the bobbing head of the white man on the floor, watching the heavy brown balls slap at his chin. I still had to pee so badly, but the thought of watching these men, of them knowing I was there, but caring less, was everything I had been wishing for. Without thinking, I moved the panties aside with my fingers and felt the slick fullness of my cream, rubbed it along my lips faster as I watched the white man's head move deeper into the dark man's fur, swallowing his cock whole; spit shined on his face. The dark guy started to shout, "Oh, God! Oh, God." I touched my clit and felt a hard spasm of come start to wave, peaking, washing upward, shivering throughout my belly and through my head like a cold rush. I closed my eyes. The man moaned even louder, someone pounded at the door, the handle jiggled frantically. I felt it coming; I could no longer contain it. I continued to come hard, waves reverberating; I squatted down, tore open my stockings, panties ripping, satin tearing, coming, coming, pissing a hard gushing stream on the bathroom floor. I steadied myself on the door knob, accidentally releasing the handle by turning it. I almost fell over onto the wet floor when the door swung open. My husband, draped armin-arm by Mr. Thin and Mr. Thick staggered into the men's room, all
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laughing hysterically, as if they had just heard the world's funniest joke. Hub had lipstick smeared across his cheek and had somehow lost his Egyptian wig. I was still crouching down, skirts up and panties opened wide exposing my shaved pink lips, wet, in full bloom, glistening with pee. "You are such a bad, bad girl," he said to me, slurring just a little. The two other men burst out laughing even harder. "We've come to get you," he said. The two men grinned as my husband kneeled in the watery puddle of my piss, put his head between my legs and began to lap at my naked cunt. I watched the two men kiss, then I almost lost my balance completely, still dazed and excited from coming so hard, and then from the shock of suddenly being eaten out. Mr. Thick reached down, held me steady, lifted my chin with his chubby fingers and stuck a fat finger into my mouth. I sucked it like a candy cane then grabbed at his face, hungry to suck on his juicy tongue. I opened my eyes when I felt what seemed to be a knobby dick tapping at my neck and bare shoulder; it belonged to Mr. Thin. I reached up and grabbed hold of Mr. Thin's cock, patted my husband on the head and as he lifted his face, made slick by my juices, then I guided Mr. Thin's meat right into Hub's mouth. Mr Thick kissed me again, then he began to finger me, bringing me to the edge, hovering just near orgasm. He played with my clit so carefully, rubbing me like he had known me intimately for years. I began to fall into a dream-like sex trance, letting myself float out of my head, focusing on each new physical sensation with my eyes closed. As we played on the men's room floor, I was barely aware of the line of men who traipsed in and out of the bathroom door, stepping over us, pissing in the toilet and the sink, laughing and talking loudly. They seemed so far away and strange, as if our little group were phantoms occupying a different plane, as if I were playing a part in a fleeting frame of film. A vaguely familiar voice drew me back into reality and out of my euphoric daze. Somebody said, "You go, Bette Midler!" as I began to come again in spasms, I opened my eyes to see Georgia Peach
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winking at me. I wondered if he had wanted to kiss me earlier, but was too afraid. If he didn't then, I could tell by the lust in his eyes, he certainly did now.
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THE ADVENTURES OF A BI SLUT DOLLY Want to know what gets me hot? What puts me in the most precocious of moods, what makes my pussy hum and purr, and gets me all riled and razzed? I love to play dress-up! Like a real life doll, I dress to please myself, indulging in my most decadent moods. I like to put on whatever strikes my fancy, whatever makes me feel naughty, especially when I'm getting ready to go out on the town. Not just any old outfit will do; I like to glam it up from head to toe. Sometimes I wear iridescent body glitter rubbed carefully into my open decolletage, or I simply glitter my eyelids and lips with sparkling colored powders. I love to drape myself with long, decadent feather boas, adorn my face with Indian bindi, glue on rhinestones and sequins, and sometimes I even do full face paint. I once read a feminist quote that said, "Wearing make-up is like apologizing for your face." Honey, when I wear what I do, I am celebrating being alive, being a woman, and being sexual. I adore the transformation of having my naturally pale skin, blond eyebrows, and hair metamorphose into a bird of paradise, a pallette of colors and textures, a playground for self and sexual expression. With my wardrobe of wigs and costumes, I can become a cat, a Gothy brat, a hussy, slut or whore. I can be a goddess, I can be Divine, I can really become Jamie Joy. I start by taking a long, almost-too-hot, melt-my-muscles bubble bath. I shave everything from my earlobes down, and I spend time afterward smoothing lotion all over my body in order to make my cream white skin turn to velvet. I always spend a delicate moment perfuming my ankles, behind my knees, my wrists, behind my ears, and at my temples, pressing the most exquisite and expensive pure perfume to my flesh with red-painted fingertips. I indulge my private parts as well: I like to trim and shave and powder my pussy, making her ready for a night on the town. Sometimes I'm already dripping as I prepare myself, just thinking about going out en femme. If I want to be really naughty, I dab a bit of my succulent juices behind my ears. The faint scent of my best
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perfume and my wet, erotic essence commingles, calling anyone and everyone to take a whiff, to take a taste, to eat a bite of me, Jamie Joy, the human forbidden fruit. You know you smell good when you are suddenly bitten on the neck by a passing stranger. It has happened to me more than once in this fair city. Rolling nylon stockings up my smooth-as-silk legs, strapping on garters and being laced into a tight, binding corset to form my curves into knock-out shapes makes me hot! The pain and pleasure combined, along with the drama off huffing and puffing to be bound by one's garment is unreal to me. The look when I'm done up is breath-taking. How can this plump Plain Jane turn into a Domme Goddess or a bi slut dolly with just a few laces and a yard of satin? Where did this vinyl-clad butch girl come from? From where did this vintage hottie in a 40s swimsuit arrive? She came from my subconscious, as well as from my literal closet. Dress-up can be magical. Do I feel a little strange telling the whole world I like to dress-up and show-off? Well ... I feel just a little guilty. After all, I'm not stuck up or terribly vain (just a little). It really is a personal kink. I'm very lucky to live in New Orleans, where year round there are parties, and where folks of all types, backgrounds, genders and orientations love to play dress-up, too. Often I'm the only one in fancy getup when I go places, but I'm never accused of being over-dressed or overdone. I can get away with my fetish for clothing and accessories in public without feeling like a fool. In fact, I feel glorious. What turns me on the most is thinking of going out in public after my transformation. I think of being alive and vibrant and attracting all the naughtiest notions from the hottest men and women I meet. I will turn heads, I will be me, I will be free ... this is the mantra that is silently flowing through my consciousness as I mold myself into how I see me, rather than how I look in everyday life. Nights like these, I know I'll get into trouble, and I can only hope it will be of the raunchiest kind. My bi husband, Alex, happens to share my penchant for a fine wardrobe, as well. If he's not butching it up in a fabulously cut suit,
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decked out in handmade Italian or Swiss leather shoes, he's raiding my closet for a miniskirt, too. Sometimes Alex is like a great big dress-up dolly for me. Not only do I like to dress-up, I have a definite lust for bi boys who play dress-up, too! Alex really likes it when I dress him in a cross-mix of boy butch and girl chic. He owns his own ladies pumps, size twelve, thank you. My shoes are too small for him, but really they're too plain for him; he wears slut shoes, for sure. He's got a pair of Frederick's of Hollywood maraschino cherry red, patent leather strap-ons that are five inches high. Let me tell you, his smoothly shaved legs beat mine any day in those monster heels. Alex loves to wear panties and short skirts with his heels, and sometimes just a tiny touch of lipstick and girlie perfume. It makes me crazy to think of his thick cock covered in tight, silky panties. Sometimes we can't leave the house without a bit of cock-sucking first, as my mouth begins to water just thinking of taking down his pair of pink or purple satin panties, and letting his stiffening cock and generous balls fall from the shiny fabric. I take him into my mouth, and down my throat and I suck until I feel his dick filling up my hungry mouth. I like to get him as hard as possible, pumping my fist and using the wet suction grip of my mouth and full lips until he's about to explode. I never let him come, though. I like him to stay hard all night, to tease him whenever I am able. Sometimes I quietly lift up his skirt to feel or to play with his cock underneath. I might put my bare feet under a restaurant table to tease his cock under the cover of pressed linens. Often I'll back my generous rump up in front of his skirted cock, and I'll bounce to the music in a club, swaying and brushing my ripe ass all along his meaty dick. That usually drives him insane! But, I never let him fuck me until we get home. That keeps our nights out nice and spicy, always rich with promise, and hot with anticipation. One night, recently, we attended a local circus, almost by accident. I've always hated the traditional family-oriented circuses, even as a kid, especially those fricking clowns. They creep me out, make me
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think of pedophile drunken old men in disgusting, slimy grease paint, wearing weird, dirty clothes. That's why I always get such a thrill when young, attractive people dress up and put together a circus that includes bizarre acts in the old tradition of the side show, with a decidedly sexy twist. I must admit, I'm a complete sucker for adult carny trash. I heard there was a local underground circus that involved gruesome – even lewd – acts, so I had to go. We had no idea what to expect, but with my star-struck internet worship of The Bindlestiff Family Circus, Knockers the Klown, The Big Blue Bunny, and other alternative, adult-oriented freaks and their sleazy antics, I had a pretty good idea of what we'd be in for. The Know Nothing Family Cirkus awaited our virginal audience presence with the promise of low-grade entertainment and cheesy fun. This night we weren't dressed to the hilt, mind you, we had sort of flown out the door to a late supper, and decided on attending the circus show en route. Apparently I was dressed sexily enough to attract the eye of one of the performers before the show, who introduced himself to me as Pierre Pressure. Pierre was a goodlooking guy wearing thick glasses and sporting the strangest beard I'd ever seen: five individual long braids of jet black beard that went down to his waist. It had to be made up of extensions, as he was too young to have grown a beard of such length, none-the-less it was quite an interesting fashion statement. He had taken pains to carefully shave in-between each braid, creating a truly alien look. From a distance he could have been sporting life support tubes, or even tentacles. As he moved about, the strange appendages tended to drape over his shoulders and swing around his neck. As weird as he seemed at first glance, when he spoke, his words slipped smooth as a candy apple sheen from his lips. Sleek and sincere-sounding compliments fell from his mouth, as he discretely, but definitely, took in the roundness of my ass and carefully assessed the fullness of my breasts and all my womanly curves. To make things even more interesting, when I told him my name, he knew me right away as a sex writer, particularly as a bisexual writer. I had just
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met my first in-person fan who happened to be a sexy bi boy who liked to play dress-up. Fortuna (or was it Aphrodite?) smiled. Soon came an offer of an invitation from Pierre to attend Boody 2001 at the Hi Ho Lounge here in New Orleans featuring "The Not So Lady-Like Ladies Night" on Valentine's Day, only a week away. Ooooh! I knew I'd play dress-up for that, and I couldn't wait to find out exactly what that sort of ladies night meant. The flyer he handed me hinted at all sorts of Boody fun. Before I knew it, the circus began, and Pierre dashed off ready to participate in the show. Alex and I were introduced to a number of strangely extravagant acts that usually involved a performer doing something dangerous and unconventional with their genitals. There was a girl who blew blasts of fire out of her pussy, another who stood on her head, attached a live car battery to each of her boots with a jumper cable, and dimly lit up a lightbulb inserted into her cunt. One woman hung five 32 oz full beer cans – eventually all at once – from hooks attached to piercings in her inner labia. The beer lady even allowed the audience members who wished to, to come up and drink the beer from between her legs as she tipped the foamy beverages hanging in cans from her pussy lips. Alex, of course, ran up, laid upon the stage and titled his head back for the erotic and unusual pleasure of drinking a carny slut's pussy beer. Pierre Pressure eventually wowed us (and rather horrified some of us) as he inserted three knives up into his nose and down his throat. After much fire play, music and many other acts, there was a skilled whip master who struck out flaming matches lit upon a woman's bare nipples with a single stroke of a single-tail whip, without causing any harm to the woman's skin. The finale was the most breathtaking. First the roadie clowns laid out a seven foot long bed of nails. They crushed and splintered plastic bar cups on it to prove how sharp the nails really were. Besides that, we were sitting near the stage and could plainly see that the nails were genuine. Soon, a tall, incredibly slender, young fakir entered the stage wearing nothing but a loose purple thong. Besides being extremely thin, the first thing I noticed was that this dude was hung like a horse. No kidding! His huge, long cock flapped along with every step he
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took. His thong could barely contain his meat. Pink flesh jutted out the gaping sides of his undergarment with every movement. Carefully, slowly, he descended upon the nails, lying upon his back. He eased down with great concentration and slow determination. The audience seemed to hold their breath. Soon the fakir lifted himself up into a yoga position called "The Plow." His arms were on the floor bracing himself as he lifted up his legs backwards, way up over his head, then well over his shoulders. People gasped as they witnessed all of his body weight being supported solely by his shoulders which were digging dangerously into the spiked bed. There was a thin, transparent veil held up before the performer so that the act could be partially obscured from view for legal purposes, as what was about to take place involved public male nudity. A flashlight was held behind the veil, shining through, so that we could see the outline of the entire performance. Then, he did the impossible: the young man took out his dick and sucked his own meat. I rushed up to the stage to see if he was really performing fellatio upon himself. He was! I could clearly peek under the veil if I squatted down. I watched with delight and amazement at the young man's coupled feat of what must have been intense pleasure and pain. Furthermore, the man was not even completely erect. I was definitely impressed. The Know Nothing Family Cirkus was certainly a big hit, and it delivered much more than it promised. Alex and I couldn't wait until Valentine's Day to celebrate the evening with such a fun and interesting group of sexy, sex-positive performers. I knew I'd have to wear something very special that night. The circus had inspired me, and so had Pierre's words left in a phone message later that week. He hadn't forgotten either of us "hotties," and he eagerly awaited our appearance at Boody 2001. We dressed to impress. Alex wore an incredibly short knit black skirt with black strappy heels and a black knit shirt. He topped it off with a flawlessly tailored black men's suit jacket, and went as a perfect and handsome androgyne.
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I pulled out the vinyl for my suit, baby ... I wore a micro-mini black PVC skirt, which made me all thighs. I added a matching vinyl halter-style top that laced up the front, showed a lot of skin inbetween the silver eye hooks, which fit snugly over my tits and showed off my erect nipples like black licorice jelly beans. I slid on my short baby dyke boots that zip up with chunky silver zippers, and I wore little girlie white lace socks to peek out the tops. I pulled on long, red satin gloves over my fingers and up my muscular, fleshy arms. I tossed a black feather boa over my bare, white shoulders. My face was painted in a clown-like fashion to present a permasmile, complete with dimples. Long black lashes were drawn on my cheeks, under my eyes, to give me a baby-doll look. Big red circle cheeks kept me permanently blushing and cheery. A bundle of curly red and white bows were pinned all over the top of my curly blonde hair, and body glitter covered every naked space on my skin... BendMe-Over Bondage Dollie was born! The Hi Ho Lounge was hopping with dirty little gutter punks, crazed trashy freaks wearing mismatched polyester satin stripes glitter clown clothes mini maxi super duper freaky gear. Eyes sparkled, both ablaze and glazed as young glamour dolls of every gender strutted and preened. Inside Hip Hop music mixed with classic Disco was being spun on LPs by a live DJ occasionally accompanied by a young female white rapper wearing a man's hat and two long squaw braids. Circus folks of every type, some easily recognizable from The Know Nothings, rambled about, dancing, drinking, posing, freaking. Outside jugglers and fire-eaters danced and played, performing for everyone and no one in particular. The mix in the tiny dive invited a friendly house party feel, and all who attended were welcome guests, none were shunned or cliqued out. Even the door lady offered, "Three bucks – if you can pay. If not, it's free." Our host, the charming Pierre Pressure, finally greeted us, offering to show us into the back room. There was a cozy little lounge area in back, softly lit with lamplight, and outfitted with comfortable, worn sofas, and another nice-sized room with a pool table. As we entered
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the back, Pierre fell behind, drinking in our appearance as he shook his head, tugging on a rope of his beard, "I must say, you two look even lovelier in real life than you do in print," he said, shaking his head in sexy reverence and mild surprise. He lifted Alex's skirt a bit and fondled his beefy thighs. "Do these legs go all the way up?" he asked, slyly as he reached up Alex's skirt, with a deviant finger, tracing a line up each of his thighs. Alex blushed and giggled, and I wet my panties with sweet cream at the scene of the two men flirting. Pierre turned to me and said, directly looking into my eyes, "Well, what have we here?" I couldn't wait to tell him, and I nearly shrieked the response, "Tonight I'm Bend-Me-Over Bondage Dollie!" Pierre nodded enthusiastically, and said, "Then you must be bent over, young lady." He firmly took me by the waist and pushed me over the pool table's edge. My too short skirt hiked up exposing a portion of my juicy rump for all to see. I could feel the chill of the air as it hit my naked ass, as I was only wearing a slip of a thong underneath. Then I felt the first blow. Pierre started to play my ass like a bongo drum, whacking me furiously, intensely as I wriggled and screamed, "Ouch, ouch, oooooooooooo!" I was certain he'd never stop, but when he did, my legs felt like Jello. I began to tingle euphorically in all the places he'd hit me so lovingly. I craved even more as my body floated from the endorphin rush of pleasure-pain. I was afraid to ask for more, since my body was still in shock from the sudden rush. Pierre turned to me and grabbed me by the chin, lifting my face to his. He kissed my mouth sweetly, carefully. He then slipped a finger up my short skirt and into my panties. He lingered just long enough to tease me and said, "It has truly been my pleasure meeting you two." With that he took his drink, fished around, and then he dropped two pieces of ice in my halter top, pressing them to my stiff nipples, "A gift," he said, and walked away leaving me in bliss. On cloud nine, I stumbled out from the back room hanging on to Alex to see the entire dance floor doing the Butt Dance guided by the lady rapper MC. Men and women were shaking their boodies, writhing in sensual rhythms, hands on the floor, asses high in the air.
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Boody 2001 was now officially underway. My husband-wife-lover Alex was grinning wildly, and my Bend-Me-Over Bondage Dollie's boody was blooming in a glorious, tingling blush. Pierre Pressure joined the dancing crowd and offered a wink as we watched the microcosm of Hi Ho Lounge flesh, mesmerized. There are so many fabulous events this city has to offer year-round, you just have to find the right clubs, get to know like-minded pervy people like us, and frequent the local neighborhoods that encourage our form of decadence and debauchery. On my calendar right now is the first annual Tease-o-rama, a festival of retro-style, young burlesque dancers who will invade our city from as far away as the UK and Canada, and as close to home as our own Bourbon Street. You better bet, if you too, attend, you'll find a frisky, voluptuous blonde (well, depending upon whether or not I decide to wig it that evening!) and a gorgeous, 6 foot tall, not-too-passable drag boy flitting around together wearing something both amazing and hot. If you see us, say hello, buy us drink ... you never know where that may lead. Here's a hint: compliments will get you everywhere!
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MY OWN TWISTED URGES I'm on our sumptuous queen size bed, lying atop plush comforters and pillows with the most adorable bi boy (let's call him Howard) and my husband. I am a retro-goddess dressed like Marilyn doing a Bettie Page. The boys are dressed in short skirts and are both wearing jewel tone silk panties; their delicious hard cocks are outlined in lush detail, highlighted by the erotic sheen of the thin fabric. Their legs are both covered in stockings – Hub in silky, nylon stay-ups, and Howard in fishnets adorned with black satin bows that encircle his upper thighs. They are kissing and I'm exploring some sensual caressing; legs and limbs are entangled, rubbing and softly entwined. As I join in on the scene, cocks, fingers, lips, tongues, are eventually put into every one of my wet orifices. My mind is sailing above our trio as my body shivers through both near and full orgasm. I revel in sensory delights of taste, touch, visual beauty and sex – experiencing sensations that come at me from surprising angles. I gasp, shudder and cry out in pale, little coos. The sound seems to come from somewhere else, from someone other than me. It originates in a place inside me that is meant for expression of the most primal kind – expression of love, of bliss, of want. My body and mind roll in desire and fulfillment. The doorbell rings. I insist that my husband get up to answer it. He's confused – we're in the middle of ecstasy and intimacy, and I usually don't insist on such interruptions, much less allow anything to impose such a radical mood change in our love-making. He dresses quickly in boy clothes and dashes away still looking a bit stunned. The doorman delivers a package – a special package I'd ordered for Valentine's day. The timing couldn't have been more appropriate or more on cue. I call Hub to the bedroom, and while I lie in our new lover's arm, my husband opens the special gift. As he fondles the package, he stops to tell Howard that he's enjoyed him as a lover very much – that it's been too long since he's had a long, smooth cock in his hands. I can't stop laughing.
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In moments the package is opened and Hub is holding another huge cock of a different kind. Inside is a hefty little devil made of pure silicone. He reaches in the drawer next to our bedside table. Howard holds me while my husband inserts a red latex condom over our new toy. Soon a devil-shaped dildo is worked carefully into my hungry, dripping wet sex. I shudder, I sigh. It's big – almost TOO big, but I adjust to the manual thrusts while Howard sucks my pale nipples as red as the devil himself. We linger in bed for hours as the day passes, still awake from the night before. We fuck in every position imaginable and then some. I love to meet handsome, pleasant and open-minded people. I know it sounds cliche, but I don't think I'll ever forget the day and night I spent exploring dress-up and all the configurations of our erotic trio. Besides, my inner thighs are still sore even a few days later. I didn't think I could manage the gymnastics I was put through. I sigh ... I just love Mardi Gras!
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AM I A SWINGER? YOU TELL ME! A Married Woman Speaks Out About Bisexuality "Desire, even in its wildest tantrums, can neither persuade me it is love, nor stop me from wishing it were." ~ WH Auden It's a question bis hear all the time, "So, are you a swinger?" It's a predictable and often misled assumption made by folks of all orientations, especially regarding openly bisexual people who happen to be part of a married couple. The answer is not a simple one. You see, labels are a highly subjective matter, especially sexual ones. It all depends to whom you are talking, what their opinions and biases may be as well as their possible (mis)information on the matter. Let's start by saying this: I hate the label "swinger." Can't stand it. It conjures images of the old Saturday Night Live skits by Dan Akroyd and Steve Martin, "We Are Two Wild and Crazy Guys!" along with cheesy mustaches, cheap perfume, and STDs. You know, those people who are always eyeing you up, talking right at your titties with the not-sohidden agenda of "let's all fuck whenever possible," the ones that send you e-mails intimately describing their penises, breasts and other idiotically irrelevant measurements. We get a lot of those e-mails since my husband and I had posted an internet personal ad: "Married Bi Couple Seeks Possible Long-Term Relationship with Bi Guy." My favorite letters are from those who write to say, "I may be coming to town, so let's get together," often including a photo of their nude body, minus their face, e-mails inappropriately written to a couple who obviously want more than a one-nighter. I actually got one naked photo of a guy holding a paperplate in front of his head, proud to show his genitals, but not his face. I wondered if he may have somehow been disfigured. Turns out he was just shy, imagine that! My other favorites included the unoriginal passage, "I'm always horny..." or, "my dick looks like..." Tell me,
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don't all dicks pretty much look the same, give or take a couple inches? And, more importantly, would these men have written the same kind of letters to a single woman they were attempting to date? I doubt it. I often wonder why bi's have gotten stuck with the raunchy swinger's rap. Frankly, I find it quite disrespectful to meet a suitor dick-first. Then there were all those nice guys who wanted to respond to our ad with "friendship" (allegedly well-masked with some rather heavy flirting). But really, they were obviously assuming, "we are going to get together and all have sex," just in case they happened to pop in town, "well, because we're bi, they're bi, and because they are so nice." How do I know? It all comes out in the wash. Honey, I ain't stupid. I've been reading these e-mails for over three years now, with thread-bare luck. Do you wonder why I've since removed that ad? If we, as a couple, are interested in a long term relationship with a third, it stands to reason we'd want the guy to live in the same city, right? If we are looking for a boyfriend it also stands to reason there will be some dating and quite possibly some hit or miss sexual encounters, hopefully with a variety of guys. It doesn't mean our bedroom has a revolving door. It doesn't mean that if you are bi and we are bi then, "Let's Swing!" It also doesn't mean our Saturday nights are booked with every bi guy in town. There are no bi night clubs, bi support groups in our area, secret handshakes or hanky codes for bi's. How the heck are we supposed to meet this fellow, anyway? So, now that you know what I'm not, and what I definitely don't like, let's start with how I'd like to be considered. I prefer to simply be called "sexual." What I really am is quite picky! I used to be more sexually open to encounters, but with time, I have become more protective of myself. Now and then I'd like to think I could meet a nice lady with whom to have a relationship, a relationship outside of the one I have with my husband (with his agreement, of course). Maybe a sweet, sexually submissive woman (I am a seasoned sexual Dominant) or someone who is simply more than a friend. I've had some hard luck with the ladies, so I tend to steer clear. My heart is easily broken and for some reason, the ladies seem to break it worse
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than the guys. That's not to say I've completely given up, but I'm not actively seeking a sexual relationship with a woman. My husband and I are both highly artistic. We love aesthetics, beauty, decadence and all things sensual, including creative sex. We like food, music, literature, dancing and all the good stuff in life. We are both extremely intelligent and intuitive, not to mention attractive. Add all this up and the fact that we're bi: • Does it mean we are having or attending sex swap parties on the weekends? (never been to one) • Does it mean we are non-monogamous? (sometimes) • Does it mean we are "anything goes" as a couple? (no way!) I'll make it simple: just because we are both bi has nothing to do with whether or not we are monogamous. We are married, we are life partners. We share common goals and that includes sexual ones, bisexuality aside. We decide what we want to do, when we want to do it, then we do it together. If we want to remain monogamous for years at a time, we do and we have – quite blissfully, orgasmically and happily! If we want to pick up the local bartender and take him home and wrap him in kisses and/or cellophane – that is if we can even find one who's willing – we do, we may, only if we want to, if the mood strikes us and then, we do that happily. No deep regrets allowed, but lots of talking and communication beforehand, that's for damn sure. We've definitely had some torrid, erotica-worthy interludes, but that's not to say we haven't made our share of mistakes in choosing a third partner. Some psychotherapists would call any casual sex destructive behavior, but I like to think of it as learning through experience. As they say, live and learn. This type of communication and relationship did not happen overnight. It takes sincere trust, nurturing and care – and so much damn talking I wonder sometimes if it's worth it. But, you've got to remember we are both wading through what society and our families and religion have dictated to us, and dictated to our ancestors since
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well before we were born. This is no easy task, especially if we want to remain sane, stay together as a couple and still have a happy life. My husband and I come from different backgrounds. I was raised as a teenager by a zealous, fundamentalist Christian grandmother. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through that part of my life with granny's rigid rules: read no secular books, allow no mental health help, don't discuss issues, simply pray, pray, pray. She often proselytized her beliefs that women are completely inferior to men and that sex without marriage is a horrible, horrible sin. At her insistence, beginning at age thirteen, I worked every day after school and every single weekend. She agreed heartily in the Protestant work ethic: work, work, slave 'til you die and your reward: Christian heaven, with boring angels floating on puffy, white, misogynistic clouds. I'll take Hell any day! Meanwhile, my husband spent his teenhood traveling around with the Grateful Dead tour, stoned in a VW van and having sex with anything that moved. When he was in school, he went to a liberal, coed boarding school, with his first long-term relationship being simultaneously with two different girls, who happened to be in lust and in love with one another as well as him: the perfect bi triad. But strangely enough, it is my own mother who reads every piece of erotica I write, whether kinky or bi or graphically hard-core or whatever I happen to come up with, and she lovingly encourages me to write, to write more and to never give up. Meanwhile my so-called "liberal" mother-in-law damns my husband and I both for even being bisexual, much less openly talking about it, or writing about it, even going so far as to blame herself in muttered "secrets" to other relatives regarding my husband's sexuality. She is so frightened my writing will somehow cause her to lose an inheritance, when she merely needs to realize her true fortune lies in those who care about her. For that, she has truly lost all. If she cannot be proud of us, her children, then shame, shame on her. As you can see it takes a lot of guts to write openly and frankly about sexuality. But, I have the sincere wish to help educate others, to make them feel as if they are not alone. I do not use a pseudonym in
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my sexuality writing, sexual philosophy essays or my published erotica. I'm proud of who I am: kinky, bisexual, some may call it perverted, but I'm living in a happy, closed, non-monogamous relationship with a brilliant and handsome bisexual man. Perhaps one day we will finally meet the lovely, polite third man of our dreams for our perfect triad ... and I can't wait for my Mama to meet him! THE END
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Cover Art, "Coy" Illustration by Mia Jennings, modeled by Mia Jennings first appeared online at Mind Caviar, 2001. Ms. Jennings can be reached for commissioned art work and sales by writing
[email protected]. "Being Me" first appeared online at A Bi-Friendly Place, 2000 http://www.mindcaviar.com/bi/index.html "A Garden Called You" first appeared online at Mind Caviar, 2002 http://www.mindcaviar.com and was the recipient of the Golden Clitorides Award, a reader voted award system granted for excellence in erotica writing on the Web. "Cirque du Trois" first appeared in Best Bisexual Erotica 2, 2002 (Circlet Press/Black Books) edited by Bill Brent and Carol Queen "Only in Dreams"first appeared at www.Three Pillows.com "Eye of The Beholder" first appeared at www.Three Pillows.com "A Wardrobe of Souls" first appeared in Marcy Sheiner's Ripe Fruit, 2002 (Cleis Press) "Go Your Own Way" first appeared in Sex Noir: Stories of Sex, Death and Loss, 2002 (Circlet Press) "Last Call" first appeared in The Unmade Bed, 1998 edited by Marti Hohmann (Masquerade Press) and a second version appeared later in Unlimited Desires: An International Anthology of Bisexual Erotica, 2001 (BiPress) "Pissing in the Men's Room" first appeared in Best Bisexual Erotica, 2000 (Circlet Press/Black Books) edited by Bill Brent and Carol Queen "The Adventures of a Bi Slut Dolly" first appeared in Guilty Pleasures: True Tales of Erotic Indulgence, 2001 (Black Books/Venus Book Club) edited by M. Christian "My Own Twisted Urges" appeared in the column "Twisted Urges: Where society and the Sexual Meet" edited by Greg Wharton online at http://www.suspectthoughts.com "Am I a Swinger? You Tell Me: A Married Woman Speaks Out About Bisexuality" first appeared online at A Bi-Friendly Place, 2000
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http://www.mindcaviar.com/bi/index.html and later appeared in Canada's Trade: Queer Things magazine, 2002 edited by Jon Pressick.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Jamie Joy Gatto finally realized her dream of being in a triad relationship with two loving men. She then came to understand that monogamy is the best fit for both her emotional and sexual needs. She currently resides in New Orleans with her bi partner where she lives happily in a monogamous relationship. She will always identify as "bisexual", regardless of the gender of her partner or the degree of openness in her relationship. Jamie Joy is a sex activist, author/editor and Web publisher whose work has been included in dozens of projects such as Best Bisexual Erotica 1 & 2, Best SM Erotica, From Porn to Poetry: Best of Clean Sheets, Erotic Fantastic: Best of Circlet Press, Of The Flesh, Guilty Pleasures and more. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of www.MindCaviar.com and its sister sites, www.OpheliasMuse.com and A Bi-Friendly Place. She has authored Suddenly Sexy (Renaissance E Books 2003), the chapbook, Unveiling Venus (Renaissance E Books 2003), and the erotic fiction collection, Sex Noir (Circlet 2002), and has co-edited with M. Christian Vixens & Villains (Black Books 2002). Jamie Joy enjoys receiving email. Please write to her at
[email protected].
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RECENT EBOOKS FROM SIZZLER EDITIONS Ace of Slaves: A Tale of Erotic Captivity–Adrian Hunter Bedtime Tales–Michelle Houston. Stories of wicked pleasures and dangerous dreams. Business Unusual–mariana. Sizzling tales of workplace encounters. Chain Reaction–Adrien Hunter. The award winning B&D author's newest collection. Come True–Adriene Hunter. Daddy's Girl–Victoria Manley. Older dom, younger sub. "Hot stuff!" the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association. Dana's Release – Laura Hammond Darkness Bound: Beyond Bondage and Discipline–Raven Kaldera Domina Tricks: How a French Mistress Enslaves Men–Gala Fur Education of a Dominatrix–K. L. Mulvany. Her goal: the complete enslavement of a man. Foreign Affairs–Eric George. Sizzling obscenity trial leads to sizzling sex. Frog: A Tale of Torture and Sexual Degradation–Claire Thompson Hard Time: A Tale of Sapphic B&D in a Women's Prison–J.T. Langdon Jenny: A Novel of Sexual Enslavement–C. A. Tessler Julie's Submission–Claire Thompson. Newest tale of erotic B&D from bestselling author of Slave Girl. Lady Davenport's Slave, Vol. I. The Collaring of Amber–J. T. Langdon. The modern classic of lesbian B&D. Lady Davenport's Slave, Vol. II: The Claiming of Amber– J. T. Langdon. To claim her, the mistress first had to punish and tame her. Mansion of Slaves: A tale of training in submission–Lady Blade Memories from the Mind of Sherezade: Erotic Fictions–Mary A. DeCarlo Mistress Margot: A Tale of Sapphic Slavery–Susanna Valent Night Sweats–Victoria Manley. Why was the prostitute being stalked by a killer? Office Slave – J. W. McKenna
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Out of Control–J. W. McKenna. Tales of dominance and submission. Out of Control 2–J. W. McKenna. More tales of dominance and submission. Power Play and Other Loverotica–Andrew Hobson. Pussy in Boots: The Autobiography of a Very Kinky Lady–Helen Hentley Sex in Silicon Valley–Kiana Tower. Non-fiction revelations: What computer geeks do and how they do it! She Devils – J. T. Langdon Slave Girl–Claire Thompson Slave Girls of Lesbos–Corbie Petulengro. Sapphic b&d in ancient Greece. So Spank Me! Tales of Blistered Bottoms–Lawrence and DeBarquet Spike Trap–Han Li Thorn. A novel of female submission. Suddenly Sexy: 20 Ultra-Hot, Ultra-Short Stories–Jamie Joy Gatto Sweet Tastes of Seduction–Victoria Manley. A new collection of mind-bending erotica! The Boy Toy–Victoria Manley. Every young man's dream: to be seduced by an experienced older woman. The Queen's Slave Woman Book I: The Punishing of Jendri– Susanna Valent. Another modern masterpiece of Sapphic B&D. The Queen's Slave Woman Book II: The Training of Jendri– Susanna Valent. The Training of a Concubine–Jim Miler. She was trained to serve. The Sintown Chronicles Vol. I., II, III– David O. Dyer, Sr. Three complete adult novels in each volume! All about the dot on the map residents called "Sintown USA!" Tracy in Chains: A Tale of Sexual Punishment and Humiliation– Claire Thompson. Trail of Seduction: A Novel of Frontier Passion–D. Musgrave Trans-Sexual: Tales Along the Gender Devide–Jean Marie Stine THE BEST OF CLASSIC EROTICA IN SIZZLER E-BOOK EDITONS (From the Victorian Age to the Roaring Twenties)
Jamie Joy Gatto
Autobiography of a Flea Boudoir Crumbling Facade A Crumbling Facade Darling Depraved Angels Ecstasy On Fire Eveline Fanny Hill Innocence Kama Houri Lady F. Mastering Mary Sue Memoirs of Madeline Memoirs of a Young Rakehell Misfortunes of Mary Miss High Heels My Life and Loves Nadia Night in a Moorish Harem Nunnery Tales Pauline The Pearl Vol. I The Pearl Vol. II Perfumed Garden Pleasures and Follies Presented in Leather Prodigal Virgin Professional Charmer Sacred Passions School for Sin Slave Women of the Czar Suburban Souls, Volume I Suburban Souls, Volume II
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Suburban Souls, Volume III The Sweetest Fruit Venus in India Venus in Furs Vice Park Place Wanda Way of a Man with a Maid Whipped Into Shape White Thighs Young Adam Youthful Days Visit us at http://renebooks.com
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