Cumaholics Anonymous
By
Peter Cox Dickson
The following is a literary fantasy for people aged 18 or older. While some of the details involve real places, the characters are the creation of imagination. This is the author's first submission to the Nifty Archives. Your feedback will be read carefully and appreciated. All sex on the phone or in fiction is drug and disease free. However, don't forget to practice safe sex in your real life.
Chapter 1, Center Scuttlebutt
I found out about the meetings from my friend Randy (aptly named) who had been going to the SA: Sexualcompulsives Anonymous meetings at the Gay Community Center. According to Randy most of the guys who were showing up at meetings were horny and overly sexed and looking to hook-up. The leaders had no idea that the attempt to establish a therapeutic group for gay men afflicted with satyriasis had become a meat rack for fuck buddies with insatiable lust for cock.
Randy told me that the CA group was spoken of only in hushed tones, and even then there was considerable doubt as to its actual existence. While people alluded to it, no one actually talked about CA aloud. A lot of guys denied that it existed or would be allowed to meet at the Center on a regular basis. But the rumors never went away. I wasn't just curious about a possible Cumaholics Anonymous 12 step meeting happening at the Center, I was obsessed by the idea and driven to find out for sure.
I started hanging out at the Center every free minute I got and signed up for a variety of classes and groups from Nude Painting to Conversational Brazilian Portuguese. What started out as a life drawing class on Saturday mornings with a live male model posing in the nude for us to paint and sketch had evolved and on Monday nights the class disrobed to paint a clothed live model who posed in a variety of costumes and paraphernalia. In the current semester, the favorite costume by far was "business drag" and A-list friends were recommending runway models from Prada, Perry Ellis-even Brooks Brothers-to relax casually in three-piece suits and hold traditional preppy poses. Guys in pinstripe suits showed big baskets while checking the time with their pocket watches.
Abercrombie frat boys in chinos and blue blazers held mock corporate conversations while becoming aroused, their long hose-like cocks snaked down the legs of their pants or their tangerine-sized shaved balls were set off by a hand reaching into a pocket. Invariably, the suggestiveness of the poses of the chastely clothed models aroused the interest of the sketching artists who would sport rampant hardons by the end of the evening. We were assured that the clothed models were straight and that many had been photographed in the past for the catalogues of the brands they wore. They were there only for the money and were out of bounds. The promiscuity of the nude models compensated.
It was actually the several months I had spent in Conversational Brazilian Portuguese which led to suckcess (if you get my meaning!). I had no problem with right-brain thinking and really clicked with the Portuguese. I attributed my linguistic skills to methodical replaying of Kristen Bjorn video tapes, particularly Carnival in Rio, which I'd watch every night as I jacked off and practiced yogic postures to strengthen my spine so I'd be able to suck my own dick. It didn't take me long to figure out that the teacher was also a Kristen Bjorn fan. He supplemented the Berlitz phrase book we were using as a text with photocopied vocabulary lists he passed out. Actually, they were word for word dialogue from every juicy porn flic Bjorn had ever made featuring his magnificently endowed, uncut, Brazilian spurting stars.
One night while waiting for the Center's Casting Body Parts workshop to begin, I overheard two hot, curly headed, tanned, toned, green-eyed boys whispering rapidly in Brazilian Portuguese about their friend Pablo from São Paulo who was late for their Wednesday night jaunt to Pork at the Lure. What was holding him up? Was he busy making a pig of himself already, even though he was supposed to be headed to Pork with them? And if he presumed to kiss them on the cheeks with his semen scented mouth and cum stained lips they'd grab him by the testiculos and pull and squeeze until he begged for mercy.
Just then a dozen handsome men filed out of a small meeting room tucked in the back staircase on the floor above, Pablo among them. The three of them chatted rapidly in Brazilian Portuguese, their mouths making the signature sound of the language--delicious mushy consonant sounds as though they had their tongues wrapped around mouthfuls of freshly ejaculated cum which they were trying to decide if they should imbibe in one hot gulp like a live oyster too big for its shell or in manageable sips so as to feel the whole coat the inside of their mouths while having the opportunity to savor each swallow.
Bingo. Down the hatch. Swallow in one gulp like a live oyster-- andorinha em um gole como uma ostra viva. Why of course, these men were too good looking to be at the Center for the Log Cabin Republicans' monthly meeting. They could only be from the CA group and Pablo was the missing link.
Thank you, Jesus, for making it so easy for me to learn all that vocabulary from the video tapes!
The next night I showed up about 6 to 9 minutes ahead of the scheduled Cumaholics Anonymous meeting.