Random Rim Jobs

I want to be fucked with a gun.  A hand gun.

I finally met Army Guy.  He is amazing.  So fucking cute.  Good fuck.  I like fucking guys who are cheating on their wives/girlfriends so long as they don’t talk about them.  Army Guy has a cute Southern twang when he drinks.

He was here just one night.  We went out to dinner at Weird Fish where he didn’t feel comfortable sitting with his back to the door.  Normally I don’t like to sit with my back to the door, but only because I like to people watch.  He, on the other hand, had legitimate reasons for being nervous considering the three tours of duty he did in Iraq and Afghanistan.

We went back to his hotel where the hotel bar claimed to be closing.  I think they could see that we’d had plenty to drink and didn’t want to serve us any more.  We went up to his room and raided the honor bar.

Army Guy was in the Army.  He also grew up in Alabama where he hunted and such.  Army Guy is very comfortable with guns.  He had a gun with him.

He showed me his gun.  He let me hold his gun.  They’re heavier than they look.

He told me to pull the trigger.  I completely trusted Army Guy to be safe with guns and knew he wouldn’t have let me hold a loaded gun.  I pulled the trigger.  It really did feel amazing.

It turned me the fuck on.  I’m a very liberal California girl who really doesn’t see any reason why people need to own guns.  No, I’ve not seen Bowling for Columbine.  (I can’t stand Michael Moore purely because of his fatness and ugliness; he needs to stay behind the camera.)

Nonetheless, I was fucking turned on holding the gun and pulling the trigger.  And that Army Guy knew how to handle a gun was a huge turn-on too.

I have never seen any sort of gun porn.  In general guns scare the shit out of me and I think NRA zealots are idiot assholes, but I could not help but be turned on.

We fucked with the gun next to us.  I asked him to fuck me with the gun, but I think he didn’t fully understand what I wanted.  I wanted to be fucked with the gun.

I couldn’t help it – getting fucked by a gun seemed so fucking wrong, which of course made me want to do it.

I really wish I’d had a bit less to drink on the one night Army Guy and I were together.  I don’t remember much but I remember him fisting me.  And I unfortunately remember me apologizing for every fucking thing.

I apologized for being too fat and unattractive and shitty in bed and everything else.  Vodka can tend to make me a bit of a sad sack.  Combined with that, Army Guy and I had had two years of build-up, and I felt like I was disappointing him by not being hotter.  No, that’s not sexy, and I hate being like that.

We spent the night in his hotel and then went to breakfast.  I wish I could have spent the day with him but I had to go work on a porn set.  We talked on the phone later.  He assured me he had a nice time and said he could tell I enjoy sucking cock.  Well, that’s good.

I swear.  True story

[Continued from "Smooth as Silk (Part 1)."]

We went to Bangkok.

The study abroad program for which I’d signed up was sponsored by Chulalongkorn University, Thailand’s most prestigious university.  However, when we arrived we were told that our classes would take place not on the university’s campus, but at the YMCA hotel.

The YMCA in Asia is not the the YMCA in the US, at all.  Well, the original idea is the same, that young Christian men should be able to have clean, well-appointed places to stay, but in Asia that developed into very decent hotels while in North America if one is staying at a YMCA he’s a short step above homelessness.

The classes were to be held at the YMCA where most of the students happened to be staying.  The (man who would become the) Ex and I stayed in the cheaper, tackier, hotel next door.  I needed my student loan money, which was meant for one person, to allow both of us to stay the entire summer so we did everything budget.

The study abroad program organized several activities including social mixers and cultural events.  The first of these events was a lunch.  I sat next to a guy who introduced himself as Jesús.  We chatted through the meal and learned that we lived a block away from each other in San Francisco.  He was very charming and enthusiastic.

I introduced Jesús to the Ex.  They hit it off and agreed to work out together.  At the time the concept of a gym was a new thing in Bangkok, but the Ex was determined to use his abundant free time wisely.  Our tacky, cheap hotel had no gym equipment to speak of and the Y had a tiny, sad “gym.”  The Ex and Jesús agreed to try out the two gyms in the neighborhood together.

I went to class in the mornings, then we, along with the Ex, explored Bangkok.  I was most definitely experiencing culture shock.  Up to that point I had been to Baja, Mexico, and British Columbia, Canada, neither of which is all that different from what I was used to living my entire life in California.

Bangkok, Thailand, on the other hand, was so, so different.  Firstly, it was hot.  It was very hot.  And it was humid. Very humid.  The previous summer I had been to Chicago so I thought I understood “hot and humid.”  I had no fucking clue until we exited the plane onto the tarmac at BKK.

The heat and the humidity were each oppressive in their own way.  It was difficult to breathe in the moist, hot air.  The sun was strong so I slathered on sunscreen, which, along with sweating all the time, made for a lovely breakout that lasted several weeks until my skin adjusted to its new environment.  Even after that I had to accept that my skin would just be shiny all the time.

Because of the heat and humidity, businesses in Bangkok utilize air conditioning to lure in customers.  Some would say air conditioning is overused in Bangkok.  Certainly if one plans on being inside for any period of time one should bring some sort of wrap because it gets damn cold when the air conditioning is on full blast all the time.

The window air conditioning units dripped–everywhere.  When negotiating the sidewalks one had to avoid what we dubbed “the mysterious drip” because that water was black and gross and stinky.  One also had to avoid the dips, potholes, pipes, and other hazards.  I got into the habit of calling out, “Tort!” when I found something I had to avoid for safety’s sake.  This, sadly, was a result of law school torts class.  (Law school really fucks with one’s head.)

It hit me hard how different it was there.  People thought differently; the things I thought were important Thais didn’t necessarily.  It was most definitely a learning experience.  People moved slower, probably because it was so damn hot.  Traffic was horrible.  Walking was so odd that we often had cabbies pull over to ask us if we were going to the airport because as foreigners that’s where we must have been going.  The whole damn place smelled of mildew.

Those of us in the study abroad program, plus the Ex, went out often.  We broke off so that our group included Courtney, Gonzalo, Jesus, Mickey, Michael, the Ex, me, and some others whose names I don’t recall.  The Ex and I learned whom we could trust for restaurant advice, and who had palates that were less than adventurous.

Courtney didn’t like most of the food and complained that there weren’t enough black guys for her taste.  I suggested that perhaps if she wanted to be surrounded by black men rather than Asian men that she should have tried a study abroad program in Africa.  She also talked down to Thais in English in a way that was embarrassingly disrespectful.

Gonzalo also lived in San Francisco.  He also already had a great job lined up.  He was some sort of moot court superstar.

Jesús liked his food spicy, very spicy.  He was from Florida, but had moved to San Francisco for law school.  It became quite apparent pretty quickly that along with his significant charm, Jesús had an unhealthy sense of “adventure.”  For example, several times that summer he asked strangers, on the street or in a dance club, if they had any drugs, specifically pot, special K, ecstasy, and GHB.  He didn’t bother asking for Xanax or Rohipnol because those could be had over-the-counter at any number of pharmacies.

Mickey was gay.  Gay.  Gay.  But hated queeny gay guys.  He was at least ten years older than the rest of us, and had been practicing law for years, but was looking to get an LL.M. and change his area of practice.  Mickey had an appetite for young Thai boys.  Not boys, but very young, very sweet men, including prostitutes.  He was a vegetarian so he was a great dinner date to some more interesting restaurants.

Michael had gone to college in Hawaii.  He had been to Thailand before, during Army Ranger training.  He was always dressed very well.  Michael had a thing for high-class Thai women from good families.  When we went out dancing he was always the driving force behind “taking it to the next level,” i.e. moving on to the next huge, classy, expensive dance club.  He always arranged for us to have bottle service at a table with a good view of the hotties on the dance floor.

There were some other folks in the program, one of whom I recall was apparently from South American money.  Money that bought neither manners nor cultural sensitivity.  At one point she said, when the issue of getting receipts for goods so the VAT could be refunded at the airport when leaving the country, “How do we get receipts?  These people don’t even speak English.”  Uh, duh, they speak Thai.  A few of the ladies fell under Jesús’ spell, but they were just as crazy as he, but not nearly as interesting.

We went out drinking and dancing a lot.   Most days in class involved being a bit (to a lot) hung over.  I developed a taste for Thai whiskey “on rock.”  There were several ice cubes, but since the Thai language doesn’t have plurals, most people who served us simply did not add an s to the end of the word they knew meant ice.  I began drinking Thai whiskey because it was cheap, and I drank it over ice because it couldn’t be watered down, something that often happened when getting mixed drinks in bars.

One day the Ex, Courtney, and I were hanging out together.  It was some sort of official holiday so many businesses were closed.  The three of us were bored.  Courtney asked us if we wanted some Xanax.  Neither the Ex nor I had had it before; Courtney assured us it was fun.  Sure, what the fuck, we had nothing better to do.  So we popped some pills, and drank some whiskey.

We spent a lot of time around the Patpong area of town.  It was close to our hotels and it had a high concentration of street food, bars, and shopping.  It was fascinating to see the two Patpong roads open to traffic during the day and completely packed with merchants’ stands at night.  Each evening a sophisticated system of street carts was set up, and each morning they were taken down.

As foreigners we were targeted by the merchants, the touts for clubs (both sex and otherwise), scammers, and anyone else who saw us as stupid sources of easy money.  It was annoying at the very least.  Mickey, who had been to Thailand several times before (when he developed his taste for Thai boys), taught us to say, “No, thank you” in Thai, which helped a bit.  However, walking through the area was still extremely irritating.

Until the night we took the Xanax.  We didn’t care about anything.  Oh, you want us to buy some cheap knock-off watches?  Oooh, they’re pretty.  But I don’t want one–oh, what’s over there?  That’s shiny.  Everything was just fine.  We weren’t even bothered by the incessant shitty pop music blaring from clubs.  Normally, we avoided certain areas because the competing music grated the nerves.  Not so with Xanax.

I found myself less cranky with everything when I took Xanax.  And it was a lot of fun to mix with alcohol.  No, kids, mixing pharmaceuticals and alcohol is not a good idea.  It is irresponsible and stupid.  And fun.  But only in a place where both alcohol and and such substances are dispensed without the need for medical supervision, of course.

Other than pharmaceuticals we had fun experimenting with food as well.  There were outdoor food courts, food carts, cheap restaurants of all sorts.  The Ex and I had a favorite cart that sold Chinese noodle soup.  We liked a cart that sold tiny pancakes with robins’ eggs and little Vienna sausages to students as they got out of a Catholic school.  I really liked salad-plate sized very thin crepes that were sold with sugar in a form that can only be described as hairy–in long, thin strands.  And the curries.  Oooh, and the spring rolls.  Mmmm, meat on a stick.  Fish balls. Not to mention all the packaged food at the convenient stores–we tried a lot of chips flavored for the Thai palate including lobster and shrimp.  We ate a lot of really good food.  And some shitty food, too.

The Ex couldn’t go for very long without eating Mexican food, something about which I was unaware until we were in Thailand.  Despite the similarity in ingredients in Thai food and in Mexican food Thais cannot make decent Mexican food.  We tried, well after we should have given up, to find a restaurant that had tasty Latin-inspired food.  We even tried places near the Mexican Consulate thinking that staff there would want to eat something from home.  We didn’t realize at the time that the Consulate had its own kitchen staff who could not only bring important ingredients like cheese into their kitchen, but actually prepare it properly.  Thais just don’t know how to use cheese.

And of course there was the sex … for which I paid.

[To be continued.]

I swear.  True story.

[Another juicy bit from Army Guy. This one, unlike "The Air Show," is a true story. But the things it has in common with that fantasy are very interesting, like his buddy, Jake, and a two-for-one deal. Army Guy and Jake were stationed in Germany at the time. --SSF]

One Thursday in July ‘06, Jake and I were sitting around his place having beers when I got the idea to go to Paris over the 4-day weekend. We packed a cooler in the back of his Tacoma, ironed some “going out” shirts and hit the road. Hijinks ensued.

Anyway, on Saturday, we were riding the train back from Versailles (it’s about 20 miles away from Paris ) when we saw some cute girls sitting the back of the empty car. We sat down across from them and asked if it would be OK to sit there since this was the only available seat in the car.

Anyway, we all hit it off. Lisette was waifishly thin and had that severe bone structure that is en vogue for runway models. Marie had a healthier figure, cute rosy cheeks and an infectious smile. She was also the only one who spoke any English. They were both obviously younger than us, but we were barely limping by with our stumbling French. Jake speaks it pretty well, so he and Lisette hit it off. The four of us ended up having Thai food for dinner and then drinks and a nearby bar.

I had been pretending to ignore Marie off and on and was watching a World Cup match on TV. Marie went over to the couch Jake and Lisette were sitting on to complain that I was ignoring her. Jake told her she ought to do something to get my attention, so she grabbed him and kissed him. I don’t think either one of us were expecting that, but whatever. Lisette didn’t like this, so she went over to me, said something very sexy sounding in French and stuck her tongue down my throat.

Jake and I looked over at each other and had one of those conversations with facial expressions. We both agreed it was time to close the tab and get the hell out. We told them there was “something we wanted to show them” in our hotel room. They giggled, but thought it was funny, so we all headed back.

Well, about an hour later, Jake and I are both banging the girls on the big queen-sized bed in the room. Marie was adorable, and each time I thrust into her, she would squeak out “oui!” I reached around to rub her clit as I was sliding into her and she started screaming her head off and swearing in French. The people down below started banging on the ceiling, which kind of turned me on, knowing people were having to listen to us fucking. After she came, she wanted me to stop immediately because she said she gets too sensitive to have sex anymore after she comes, so she plopped down on the recliner to have a cigarette.

I hadn’t come yet, so Jake ordered Lisette to start sucking my cock and make his friend come. I think this was a little more of a varsity move than they were used to, but they had been desperately trying to look cool for us the whole night, so we were taking liberal advantage of the situation. Lisette asked her friend if it was OK. Marie shrugged a little too nonchalantly and took another drag on her cigarette, so Lisette wrapped her lips around my cock as Jake continued to fuck her from behind.

The blowjob wasn’t particularly good, so I had Jake tell her that I needed her to ride me. She did, and Jake had the good idea to put it in her ass. Amazingly (sadly?) he actually had a bottle of lube in his bag, so he lubed up and put the head of his cock against her ass.

I don’t think she had ever had anal sex before, much less have two guys fuck her at the same time, so it took about 10 minutes of encouragement and Cort going very slowly to finally get it in. During those 10 minutes, Lisette was staring at me with a wild look in her eye. I stroked her hair and planted little kisses on her, whispering in her ear what a good job she was doing. She had been trying so hard all night to be cool that it was beautiful to see her so vulnerable like that.

I don’t know if this makes me bad or not, but looking into those wild, icy-blue eyes while I could indirectly feel her being penetrated, inch by inch, was the most incredible sight to behold. I’m afraid I only lasted 1 or 2 more minutes once Jake started fucking her. She didn’t come. I wish we could have made her come.

After Jake blew his load, the two of them locked themselves in the bathroom, smoked more 100’s and giggled in rapid-fire French to each other. I reclined on some pillows and got dizzy, staring at the pattern in the wallpaper too long.

I knew it to be infatuation, but I felt like I was in love with both of them. I wanted to spend a month in Paris to lavish gifts upon them and have them show me their wonderful city. I would have to settle for asking them to breakfast. Jake was in love with both of them as well, and we agreed to invite them to stay.

As it were, they couldn’t because their parents would be looking for them if they didn’t get the last train to Versailles. What silliness was this? Why did their parents want them home? Because they were both 16.

Before we met I asked if English wasn’t his first language.  There were idioms he just wasn’t getting, so I thought maybe he hadn’t been speaking English his whole life.  But English was his first and only language.  Yet he seemed to have trouble communicating, in English.

We had been exchanging emails for a while and he had wanted to meet me almost from the very beginning.  I was loathe to meet, but not for any particular reason, just a feeling I had.  Once again, it’s been confirmed that I have excellent instincts.

I finally agreed to meet him because it was pouring rain and I had to go to the post office.  The news was that the storm was going to last through the weekend, but I really needed to get my post office business done. (I was sending a package to Army Guy in Iraq.)

So I was a whore for a ride to the post office.  The guy came to my place, picked me up outside, gave me a ride to the post office, and waited outside while I filled out the customs forms and waited in line.  Then we drove back to my place where he parked in my parking space and came inside.

He was empty-handed when he got out of his car.  We had had a whole chat exchange about him having a bunch of alcohol left over from a party at his house and about me being very interested in drinking, yet he showed up at my house with nothing.

We had a frank discussion about sex.  He complained that the last two women he dated hadn’t given him head.  I told him he shouldn’t have dated them.

The night before I’d had a date (with J. Lee, I believe).  We had had a quickie before dinner because I could tell he wasn’t going to make through the meal otherwise.  Then after dinner we went to my bedroom for some leisurely sex.  However, intercourse never occurred because a cock-sucking mood struck me hard.  When I’m in that mood both the suckee and sucker both have a very good time.  I thanked him for coming in my mouth.

After my glorious cock-sucking of the previous night I was actually in the mood to do it some more, or, at the very least give advice on how to “get” a woman to be just as generous with her time and mouth; I wanted to spread the blow job love.

I asked him how he broached the subject of blow jobs.  He said during sexual relations he said something along the lines of, “How about sucking my dick?”  So suave.  Why weren’t the women lining up for that?

I felt it necessary to try to give practical advice to the clueless 27-year-old(!).  Really, how does someone make it almost to 30 without figuring out how to get his dick sucked?  He had told me previously that he didn’t like going down on women unless they were completely bare and he was in the right mood.  I actually didn’t tie the general lack of oral sex in this guy’s life together at the time, but I certainly should have.  If he told the women he was with he thought female genitalia was gross in general it’s understandable that they did not feel like worshiping (which a good blow job absolutely does) what he had to offer.

This guy told me women “his age” don’t give head.  What the fuck?!  Women in their 20s stopped sucking cock?!  Why isn’t this information in the fucking news?  This is a goddamn crisis!  He thought I’d feel sorry for him, get on my knees, and show him how well a woman in her 30s can suck cock.  Uh, no.

Ends up women “his age” are not his age, but in their early 20s with little to no oral sex experience.  I was convinced that these girls were pretty and dumb and had been treated as if they were special their whole lives because of it.  Those of us for whom getting our first boyfriend (and girlfriend, but they don’t have cocks) was a bit of a struggle know how to suck cock.  In my early 20s I was trying so hard to please guys that I was sucking them dry.  (Now I do it not because I have low self-esteem, but because I want to suck cock.)  I guessed the girls he was dating never felt like that.  And he wasn’t all that good looking so the girls probably didn’t feel like they “had to” give him head in order to keep him interested.

I didn’t even bother trying to explain that to him.  I just tried to make him realize that those blanket statements about women “his age” weren’t doing him or his dick any good because he had a defeatist attitude.  I suggested he bring up the blow job subject when he was not fooling around so as to not put pressure on the ladies right then.

In the mean time he kept hinting in a really annoying and crass way that he wanted his dick sucked.

The guy was one of the stupidest people I’ve ever encountered.

I swear.  True story.

I had been thinking about how cool it’d be if he came to visit me.  Since I’ve learned my lesson letting guys stay here without first meeting them in person, he’d have plans to stay elsewhere but come visit me.

We’d walk the dog.  I’d show him the great views.  One particular stairway would be great–stairs up to a landing with a clearing and garden with a bench.

I would be able to see Isis running around while he and I sit on the bench.  That would be when we finally kiss–since I’d be Chatty Cathy all along and not shutting up long enough for anything.  So we’d kiss.  And I’d want to suck his cock right there–to get on my knees between his legs and just suck and suck and lick and feel the smooth skin of his cock.  But I wouldn’t since we’d be outside where houses would be facing the clearing.

We’d continue our walk, the whole time thinking about being naked all over each other.

It will have been a while since he’d gone down on a woman–and he loves it.  It’s been a while since someone’s gone down on me properly.  I would love for someone to take his time and know he was completely enjoying himself.

After the walk we’d hang out at my place.  We’d shower, him downstairs, me upstairs, and hang out talking, listening to music, drinking, noshing.  Then the friend he’d be staying with would show up to pick him up (too late for BART maybe, or friend was here anyway).

His friend would be cute.  He’d smell good.  He’d have a drink or two.  Army Guy and I would continue to keep drinking.

I would love to see the negotiation between the two straight guys contemplating a threesome.  Wow, that’s so fucking hot.

Since Army Guy and I have already kissed (and maybe fucked by this point), we begin ….

I swear.  True (fantasy) story.

In December 2007 Army Guy called me for the first time.  He was in Iraq at the time; I felt very special that he took the time to call me.  It was the day Seattle Guy was here, so Army Guy had to hear me bitch about the disaster that was the Seattle Guy visit.  This is the email I received soon thereafter.  If I hadn’t already thought Army Guy was fucking amazing (I had seen his photos), this definitely did it.  I still LOVE (and I’ve read this several times) the unexpected transition.  I did not have to edit AT ALL for anything other than identifying information.

Army Guy:

Hey,

I enjoyed talking to you as well and I’m sorry Fat Seattle Guy showed back up.  I usually hate bystanders capriciously tossing out opinions about my personal life, but I’m going to do it anyway: Where does that pencil-dicked lard-ass get off?

I like the beginnings of relationships.  It’s still full of excitement and mystery and every little thing about the other person is a delightful new discovery.  When you’re exploring your lover’s mind and body, your pulse still quickens and you get that feeling in your stomach, like when you’re climbing up the hill on the roller coaster and are about to take a plunge.  I’ve come to believe that the “courtship” period of a relationship can never end because when it becomes a labor, that’s when people feel like they can take liberties with each other and say disrespectful things.  The mystery and the thrill of the chase is gone.

You didn’t gross me out by using the “cunt” word.  I like saying cock too and have never called a girl stupid when I was fucking her.  I’ve probably thrown the words “filthy fucking whore” around a couple of times, but calling someone stupid isn’t hot.  It’s just insulting.

I want you to feel as free as you care to tell me whatever comes into your depraved mind.  It turns me on to turn you on and gratifies my ego in the particular way I like to be gratified.  If you haven’t gathered by now, I have a high opinion of myself.

I’m going to make my cold drive home now in my unheated HMMWV (Hummer) with no doors.  When I get home and warm up a little, I’m going to remember the cadence and timbre of your voice and imagine myself showing up on your doorstep by surprise.

You’re slightly intoxicated, but only enough to loosen your inhibitions and suspend your disbelief that I’ve paid you a visit.  All the imagery and scenarios I’ve invoked in you are still fresh on your mind as you invite me in.  Out of politeness, you ask me how my trip was.  It was long and fraught with delays, but like any good soldier, I sleep easily in uncomfortable places and can adjust my circadian rhythms easily so I’m not too jet-lagged.

You pour me a glass of wine, for which I’m grateful, as I haven’t had anything decent in nearly a year.  What comes to mind right now because I’m craving it is a Cotes du Rhone in a big glass.  You’re a little nervous, meeting me for the first time, but like it did on the phone, it’s amusing and endears you to me.

We have a seat on your couch and you play some relaxing music.  After making compulsory small-talk (we’re not animals, after all) I put down my wine and slide my hand behind the back of your neck and through your hair.  It feels thick and alien to anything to which I’ve recently been accustomed.  With a little more determination than you thought you would be comfortable, I pull you toward me and kiss you.  Consistent with the slow assuredness of my voice, it’s a relaxing, slow kiss.  I don’t want to kiss you to say I did it.  I want to kiss you to reacquaint myself with the sensations of a woman’s lips: the taste of the wine mixed with your saliva, the smell of your hair that makes me close my eyes and breathe it in.  I slide my other hand behind your back and pull your body against mine.  The soft heat of your breasts pressing against me and the taste of your mouth feels like more of a welcome home than anything anyone could say to me.

Since neither one of us has taken the issue head-on, we’re hesitant to verbalize what we want to do to each other at that moment, but it becomes readily apparent as the urgency of our kiss increases.  We’ve both adjusted to the fact that this is happening and are exploring each others’ bodies in earnest.

The sound of both of us breathing hard through our noses threatens to drown out the anonymous electronic “chillout” music playing on the speakers.  I slide my hands up your sides and you put your arms up so your sweater comes off easier.  When I unhook your bra, I forgo the normal feigned clumsiness I sometimes exhibit so as to not look like a cad.  In one deft motion, it unclasps and I don’t hesitate to taste your bare skin with my tongue.  Your nipples harden as I taste and suck on them. Even as I write this, I can feel a hint of the excitement and quickened pulse I was describing earlier in my letter.

When I push you down onto the couch and begin to unbutton your fly, you begin to feel that same excitement as well.  As considerate as before, you assist me by lifting your butt off the couch so I can slide your jeans and panties off at the same time.

I stand up quickly to slide off my own t-shirt and jeans.  I’m wearing my favorite black David Allan Coe shirt with a drawing of a demonic looking man with fists that say “love” and “hate” tattooed on his knuckles.  It seems a little absurd to you and you giggle at it for no apparent reason, but I slide it off so quickly that you don’t have time to examine it.  When I slide my jeans off (plain faded Levi 550’s) you sit up to see “what you’re working with.”  You see that I’m obviously aroused, as I have a raging hard-on. As to my size, I imagine you’re neither intimidated as to how big I am, nor disappointed.  I’ve never felt inadequate, so I pay no mind to the scrutiny I know you’re paying me.

As to my physique, I honestly can’t say I’m at my physical prime.  In fact, I’m a good 5 years past, but I still have good muscle tone and a nice tan from working out a few times a week and my recent vacation to Palau.

As I behold your naked body lying before me, I can only grin to myself in anticipation.  From what I know of you, I don’t imagine there’s a timid bone in your body and it excites me.  I know what I’m about to do to you and when you look me in the eye, I raise one of my eyebrows mischievously.  Between that and my sideways grin, you know too and it causes you to smile as well.

I plant one of my knees between yours and nudge one of your legs aside…

Fucking HOT!  This makes me want to suck his cock forever.

I swear.  True story.

Army Guy wrote this little tidbit for me when he was in Iraq.  No fucking makes for some fine writing (for him, not me–I’m not testing the theory on myself).  And this was most definitely written for me (the sunscreen reference makes that clear), which I absolutely love.

Army Guy:

It’s a breezy summer day and I appreciate you flying down to meet me at the big air show at the Naval Air Station in San Diego.  We met up prior to the show at our static display, but shortly after the gates open, my co-pilot, Jake, and I were mobbed by attendees asking us stupid questions about our helicopter or random losers telling us the story about how their uncle was a P-51 (or was it P-47?) pilot in WWII.  You enjoy the show, manage to use sunscreen and get a little tipsy on draft beer.  By the time the sun goes down, you’re more or less air-showed out.  After we pack up the display board and recruiting brochures, Jake and I dismiss our crew chiefs who are eager to have a night on the town away from their officers.  As our second crew chief is leaving, you walk up to see what our plans are for tonight.  The sun is going down and the last of the attendees are trickling out.  As this show is put on by the Navy, our aircraft is at the end of the line to make room for all the F-18’s and A-6’s.  It’s a well-known secret among pilots that those guys are all unrepentant cock-gobblers, but that’s another story.

You’ve got a healthy buzz on, and are eager for us to lock up so we can all go out, but I ask if you want to see the helicopter before we leave in a couple of minutes.

You haven’t seen one before, so you put your beer down and climb in.  You sit up in the cockpit and I show you how the cyclic, collective and tail-rotor pedals control the aircraft and how all the radios and system instruments work.  There’s lots of gauges, etc, etc….  As I’m reaching over you to show you the GPS, my arm grazes across your thighs.  You don’t know if I did it intentionally or not, but it immediately sensitized you to what might be happening here.  When you climb out, I grab your hips to help guide you down.

Jake is in the cabin and wants to show you the crew chief stations and cargo hook.  You step up into the cabin and I climb in behind you.  The cabin is ceiling is about 4’ high, so you either have to hunch over as you’re walking around in it or you have to walk on your knees.  You choose the latter as you’re standing between Jake and I.  Jake finishes up the little speech about each part of the helicopter.  He’s done it a million times before, but he’s clearly distracted by you standing so close to him, as he keeps staring at your tits.  I notice him doing it and am grinning at him as he tries to keep his composure.

While he’s talking, I lean in and kiss the back of your neck.  You weren’t expecting it and it causes shivers to go up the back of your scalp.  You momentarily lose your balance and lean a little too far forward.  The combination of the sun and the alcohol may have affected you a little more than you had estimated.  Jake catches you in his arms.  As you look up at him, he leans over to kiss you on the mouth.  You return his kiss.  It isn’t a romantic kiss, but more of a drunken probing of each other’s tongues.  The obscenity of it only sets in more as you feel my hands reach around and cup your breasts.  You experience a flash of guilt for letting these two relative strangers molest you like this, but that very thought excites you.

Jake stops kissing you to help you pull your blouse off.  As it goes over your head, you feel me unhooking your bra to free those luscious tits.  We both want you so fucking bad and are stripping out of our flight suits as you wiggle out of your jeans.  The soft amber glow of the evening sun warms the tarmac and it feels good on your naked skin.

You look at Jake and admire his thin sinewy frame and completely shaved body.  By contrast, my build is a little stockier and my chest his decidedly hairier.  (No, I’m not hairy, but I’m definitely not as metrosexual as Jake.)  We both trim our pubic hair, but what you notice more than that is we both have raging hard-ons.

Since you’re facing Jake, you lean over, grab his cock and feel its weight in your hand.  He pushes your head lower and you open up to take it in your hot, wet mouth.  He moans in approval and I admire the hourglass shape your ass and hips make, bent over in front of me like that.

While you’re sucking him, you feel me wrap one of my arms around your hips and start to massage your exposed pussy with the head of my dick.  You continue to stroke and suck on him rhythmically as I start to work myself inside you.  Once I’m half-way in, I begin to slide back and forth until you loosen up a little bit.  After a couple of minutes of this, I thrust into you as hard as I can, which causes your mouth to slide all the way onto Jake’s cock, making you gag a little.  We both start to laugh (because you have to admit, that was funny) and I can’t help but thrust into you one more time to elicit the same response.  “Hey, just because you’re taking a cock from behind doesn’t mean Jake’s going to let up on your mouth, you fucking slut!”

At this point, Jake pulls you off his cock and reclines on the pile of clothes, flight suits and jackets.  You don’t know what he’s doing at first, but as I guide your hips down towards his erect cock, you get the picture and get on your knees.  You’re already wet from me fucking you, so you glide down onto his pole with little resistance.  Jake comments on how wet you are and thanks me for lubing this whore up for him.  As I release my hands from your hips, Jake’s hands replace them and he begins rocking you back and forth.  Again, I can’t help but admire how shapely and feminine you look from behind.

You’re sitting upright as you’re riding him, so when I push your shoulders down, to make you lean over, you have to put both your hands on either side of him for balance.  I can see your pussy sliding up and down on Jake from this angle and see your glistening juices, dripping down his shaft.  My own cock is starting to dry out in this West Coast air.  As you rock forward, I push you all the way off of him.  As you rock back I slide my own cock into your now well-used slit.  The change is a little disconcerting, but it feels great and you continue to back yourself onto me.

Once I’m good and wet, I pull out of you.  Jake guides you back onto him, and pulls you forward.  Once you’re laying on his chest, you feel me spread your ass cheeks open.  At this point, you feel very exposed, and you know what’s about to happen to you, but the fear and the anticipation feels like an old friend, visiting after a long separation.  You must admit, you’ve become quite the hedonist (at least by this Southern boy’s standards) and your desire to experience something new has been growing with each lackluster encounter you’ve had.

As Jake continues to fuck you, you feel the head of my cock, bumping into your back door.  You relax a little and take a deep breath as I start to slide in.  Once I’m inside you, I pause and Jake stops moving in order to give you a moment to accommodate me.  I reach underneath you to rub some of your moisture on my shaft.  When you tell me you’re ready, I slide into you a little further.  Jake is still inside you, and I can feel him through the thin wall of your vagina.  Since we’re both inside you, that negates the “you’re gay because you just touched a cock” rule, so we’re both OK…

When I’m completely inside you, your perspective shifts for a second to contemplate what’s happening.  You’re getting used as a fuck-toy by two horny soldiers in the back of a helicopter.

As I slide my shaft deeper, I can’t help but notice how unbelievably tight you are.  You fit me like a lambskin glove.  I start to pump slowly in and out of you and Jake matches my rhythm with his own hips.  You feel full and violated inside.  Your desire to be penetrated has never been so thoroughly addressed as in this moment.  As you grow accustomed to what’s happening, you begin to tentatively rock back onto us.

It’s a little awkward at first: the three of us trying to synchronize to each other, but we all soon get the hang of it and are both thrusting into you at the same time as you rock back and forth.  I too, can’t help but laugh of the absurdity of it all.  “This feels so fucking obscene.  Jake and I love having our cocks buried in your tight holes.  Now keep rocking back onto us.  You need to be filled to the brim with our come.”

You abide and begin to increase your pace.  Jake and I both grab your hips and begin thrusting in earnest as you impale yourself on our engorged poles.  I start to quiver and grab a handful of your hair to pull your head back.  I’m about to explode inside you and I want you to arch your back.  The synergy of it all is overwhelming and Jake is on the verge as well.

Your desire to pleasure us is being granted and from the energy you feel between the two of us, you know we’re about to explode in both of your holes.  The imagery that goes through your mind isn’t of any particular past experience, as you have no benchmark to compare this to, but more of an abstract visualization of being impaled as deeply as possible by as large an object as you can bear.  You tense up and grab onto Jake’s shoulders as your body is wracked in orgasm.

I, too, enjoy giving pleasure and that was all that I needed to push me over the edge.  In that fleeting instance, I succumb to that white-hot oblivion that I want so badly.  I scream your name and dig my nails into your side as I make three final violent thrusts into you.  On the final thrust, you feel my balls slap into you as I pivot my hips forward to go as far as possible and inject my seed deep into your ass.  The orgasm is so intense that I feel as if all my essence and every last drop of energy in my body is being passed to you.  I want to collapse, but I’m still hard, so I remain inside of you for a few more seconds.

It’s Jake’s turn.  He tells you to hold still.  Shortly after, he grunts and spasms underneath you as you feel him shooting deep into your womb.  You want this moment to last as long as it can and even think for a second that you wish two more men were standing by to take our place in order to continue punishing your well-used pussy and ass.  Nevertheless, you feel like a pure sexual being and an object to be fucked, violated and used for gratification.  To that end, I can say that you’ve done a superb job today.

Exhausted, I can’t hold myself in this position any longer.  I slide out of you and roll over onto my back.  You sit back and lean against a crew chief’s seat on the opposite wall of the cabin.  You still feel wet between your legs.  Your skin is glistening in perspiration and your hair is a beautiful mess.

You first look to Jake; then to me.  I wink, which causes you to laugh.  Ever the gentleman, Jake grins, motions with his chin to the profusion of semen dripping out of you and proclaims with as much panache as he can muster in his diminished state:

“Ma’am, on behalf of a grateful nation, please accept this small token of gratitude for the invaluable service you’ve rendered today.”

**************

Text received from Army Guy after he read the post (he’d not read it since he wrote it):

Aww.  That was so sweet!  I remember writing and rewriting that over a period of a few days.  Took frequent delays to ponder the mechanics of doing a DP in the back of a helo and to stroke myself whilst pondering the sensations of fucking your nice, round ass.

That is the kind of text message a gal wants to receive!

I STILL have not met Army Guy in person, but we’ve “known” each other since late 2007.  He had posted on Craig’s List under Strictly Platonic m4w looking for a pen pal (such an antiquated term that clearly ages me) while he was stationed in Iraq.

He didn’t want to correspond with anyone who was going to thank him for his service or call him a hero.  I assured him that he would get none of that from me.

The only supporting of our troops I’ve done is to send him a few care packages that included mix CDs I burned, cookies I made, cigars, and random food items.  Oh, and disclosure of the dirty events in my life.  Not being able to fuck for months at a time would make me want to avoid all thoughts of sex, but he wanted to know what and who I was doing so I obliged.  Really, it was my duty as an American, right?

Army Guy is no longer in the Army, but the name has stuck.  He hates it, but one of the reasons he got the name is because it doesn’t fit him.  He’s nothing like I expected him to be, though I don’t know what I expected exactly.

And that’s one of my things–being disarmed by guys.  The juxtaposition of a baby face and a dirty mind gets me every time.  Or, in his case, a smart, sexy, funny, sensitive guy who just happens to have been trained by the military.

I swear.  True story.

Ahh, Seattle Guy.  He’s one of my favorites.

I placed an ad in Craig’s List w4m Strictly Platonic and he answered my ad.  I was looking for male FRIENDS.  I truly did want platonic guy friends.  My husband had left me because I cheated on him, with a guy whom I considered a close friend, Correctional Officer (hereinafter “CO”).  Out of respect for his marriage (I know, too little, to late.) I didn’t contact him even after it no longer mattered for my marriage.  I missed having a good male buddy with whom I could chit-chat about movies, books, music, and so on.

I placed the CL ad with the intent of finding a buddy.  But I wanted the buddy to be nothing like CO so I wouldn’t crush on him and want to fuck him.  The ad I posted listed all the qualities I liked in CO and said I wanted a guy who had none of them.

Which didn’t work out so well because those who were nothing like CO were boring as fuck.  So when I was about to give up I got a response to my ad that claimed the respondent could not be my friend because he DID have all the qualities I supposedly didn’t want.  Which of course piqued my interest.

This guy was all sorts of fucked up just like I like ‘em.  But he lived in Seattle, so it was “safe.”  We exchanged emails and then eventually began talking on the phone into the wee hours.  His live-in girlfriend (because I’m really quite good at finding situations that are the antithesis of healthy) worked nights and he was on disability (!) for his severe mental illness (!) so we talked when she was at work.  At the time I thought these things were in some way endearing.

Of course the conversations eventually–or immediately, knowing me–turned to sex.  He told me he was dominant and had embraced his dominant nature, blah, blah, blah.  The conversations changed from being about sex to being sex.  We had really quite good phone sex.  His tone of voice would change and I knew it was time.  He definitely got in my head in a very intense way.

At Christmastime he came down to the Bay Area to visit his family.  We planned for him to come meet me when he was in the area, but nothing was pinned down as to date or time.  We continued to talk on the phone when he was close by until finally I pretty much begged him to come fuck me that very night.

It was too late for him to take the train so he took a cab, which I told him would be pretty expensive.  Because it was so late he said he would not be able to come to my house unless it was ok if he spent the night.  I was so fucking horny I acquiesced and told him my address.

And this is where things started to go wrong.  I live in the Mission, on a numbered street.  San Francisco also has numbered avenues but those are way out west, by the ocean, and nowhere near where I live.  I KNOW I told him _____ STREET because I ALWAYS say “street” when giving out my address.

After a very long time I called him.  Of course he was lost, out in the Avenues (strike one).  I could hear him getting pissy with the cab driver and when he finally arrived he told me he did not tip him (strike two) because it was supposedly the cabbie’s fault he didn’t know how to write down an address correctly.

I was understandably nervous to meet in person this guy with whom I’d had very intense phone sex, so I kept the lights very low and didn’t wear my glasses.  I’m always less nervous if I can’t make eye contact with someone.  We immediately went up to my room.  But not before I notice that this guy is a much larger person than he had indicated on all those phone conversations (strike three, but I don’t play baseball).

I was horny as fuck, which was why we couldn’t wait until the trains were running the next morning, so I wanted to get to fucking.  I am also always more at-ease after getting the nervous energy pounded out of me.  Only he doesn’t want to fuck right away.  He wants to talk (strike four).  Hadn’t we done a shit-ton of talking on the phone all those nights?  Wasn’t it now time to get to it?

Fine, let’s talk.  And we did for a bit, until I probably just went for it.  I was wanting him to fuck me like he promised he could on all those phone conversations.  He had promised he could fuck me hard, spank my ass, pull my hair, and generally “make” me do all the things I wanted.

This I remember quite well:  he was standing by the bed, I had my legs open so he could put his dick in me, but he was having trouble doing so.  He said, “I think I’m too big for you.”  Actually, he wasn’t aiming all that well, and I wasn’t all that wet.  So I said, in a tone that I now understand wasn’t the nicest, “No, that is definitely NOT the problem.”  Because for a guy with a dick that incredibly average in size to think it was too large for ANYTHING was ludicrous (strike five).

Well, guess who couldn’t get it up at all after that?  (Really, from hereon there’s no point in keeping track of the strikes, because they ALL are.)  I tried to get him hard.  I sucked that little thing with all my might.  I suggested we sit next to each other on the bed and pretend we were talking on the phone just like we had all those nights.  I said–though did not mean–that it was ok, that we could masturbate.  It didn’t matter, that dick was not getting hard, and I was not getting a proper fuck.

But remember I had to let him spend the night?  Well, now I had this fat, sweaty, snoring, fully-dressed guy in my bed.  I could not sleep next to that and I could not kick him out so I just laid there.  Thinking that once the natural light flooded my apartment I would have to look at the glory that was this corpulent excuse for a man.

At about 8am my home phone rang.  I live in a loft apartment so there is absolutely no privacy save the bathrooms.  On the phone, calling from IRAQ, was Army Guy.  This was the first time he and I spoke and I felt so lucky that he was taking time to call me.  I couldn’t not talk to him even though I had this fat, sweaty, limp-dicked loser in my apartment.

Despite the cold, I went out on my patio to talk on the phone, thinking it would give me some privacy.  Of course the previous night was on my mind.  So I told Army Guy EVERYTHING about the night before.  I believe the word disaster was repeatedly peppered into the retelling.  I talked on the phone for as long as I would had I not had company, which was rude, but this guy was calling me from fucking Iraq so it would have been more rude to not talk to him.

Eventually I saw the fat ass leave my apartment.  I was still on the phone out on the patio.  What a relief!  I didn’t have to have the awkward conversation because he was too butt hurt that I was on the phone.  Good.  Army Guy and I continued to talk for a long time, only now I was comfortably on my couch, inside and warm.

Finally I got off my land line phone and saw that since Seattle Guy left he had texted my cell phone a number of times.  I called him.  My intent was simply to apologize for being rude about the phone call and to say goodbye.

Unfortunately he took my call as a summons and despite the fact that he was on the train on the other side of the Bay, he came back.  He told me that he could hear EVERYTHING I told Army Guy on the phone even though I was outside.  That embarrassed me, but really, I didn’t say anything that was untrue.

I had to go to a friend’s house to feed her cats so instead of leaving after confronting me with my rude behavior, he came with me.  For a dominant guy, he sure liked to be punished.

I walked my dog to the friend’s house.  The air was crisp and the sky was sunny, so a light jacket was all the outerwear I needed.  He was wearing some sort of windbreaker.  Through which he completely sweated on the walk.  He was panting, and dripping sweat.  He couldn’t carry on a conversation while we were walking because he was short of breath.  It was disgusting.

I walked him to the train station and never talked to him again.

I swear.  True story.

Oregon Hippie was in town for some sort of green food convention in late January 2008.  I found him through Craig’s List.  He was lamenting that San Francisco’s ladies didn’t appear to be all that welcoming.  I invited him over because via email he had complained that he had never had anal sex and didn’t think he had ever had a good blow job.  Of course I took those little bits of information as a challenge.  He arrived with a bottle of wine and we chit-chatted while drinking it.  He had shoulder-length curly hair, and a nice face.  At the time I knew his age, but now I’d guess he was in his mid- to late-20s.

We eventually went to the bedroom where I discovered that he had some of the softest skin I’ve ever touched.  And a HUGE cock.  HUGE.  I figured out why he’d not been able to use that tool in anyone’s ass and why blow jobs weren’t so easy.

I wrote to Army Guy about Oregon Hippie:

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t get fucked last night.  It was a very nice guy from Portland.  May just be the biggest cock I’ve ever fucked.  I’m such a cliched size queen but it just felt so good to have a good thick cock fill me.  Poor guy said he’s never gotten a really good blow job and never had anal sex because he’s so big.  I tried to help with the blow job thing.  I sucked his cock and then I laid down and he fucked my mouth and came in it.  I really do like swallowing come.  Really.  And there’s something so nasty and primal I really like about getting my mouth fucked.  He fucked me in my pussy from the front including with my legs up on his shoulders (this I love) and then flipped me over and fucked me from behind with my face in the pillows (you should know by now how I feel about this).  Finally, he came on my face.”