Holiday

The Fellator

by Holiday on 01/14/2007

in sex

The meeting with the Ivy League type in a three hundred dollar suit turns me off. I listen with polite disinterest because the conversation is fit for a one-way whorehouse mirror.

Instead, I stare out the window and dwell on submitting to your shaved cock:

You enter my motel room …. we’re alone and you smile …. I can never resist you …I don’t know if I should kiss you …. this may violate your masculine code …. you can seduce me so easily ….. but I won’t betray my attraction in a feminine way …. instead, I offer small talk while you unbutton your shirt …. pretending not to notice your captivating physique …. but I want to touch you immediately …. rub my hands across your splendid smooth, hard chest …. caress you and kiss your nipples …. I’m so hot …. I must have you …. instead, you touch my face, at first with gentle strokes …. and then you insert your middle finger in my mouth, feeling all around …. you direct me to my knees and press my face into your crotch …. I smell your scent through your expensive clothes …. I hope you’ll unzip; all men liked being sucked …. and you do tease me by unzipping your pants – slowly …. you’re wearing white briefs …. your erect cock pops out and stands to attention like a pillar …. shaved, just as I love it …. I let out a discernible moan of approval …. “stroke it for me,” you order …… I offer total compliance, my hands fondle your immaculate cock …. when I see a clear bead form at the tip, pumped out by my eager hand, my mouth waters …. I feel the need to taste that drop of liquid …. I feel compelled to put your thick, hot meat in my mouth ….. you instruct me to slide further down on my knees …. is this how you treat your wife? …. and all the others before me? …. I don’t really care …. I have no other sense of purpose and don’t understand my own desires …. I’m willing to be your cocotte, your slut, your whore ….

Continued

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Pull My Daisy Chain

by Holiday on 01/04/2007

in sex

We retired to the back bedroom of the spacious third-floor apartment to get high. The menu included marijuana, amyl nitrate poppers and throbbing cocks.

There were three of us: me, Bill and Jerry.

Ringmaster Bill, the late-40s gay hippie, rented the Central West End apartment on McPherson Avenue. His residence served as an unofficial commune that frequently attracted the staff of Duff’s, the newly opened restaurant on nearby Euclid Avenue.

Jerry was an attractively androgynous college student who provoked equal interest from men and women. Yet his enthusiasm for cock definitely exceeded what the fair sex offered.

Bill loaded some Zig-Zag papers with his medium-grade stash from Mexico. It was almost 11 p.m. and a light, December snowfall made the urban landscape appear enchanting.

Following a sumptuous, though informal, dinner party other people paired off gradually around the apartment for sexual shenanigans.

For instance, in the main hallway, an effeminate young man, wearing a tuxedo, performed cunnilingus on a phenomenally fat woman in a fur-covered ottoman. The middle-aged woman wore no panties and kept her jellied thighs spread wide and her dress hoisted above her waist with pudgy fingers.

Down the hall, in another bedroom, a well-built man in a ponytail and leather pants turned his zesty, curvaceous girlfriend over an antique wooden trunk and lightly whipped her bottom with great pep. She displayed the pole-axed numbness of a steer.

On a bed to one side, an older woman in librarian glasses spanked a young naked woman lying facedown, using both hands, as if she were tenderizing a steak.

The combination of marijuana and amyl nitrate erased our negligible inhibitions, and we abandoned all clothing rather quickly.

How many times Bill had sucked my cock over a 12-month period was impossible to say. He didn’t expect any reciprocation, and I offered none.

Those were the rule of the game. I didn’t touch the male body at all – because I was really straight.

Yet rules are meant to be broken, and when I saw Jerry without clothes my solid pose vanished instantly.

I didn’t waste time fondling his beautiful, thick cock. I went down on him like a true submissive.

My behavior was shameless and wanton – but most of all, I felt liberated from the charade that I was genuinely straight.

This acknowledgement didn’t bother Bill. He had the acceptance of a Zen master that everything is best.

How did the older man outwardly respond to my slut conversion? He assumed his usual role and performed fellatio on me.

We formed a natural daisy chain on the bed, and while the snow covered the city in a symbol of white purity, I savored every moment of Jerry’‎s wonderfully big cock.

Finally, he achieved his resolution and filled my mouth with the hot tribute.

Jerry initiated me into a new world, and I wanted to be his lover.

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The Maharajah of McPherson

by Holiday on 01/01/2007

in sex

The book store owner lived a block away from me on McPherson Avenue in the Central West End. He was a middle-aged homosexual with long gray hair in a pony-tail, surrounded by a retinue of much younger people.

I showed up at his apartment just so he would suck my cock.

The owner of a fashionably chic, left-wing bookstore [The Evergreen Review, Rampart’s and infamous Grove Press titles by Burroughs, Genet and Miller], Bill was exclusively an invert.

At the time my sense of bisexuality remained unacknowledged – for the most part. I had a long-time girlfriend … the classic childhood sweetheart, known each other since age 10, dated in high school, a serious item in college …. so, I was straight, of course.

Yet on occasion I slipped into a zombie-trance and craved the ecstasy of a blow job.

The trouble is my girlfriend didn’t suck cock; at least not to completion.

Typically, my attitude about women at the time was: fuck, suck or walk. Those were my “idiot years” – and I can only attribute the Y chromosome for why I was such a lamebrain.

But my girlfriend was my first love, the Virgin, and a genuinely decent person. I wasn’t about to trash our potential because she disliked fellatio.

A male who sucked cock would do just as well – as long as there was no reciprocation … because, after all, I wasn’t a fag.

Continued.

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Speaking in Tongues

by Holiday on 12/30/2006

in sex

“You were a rather good girl this evening,” Father Regent commented to Lorna, between hors d’oeuvre. “You seemed well pleased with my cock.

“Yes, Father,” she replied. “You are very nicely endowed.”

“Have you ever given pleasure to a nun?”

“No, Father,” Lorna replied, nearly at a whisper. “I have never been intimate with another woman.”

“Well, then,” he replied with a commanding tone of voice, “it’s time you learn. We might need you to deliver the same service to a woman that you so eagerly deliver to a man.”

Right on cue, the grand lady of the house walked majestically across the room, and smiled approvingly at Lorna and her brother.

Resplendent as a Carmelite nun, Miranda Regent was of medium height, had startling green eyes, and also had a smooth, tanned face. Sister Miranda was in full habit with a black dress, a white collar and skull cap, covered by a black veil. She wore a black leather belt with matching shoes.

The only quality which suggested her age of twenty-eight years was a scant frost of gray at the edge of her temples, which remained concealed beneath the veil. Her tress was cut short, in a boyish style, though few would regard her as anything but a most elegant, feminine lady.

At that point, Sister parted her dress to reveal she had inherited her mother’s seductive curves from the waist down. She wore no panties and her sex was glistening and fully exposed.

“Feast on a bride of Christ,” she said in a gently modulated voice.

Initially, Lorna was repelled at the thought. However, as she moved to her, Sister threw her head back, as she felt Lorna starting to kiss and suck her parted thighs.“You are my joy,” Sister said.

“You are my honor, you are my beauty, you are my consolation, you are my strength. Your humility, your docility, your spirit of sacrifice makes you specially the loved daughter of this holy house.”

However, after a few minutes of hearing her responses, Lorna began to enjoy pleasing her in this manner.As Lorna ministered to her, Sister allowed her clothing to become more disorderly. She opened her dress and weighed her breasts in her hands and fondled them.

With eyes closed, her fingers aimlessly touched her pubic area, while also holding a crucifix and her Rosary beads.

Sister Miranda began the Rosary by blessing herself with the crucifix:
- Hail, Mary, full of grace the Lord is with thee.
- Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is thy fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
- Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Then she followed the small beads above the crucifix, repeating the “Apostles’ Creed,” one “Our Father,” three more “Hail Mary’s,” and one “Glory to the Father.”

Soon the nun’s legs were astride Lorna’s shoulders, and Sister held her head in her hands as Lorna aroused her even more.

Sister moved her legs farther apart and Lorna fondled her buttocks and stroked her soft thighs, before her fingers gently found her swollen, damp labia.

Then Sister meditated on the mysteries, saying one “Our Father” and then ten more “Hail Mary’s.”

It took Lorna more than a half hour to bring Sister to a climax, who, at the decisive moment, exclaimed loudly: “Hail, Holy Queen.”

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I Fucked Che Guevara

by Holiday on 12/27/2006

in sex

In the past four years, I have seen Che Guevara in Manama, Dubai, Athens, Venice, Rome, Milan, Wurzburg, Munich, Salzburg, Paris and London.

In every city, the hero of the Cuban Revolution – the former doctor from Argentina, stares at me from T-shirts, baseball caps, neck ties, coffee mugs, posters, and jingles at the end of cheesy key rings made in China.

Che is with me – everywhere I go.

Che is standing on a crowded corner of La Rambla in Barcelona.

Che is strolling along a narrow street of Cambridge.

Che is at the foot of my bed, watching me being intimate with my wife.

I remember when Che is murdered in the jungles of Bolivia on October 9, 1967. This marks the end of a summer that begins with the release of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Band on June 1.

That fall Che is a Christ-like figure laid out on a bed of death – after allegedly uttering those fearless last words: “Shoot, coward, you’re only going to kill a man.”

Che is forever young at age 39.

We love the story about a hero who embarks on a journey of enlightenment and returns to the world of his birth with the gift of immortality.

“¿Cómo es usted, Che?” I ask.

“Muy bueno,” he answers. “¿Y usted?”

Now Che seems more handsome than the image of the socialist heartthrob in his beret.

We invite Che to join us – me and my wife, that is. He surrounds us like air.

“Comrade, forget your martyrdom and allow yourself the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Gracias, mis amigos,” the ultimate poster boy of revolutionary chic says.

We beckon Che, as he beckons us in the iconic image of Alberto Korda, the Cuban artist who took what may be the most famous photograph in the world.

Our threesome is so perfectly natural.

El Comandante is hungry for sexual passion.

Wearing a smile of melancholy sweetness, Che takes my wife with animal energy. I watch as she is left exhausted and panting from his enthusiasm.

It turns out that Che is bisexual. After all, the Revolution proclaims a ferocious love for one another – and Che the romantic is always present to struggle against oppression and tyranny.

Banished are all those unpleasant accusations that Che – the university trained physician, the humanitarian, the freedom lover, the great revolutionary firebrand – sent 1,897 men to the firing squad during the first year of the Castro regime.

Mistakes happen.

Then it is my turn to be with Che, and he moans like an excited whore.

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Moaning for Knowledge

by Holiday on 12/26/2006

in sex

I have to give Natalie credit for introducing me to anal sex.

To this point, the idea never crossed my mind. I was young and still naïve.My girlfriend had raven hair and stunning looks that compared to a young Elizabeth Taylor or Catherine Zeta-Jones. The good fortune of attracting her favors seemed inexplicable, though I enjoyed the privilege for at least two years.

By day Natalie worked with elementary school children. She was well-educated, and professional.

After hours, Natalie could be – by turns, either a virtuous nun or a wanton slut. She embraced the Madonna-Whore complex, and there was no middle ground.

When she acted the wanton slut, the sex was wicked and intoxicating. Natalie urged me – as if challenging my love, to degrade her sexually.

In this mode, she yearned for cum facials, spankings and, of course: anal sex. She equated this form of male dominance with love.

Once this fever passed, Natalie anguished over her moral deficiency and admonished me for disgracing her. This pattern characterized our history. Natalie was either hot, or she was cold.

When desire possessed her, Natalie wanted a constant dose of cock. She demanded a complete experience: in her mouth, across her face, between her ample cleavage, between her thighs, in her pussy and especially in her ass.

Continued.

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Euston Road

by Holiday on 12/22/2006

in sex

We walked along Euston Road as if we owned the world; nothing else mattered but that we were together.

The previous hours of uninterrupted sexual passion finally required sustenance. So we took a table-for-two in a small, inviting Italian restaurant for an evening meal.

The smell of your exquisite cunt enveloped me like nature’s best perfume. I had been with you all day … been inside you constantly … with my fingers, my tongue, my cock.

I could not resist your charms because being with you was too easy and too natural. I had searched for years, hoping to find you and, once I did, I finally felt like Odysseus coming home to Penelope’s faithful waiting.

That evening in the restaurant, I sat across from you and my only thoughts were:
“I love you so much; I love the sound of your voice. I love your facial expressions. I love your body. I love your humor. I love your intelligence. I love your sensitivity. You are an absolute treasure.”

What I cherished about you from the outset was your genuine acceptance of people, and your willingness to remain open to new experiences.

“It doesn’t bother you that I am bisexual?” I asked earlier.
“No,” you replied. “Why should it?”
“I’m also a bit of a voyeur, and like to share the woman I love with another man.”
“I love the idea of being the center of attention with two men. What’s not to like?”

The deal was sealed because you complete me.

You own my heart. You own me totally. And my cock has never stopped throbbing for you.

Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

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The Algebra of Need

by Holiday on 12/21/2006

in sex

I call myself a sex-addict because I seldom fail to act on erotic impulses.

These impulses do not rule my nature, but when afflicted the sensation is like a hot, overwhelming fever. Under the circumstances I feel compelled to act, as if I’m powerless to resist.

My obsessive-compulsive trait is a shadow that has been with me as long as I can remember.

As with any kind of addiction, the compulsion is not concerned primarily with pleasure, but rather with the satisfaction of its own mechanisms, the constantly renewed state of anxiety and anticipation.

When I try to score sex with a first-time lover, the ritual of pursuit is frequently more satisfying then the tryst. The initial sex act may only last 10, 15, 20 minutes. Perhaps for marathon candidates, the physical intimacy lasts considerably longer.

I’m neither a sprinter, nor a cross-country runner. My stamina is somewhere in between.

If one is married and interested in the same gender, the cycle of anxiety and anticipation is particularly heightened. Yet the fast eye contact, quickly negotiated language of lust (top, bottom, switch), the rapid-fire emails, the hurried phone conversations, and the clandestine arrangements may be more intoxicating than the physical consummation.

Integral to my sanity is that the compulsion to write is stronger than the compulsion to act.

When the addiction for sex wanes or can’t be satisfied, I don’t fall prey to the alcoholic’s delirium tremors or junkie sickness. There is always the compulsion to write, which is like a biological need for water. This is the algebra of need.

To celebrate the varieties of sexual expression between adults is a way of avoiding becoming a ventriloquist’s dummy, walking through life with a rigid doll face.

Writers share a continuous, dismayed awareness of the terrible waste of human energy that passes for life.

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Fistful of Love

by Holiday on 12/19/2006

in sex

In another life, Fred W. was the chief artist in the Advertising Department of Stix, Baer & Fuller, a one-time major department store in St. Louis.

When I arrived on the scene as a fledgling graphic reproduction artist, the advertising department was full guns, with a stable of copywriters and a fashion photographer who raved about Guy Bourdin’s work in French Vogue.

Helmut Newton’s work in the same magazine seemed wickedly funny in the face of the growing feminist movement – yet Bourdin was always the master.

I noticed Fred, and yet I didn’t want to notice him. He was at least 20 years older, good looking, dressed smartly and possessed an inspiring sophistication. Among others, Fred’s social circle included famed Chicago photographer Victor Skrebneski.

Being in Fred’s company was a tutorial on life.

At the time, I was an unacknowledged bisexual. Such an outlook is unnecessary and a huge waste of time – but if you were young and social mores were more limiting than contemporary standards, it seemed only natural to keep a tight lid on the subject.

Of course I used all the typical ploys involved with denial: I got drunk, I got high, I was passive, I didn’t use my real name. I did everything possible to avoid taking responsibility for my sexual identity.

I was attracted by the sexual attention of other men. If a male made a move on me and performed fellatio … well, I wasn’t really queer or even bisexual. I was drunk, stoned, tripping, so detached that it really wasn’t happening to me. The male always took advantage of me; that’s the spin I developed to ease the discomfort of the truth.

But Fred was different. He was a colleague – though on a level of accomplishment far beyond me. He was not a frivolous pickup from the bath house or the gay bar.

I made excuses to be present in Fred’s modest studio area. I knew what I was doing, and there was no point in pretense any longer. I wanted Fred to invite me into his world. I was ready for my education to begin.

This was all a bit dicey because I lived with a very attractive woman. Barbara was three years older and already established with a profession. We loved each other – or so we claimed. What I really loved about Barbara was her stunning looks and her captivating body. She resembled a young Catherine Zeta-Jones, with raven dark hair and jutting breasts. Barbara was quite a trophy and, because of such a superficial appreciation, we were not destined for the long run.

I had my beautiful girlfriend, but I was also attracted to Fred. This is a motif that runs through my adult life. Why settle for one when both are equally appealing. That’s why the orientation is called bisexual.

Although I was on the verge of finally being myself, I wasn’t quite prepared to embrace honesty. The virtue is honorable, and certainly the best approach to life. Yet I have always had a low threshold for emotional pain. When the going gets tough, I always get the fuck out of there. At least this was true earlier in life.

Continued at link.

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Letters from Marcy

by Holiday on 12/17/2006

in claytonholiday, tabitha tan

Dear Holiday,

I want my husband sitting beside me, talking to me softly, encouraging me, while his best friend fucks me. Maybe I will hold my husband’s hand, even have him kiss me gently. Does this make sense?

I also have a fantasy of Penn replacing Todd for a while, the two men talking, using crude language together, however, Penn being gentle and encouraging to me.

Perhaps Todd would want me to suck his cock at this time too, to keep him hard.

Then I can imagine Penn pulling out and getting me off the bed, onto the floor to position me on hands and knees, head resting on my arms on the bed. He would take pains to get me properly positioned, breasts dangling for Todd to use, and get my bottom up and ready, legs spread for Todd. Then he would invite Todd to fuck me doggy-style.

Of course, this would be a harder, deeper fuck. So Penn would sit on the floor beside me and talk to me, encourage me, massage my breasts gently when Todd wasn’t playing with them. Penn could also reach up into my pussy and stimulate my clit while Todd fucks me. I can imagine a hard, deep fuck, Todd’s thick cock stretching my wet cunt.

Continued at link.

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A Heat Haze Fix

by Holiday on 12/15/2006

in sex

I contacted the married man because we both needed sexual debauchery.

Behind the facade of wedding vows and children, we needed some hot, deviant action.

Behind the facade of the Chamber of Commerce and Youth League activities, we needed something proper wives couldn’t offer.

Behind the facade of the Baptist Belt culture, we needed release from the burden of worshipping a celibate man with a band of 12 unemployed brothers.

We needed to dissolve in a heat haze fix of promiscuous mingling.

This man had a treasure, and I wanted it; me on my knees unzipping his pants, richer than I’ve ever been. And the results were all that could be wished.

He was a few years older than me, and looked equally nondescript. Most people disregarded us as sexual deviants.

Appearing unremarkable has advantages, and remaining overlooked is chief among them.What provoked a wicked and intoxicating anxiety is that my male partner worked with my wife.

Everyone knows it is folly – if not lunacy, to engage in an office fling – any kind of fling. The outcome is predictable to the point of cliché. Yet play among married bisexual men in the general office setting is a step into June Carter’s Ring of Fire.

It is hot and forbidden and indecent and disgraceful. A strong person refrains from this degenerate behavior.

But I wouldn’t know. My slut mentality rules my nature in arbitrary fashion.

Most days I can resist my decadent instincts. Other times I am no better than the Whore of Babylon. I give in and I put out.

I dream of sucking his well endowed cock, and being lifted from my flesh into the delirious oblivion of a clean white room.

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Land of 1,000 Depravities

by Holiday on 12/12/2006

in sex

Ladies and gentlemen: turn with me now and begin today’s reading from Lewd Acts, Chapter Four. This discourse will cover the usual debauchery I so love.

For those who consider boredom the worst offense in life, you are not alone.

Around me once was a stunning congregation of people at a party, all caught up in an easy reverence.

Before I could do more than swipe a cocktail, a servant led me into a pseudo-Renaissance library. In full view of everyone, a young woman expressly handled and stroked the sexual organ of a man wearing the Roman Catholic collar and a pair of black FBI-style sunglasses. I was enchanted instantly by the aura of the slender red-head with innocent blue eyes. She was a dazzling opaque beauty who, through the course of the evening, came to burn with an unholy fire. She looked 18-years-old, though she was eight years older.

The young woman marveled over the size of the appendage and its mysterious beauty. I recognized the impostor as the party’s host, who stood beneath a large portrait of himself. The reverend was a distinguished-looking man in his late 20s, with dark hair. He wore a black robe to the floor, with a shoulder cape to match. He resembled the jaded Marcello Mastroianni on the Roman street of nightclubs in La Dolce Vita.

“Oh Father, you’re wonderful,” she said, and slowly parted his robes. She took hold of his cock carefully, studying it.

“Just look at it. Why does it have to be so big?” she asked.

The young woman sighed, and looked at him, now holding it very firmly in her right hand.

“I must stop it from throbbing, yes?”

“Certainly, my dear,” the priest said, with a vulgar grin overspreading his face.

Closing her eyes, and moistening her lips, she opened her mouth and slowly, gently took it inside.

Because this behavior excited her admiration, the young woman began to perform fellatio in front of everyone. The nonchalant host simply parted his robes even further.

The priest carefully undid the two top buttons of the young woman’s dress, gently slipped his hand inside, and firmly cupped her left breast – just holding it for a second before tenderly taking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. At the pressure, slight as it was, she faltered – but relaxed, even moving forward a little, as the nipple began to swell and distend while he softly squeezed and rolled it between his fingers.

This “submission” – allowing the priest to fondle her breasts, had an effect on her that went quite beyond whatever immediate sensation it may have produced, and caused her to apply herself with mounting excitement.

While she continued, closed-eyed and breathing hard, her hands groped, opening the top of his trousers, taking them down enough to put her hands inside and grip his bare waist, and then urgently pulling him toward her, sucking voraciously, with gasps and moans, though occasionally taking so much that she gagged.

Instead, the priest turned his attention to her remarkable head; she had a particularaffinity for his broad hands with prominent tendons, stretching out like rake tongs through her hair. She stopped for a moment and looked up with a soft smile, all breathless, and wide-eyed.

“Are you going to cum in my mouth?”

“Absolutely, my child,” he said, and robbed a passing tray of another drink.

The young woman nodded, closed her eyes, opened her mouth, then looked up at him, assuming a coquettish manner, “I guess I have to swallow it, right?”

“Indeed,” the priest answered, in a voice which was expressionless.

She resumed in earnest, the priest fondled both nipples, squeezing them hard, and she reacted more ravenously the harder he squeezed.

“You are beautiful, my child,” the priest said, holding a metallic cross.After thrusting himself into her exquisite mouth for a lengthy period, the priest finally made the sign of the cross and, as he discharged, distinctly said:
- In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
[In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.]

The young woman received his liberal contribution like a holy sacrament. She looked up at the priest, her eyes shimmering, knowing she had pleased him.

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The Office

by Holiday on 12/10/2006

in sex

When one resides in a small Midwestern town of the United States and cannot resist recreational sex with a male, what is the answer? The choice is simple: either stay or go.

If the choice is to stay home and find a willing partner, chances are the candidate will be familiar. This certainly heightens the adrenaline rush of outlaw sex. Of course, sometimes the risks involved are far more arousing than the actual sex.

If the recourse is a familiar candidate, both parties know there is an unspoken bond of secrecy, especially when this involves married bi-sexuals.

For a time, I placed personal ads with select on-line services and achieved some memorable results.

The number of married bi-sexual men in small towns is quite astonishing. Beneath the façade of civic respectability: professionals, church members, youth-league coaches – lurks a male with a penchant for cock. There is no easy profile for quick detection. No gay radar. Stereotypes of fags, queens and swishes have no application. Many married bi-sexual men are happy with the flourishes of a straight life – they just happen to enjoy casual, “no-strings attached” sexual experiences with other adult males.

The initial response to my personal ad occurred rather quickly. People who solicit partners for casual sex through personal online ads recognize the feeding frenzy.

My prime candidate lived in the same small town. This was both cause for immense anxiety and a perverse exhilaration. Because: what if we really knew each other? What if our wives were friends? What if our children attended school together? And then: who makes the first move? Who is going to be dominant or submissive? Lastly: where can any activity occur without detection?

If e-mail contact persists after an initial exchange of information, there is a cat-and-mouse game of more revelations. This usually happens over the first 48-hours. And then, one must commit to some meeting, or it’s simply a pointless exchange of photos and pornographic fantasies.

Imagine my surprise when I quickly discovered the candidate was Rob, a long-time co-worker. After 15-plus years, I ended my role with the company and moved on to another position. Although Rob and I had not worked directly with one another, we had been in the same family-owned business setting for all those years.

More than a surprise, it was a shock to consider a rendezvous with Rob. In my ad, I had already indicated my complete willingness to perform oral sex. So, he knew I was a cocksucker.

Rob was in his mid-40s, attractive and very fit. In fact, he worked out at the local gym so often he was a border-line narcissistic. Yet as Gore Vidal said: “A narcissist is someone better looking than you are.”

Add to the mix, I knew Rob’s wife and children; all this seemed like typical small town clichés, though nothing like a Norman Rockwell illustration.

I called Rob at work to arrange a meeting, and it seemed awfully weird to speak to a former co-worker – a married man, about an illicit sexual rendezvous. We both knew what was going to happen. Rob would expose his seven-inch cock and I would give him a long, lingering blow job.That evening, around 8 p.m., we met on an off-road area by a lake in the country. It was mid-September and still warm in the evening. Both our wives thought we were involved with separate and unrelated matters.

For a time, we sat in Rob’s sports car and made some nervous small-talk. It was only a matter of time, of course – and time was really of the essence. We moved from his car and Rob sat on the hood of my vehicle. He wasted no time exposing his cock. He was already stiff and throbbing.

Rob’s cock was appealing beyond words. He was large and smooth and appropriately thick. How could I possibly resist pleasing him? I couldn’t. Nothing mattered anymore. Our past didn’t matter. Our wives didn’t matter. I sucked his cock in a worshipful way. I seemed to control Rob’s mood with my mouth. With every subtle movement of my mouth, he groaned more and more. Finally, Rob surrendered and filled my mouth with his hot cum.

As I resumed my straight life, all I could think of for days was: I gave Rob a blow job. And I wanted to repeat the experience over and over again.

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Cuckolds 101

by Holiday on 12/06/2006

in Met-Art

met art AF 448 17 Cuckolds 101A persistent fantasy is for my wife to mildly cuck me while she has sex with another male in my presence.

In reality, we experienced a one-time three-way with a male and we had a very comfortable, long-term rapport with a bi-sexual friend of mine. Yet my wife never really cucked me – except to be completely uninhibited with another male while I watched.

The only time she cranked up the volume happened years ago when she visited a friend from her past, a dark Polynesian guy – and enjoyed a week-long sex romp with him in my absence. She called me early one Saturday morning from Phoenix. After some conventional chit-chat, my wife handed the phone over to her lover and we spoke politely but briefly about nothing in particular.

I did not press my wife for details at the moment; that happened after she returned home.

What prompted my wife’s behavior was her disappointing discovery that I had an affair with a woman in my office a few years earlier. I had no excuses. I was weak, a shameless slut – of sorts.

My insensitive misbehavior left my wife genuinely distraught. I could not be upset by her need for validation and perhaps a revenge-fuck. I understood completely.

When my wife returned after a week with her lover, I had to know everything that happened … and she was extremely candid in the details.

Instead of being consumed by jealousy, the knowledge that my wife sexually gratified another male left me profoundly aroused. However, she also knew that if I was jealous about anything, it was my inability to experience her lover as she had done so.

When my wife called me that Saturday morning, she had just been fucked by her host. And then I spoke to him by phone … the man who enjoyed my wife’s sexual favors: her large breasts, her silky wet pussy, her luxuriant mouth around his dark cock. They were still in bed together. Later, my wife told me they adjourned to the shower for a quick morning clean-up, and she went to her knees to perform a blow job. She simply could not get enough of his hot cock.

This knowledge drove me crazy in a good way – for years. I had to hear my wife recount the details of her liaison countless times. Being cucked like that put me on fire.

In moments of passionate intimacy, my wife is completely agreeable to being a hot wife and enjoying recreational sex with another man – while I watch or join the scene. In the past, I’ve reached down and felt her lover’s cock thrusting away in her pussy. I can’t tell you how intoxicating it is to watch your wife behave like a wanton slut with another man.

Now, when cuck fantasies are involved, my all-time favorite is to be mildly restrained in my wife’s presence … nude and tied with my hands behind me in a chair, my eyes blindfolded. All I can do is listen to her moan, listen to her groan, listen to the sexual sound of flesh pounding against flesh. At intervals, her lover approaches me and compels to suck his cock, suck the cock that is still fucking my wife. After my wife and her lover have achieved a mutual resolution, I’m untied and free to eat her used pussy.

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Photo: Hanna (Met Art)

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A Male Whorehouse

by Holiday on 12/01/2006

in sex

My ideal is marriage to a woman, with the freedom to enjoy an affair with a man. To be precise, I’d prefer that my wife and I enjoy the same male lover in an established triad. Of course most women can’t handle a bi-sexual male; this is no surprise.

I can’t easily explain my desire for sex with other men. According to society this is unnatural and taboo. On the surface this is just the way I am wired. More importantly, the desire is erratic. Some times the idea is foreign, other times I’m afflicted with an enthusiasm that demands immediate remedy.

Before we married, I was not honest with my wife about my dual nature. I should have told her, I know.When I finally revealed my tendencies, we had been married less than a month. I thought: well, if she really can’t handle this, we can bail out of this before we get in any deeper. This was horribly unfair, yet my wife accepted my disclosures in stride – at first.

In fact, my exposé – which included accounts of cruising the gay bath scene, excited her, though she professed disbelief that I actually participated in the sub-culture.For years, I resisted the allure of the gay bath scene. Club St. Louis – the most notable local choice, operated in the basement of the Washington Hotel on Kingshighway Boulevard. It seemed a dangerously seedy location.

Yet one summer I surrendered to temptation and visited regularly while involved with my live-in girlfriend. The idea of maintaining a proper facade, and taking a walk on the wild side, conspired to heighten a stimulating and forbidden sense of excitement.

My girlfriend had no idea of my depravity.

Of course a gay bath is nothing more than a male whorehouse. During this period, I checked out the scene from Chicago-to-Denver-to-San Diego. The routine was virtually the same everywhere.

Although there were many times when I stayed away from those dens of misbehavior, I experienced a lot of impious conduct – sometimes purely as a voyeur: steam rooms, private cubicles, pseudo-dungeons, glory-holes, and the notorious leather swing.

Perhaps the most outrageous episode was one Saturday afternoon at the Empire Baths in Denver.A group of aroused tops gathered in a small lounge, paired off with enthusiastic cocksucking bottoms, while a wholesome rerun of The Real McCoy’s, television’s first family-oriented, rural comedy, played on the overhead screen. The idea of Grandpappy Amos (Walter Brennan) talking to Luke (Richard Crenna) about all-American values, provided an incomparable backdrop for males giving head.

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