Gay for XXX

© Sadie-Rose Bermingham 2003

“Easy Money!” Rabid John told Ray in the pub. “Close yer eyes, spread yer legs, easy as fallin’ outta bed!”

John was a skinny, bug-eyed Yorkshire exile, who made his money on the mean streets around Mile End. He might have been twenty or fifty, it was hard to say, and Ray did not ask. John had a temper, especially when he hadn’t scored. To him, Raymond Wilde was a means to an end. The lad was pretty for a start; he looked younger than his nineteen years and he was green as grass when it came down to business. Hadn’t a fuckin’ clue!
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Sitting at my table pondering what it would take to change my story I watched the black man walk up in front of the desk and say, “All rise.” He continued talking but I lost focus on what he was saying as the men next to me gently grabbed my arm and had me stand up. An older white man in a long dark robe walked in and sat down. The black man said loudly, “You may be seated.” He then turned to the man at the desk, said something I didn’t catch, and then headed back to where I had first noticed him. Looking him over closely, I glanced back to my pad and paper and crossed out a few lines and then continued my story.
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Sitting at the table with an empty pad of paper and a pen I had wanted to begin writing something, a poem, a story, maybe even a novel. All it would take is for me to pick up the pen and start and yet, I kept feeling things spin in my head as I struggled with what I was going to write. Each time I’d be certain I was ready, I’d grab the pen, but my mind would twirl off, twisting and whirling around, whirling around… well whirling around the tall black man I could just see if I peeked to my right.
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Jake thought I was concentrating on his typically long-winded explanation of why the Singapore office hadn’t sent in their section of the Arnold proposal, but I wasn’t. I was sitting there, rocking back and forward in my leather chair, with my back to the whole spread of the Baltimore Inner Harbor from my eighteenth-floor World Trade Center office and looking right past Jake, over his shoulder, and at what was happening out at the reception desk.

That new eye candy receptionist, Stephanie, was having her effect on the UPS guy. They had become quite chummy in the two weeks she’d worked here. Now he was perched on the counter across from her desk in his brown UPS uniform, baggy shorts and all. He was quite a looker himself. Blond with carefully curled and blown hair and the physique of a serious body builder. He was sitting on the edge of the counter and pulling his legs up with his hands below his knees. It was almost obscene. When he pulled his legs up you could follow the curve of his meaty thighs right up toward his crotch. And now he was pulling his legs apart. If I’d been closer, I know I could see right up to where it got really interesting. And he and Stephanie were just chatting away. It just wasn’t natural the way he was showing leg, and it certainly shouldn’t be going on in an office. Why, Stephanie might be getting a real eyeful.
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This story is entirely fiction—no superstar was compromised writing it. The story has a copyright and can not be used without written consent.

My special thanks to “Isle of Joy” for his superb editing of my story.

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Synopsis: Zack McGraw had been a hot prospect—golden boy for San Diego/Blazers. An injury forced management to rethink his contract—it was their decision Zack was to be traded down to the El Paso/Rumble; he was lucky to be picked up by any team, even the minors.
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When I got a look at the script Sal gave me, I about died. I marched right into his office the next day, seething with righteous indignation.

“What the fuck?” I threw the script on his desk. “I’m not doing this.”

Sal smiled, shark-like. “You’ll do what the fuck I tell you, ya fucking fag.”

“But, Sal…”

“Shut your yap.” Sal stood up. His lumpy bald head almost brushed the ceiling. He glowered at me. “Filming for Bad Medicine started this morning. And you’re late. You get your queer ass over to wardrobe right the fuck now, an’ I better not hear no more complaints from you.”
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Let me start out by saying Skip is not special…he is convinced that he somehow bumbled in to his predicament, but honestly he followed a well designed path that yields the same result every time…a guy naked and on his knees, his dick is hard and drooling, and he is agreeing to everything and anything I tell him to get his mouth on my dick. Nothing about his experience was spontaneous, unintentional, or unique to him from my perspective.

First, about me…I am a regular guy, I am bi, and I do have a huge cock. It is about 10.5″ hard; it reaches well past my navel and is so thick I can’t get my hand around it, not even close. When I am with women I am a normal, very patient and passionate lover. The patient part is mandatory, with a dick like mine you have to take it real slow and easy. My only quirk when I am with a lady is I will admit I love being in a good position to see their reaction when my huge hose flops out of my pants…whether I am standing or they are kneeling, I like to see their look of awe and raw lust when they see it for the first time. But otherwise, what I want is good, straight, vanilla sex.
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The essential elements of this story are true, but the names have been changed to protect the not particularly innocent.

I had visited Josh’s apartment five times, the pattern changed very little each time. I would arrive at this place; Josh would say nothing when he opened the door, it was understood what I was required to do. I would strip at the door, leaving my clothes in a pile, then walk to the ‘playroom’ as he called it. Always waiting for me in the playroom was his big screen TV with another selection of his seemingly endless porn collection playing. Josh knew my weakness, and the television always featured huge cocks, huge tits…and always had the desired effect. Josh would leave me back there for ten to fifteen minutes, by the time he finally joined me I would be embarrassingly erect. There is something incredibly humiliating about being naked with a throbbing hardon when the other person is fully dressed. It makes it pretty clear who is in charge.
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The story started off innocently enough, or maybe not so innocently. My story is not complicated, I am a guy who craves servicing really well hung guys. Long, thick cocks…ones that hang and sway when flaccid and draw admiration when hard and proud. A local internet bulletin board makes it very easy to seek this kind of talent, posting an ad for mutual blowjobs generally will get a fair number of like minded guys to respond. However, there is one small catch…while I am very discriminating in what I want, very well endowed only need apply, I am not nearly so blessed. I fall way at the other end of the curve, a rather thin 4.5 inches. I am a tall, fit good looking guy…early 40’s, but really short changed in the shorts so to speak. So, while I could post ad after ad and generally could hook up with the 6 inch and under crowd, the 8 plus inches I craved was not interested in little dicked guys.
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I had been playing tennis for several years without any ’side effects’, but about six months ago I started getting pains in my back after half-an-hour or so of playing. My playing partner suggested I go to this sports masseur he knew, who was supposedly fantastic. I made an appointment and the following Friday at 10 am precisely I turned up at his massage parlour. It was the first time I’d had any sort of massage, so I didn’t know what to expect. His name was Charles and he was a well-built man in his late thirties or early forties and he started by asking me the usual things like how long had I been playing tennis, when did the pains start to appear, could I associate them with an particular physical movement, and so on. The he asked me to strip off down to my boxer shorts and lie face downwards on the bed. His placed his hands either side of my spine below my neck and, using three fingers of each hand to press gently into my flesh, gradually worked his way downwards. Then he reversed the process, returning to my neck.
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