The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As such, all characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence. If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual nature, you shouldn"t be reading this. For those under eighteen, experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with your mind enough after you reach adulthood. You really don't need a head start.
Now, without further delay, on with the story!
The Erotic Adventures of Jack,
The Omni-Sexual Detective
A Novel
By Ian Wylde
Case File Number One:
Jack and the
Moral Hypocrite
Foreplay
So I was dressed in drag and fucking my friend's mom up the ass, as she was sucking off a tranny friend of mine, and while Frank, the Leapin' Lesbo stood nearby, dressed like a seriously hot Uncle Sam and singing My Country Tis of Thee, for some undisclosed reason, when I began to get the sinking suspicion we had gone too far. Oh, not the sex. That was just good, clean, American fun. No, what I thought we'd gone too far on was in having an audience and not just any audience.
In this case, the witness in question was none other than the Right Reverend Artemis Collingswood, and the rest of us were in the middle of a sting operation to bring the hypocritical son of a bitch down. Said hypocrite was in turn receiving a sloppy wet blowjob from a young and nubile Asian transvestite named Rebecca and/or Robert (depending upon the attire s/he might be wearing) and unbeknownst to him (El Hypocrito) being filmed from a clandestine location. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.
My name is Jack. I'm what you'd call an Erotic Detective. How I came to be one, as well as how I came to be embroiled in a combination group-grope and sting operation while dressed in women's clothing, is a rather convoluted story; one that mirrors the awakening of certain aspects of my sexuality.
So yes, Dear Reader, there is sex a-plenty in this tale of hypocracy and moral turpitude. Beyond the ass-fucking and tranny-sucking and patriotic lesbian song stylings and jack-ass watching and hidden-camera blowjob-receiving, there is sex the like of which has only been seen in the fever-dreams of adolescence. There is homosexual exploration and gender-bending and lesbian-spanking and strapon-using and Cougar-seducing and sloppy wet blowjobs - such a lot of sloppy wet blowjobs.
And there is love, and there is romance, though none of it would be considered vaguely traditional. What there is not at least from the author's point of view is the assigning of labels. Orientation means nothing; gender means less except in said author's deep and abiding adoration of all things feminine. The Goddess resides here, though she will not be putting in an actual appearance. Word has it she was otherwise occupied and could not be bothered for such mundane and plebian activities. What a pity.
But yes, you will not find me assigning labels. I do not consider myself gay or straight or bi or whatever other epithets you might slap upon my person. I don't consider myself much of anything other than simply Jack. But if you have to categorize me, just say I'm omni-sexual and leave it at that.
Shall we begin?
1
Our Town and Murphy's Law of Cool
Murphy's Law states: Anything that can go wrong will, at the worst possible moment. This is a true enough statement on its face, but does not allow for the nuance of human life, and, therefore, a plethora of variations on the theme exist. One such variant is the Law of Cool:
Anything cool will, once it becomes popular, become a victim of its of own popularity.
Woodstock serves as an excellent example. The original in 1969, was a confluence of events that could never be repeated in a million years: the right time, the right place, the historic traffic jam, the war, the rain and the gathering of musical talent combined to create one of the coolest moments in American History. Three days of peace and music and the largest crowd ever assembled (up to that point) with not a lick of violence and only minor legal and medical problems; perfect, transcendent, cool. And then they had to go and spoil it by trying to do it again, twenty-five years later. The result: a commercialized pile of shit.
The Burning Man began as an annual gathering of like-minded people seeking the Goddess. The Haight-Ashbury section of San Francisco grew out of a sense of wonder and community. Sturgis started as a motorcycle run and celebration of fun and alcohol and bare-breasted women. And then they got popular. And then they turned to shit.
Our town, a jewel of the Pacific Northwest, a gem hidden just beneath the green and often raining surface, could have been like any other wet, logged-out, over-fished, under-employed city within the region. Like Eureka or North Bend or Tacoma it could have fallen victim to Reganomics and over-regulation, and stagnated into a place to leave, rather than go. It didn't. The reasons why can and have and probably will be debated for years to come, but such things do not matter to us here, Dear Reader. Discussions of the like are dull and ordinary and utterly lacking in the spark of, say, sloppy wet blowjobs or delectable bottoms or, for that matter, bare-breasted women. They do not concern us.
Our town, through the right alignment of the stars, the proper combination of good luck, good people, and (at one time) a progressive body politic, along with a live-and-let-live attitude had, at the time of my childhood, become a place where a person could be who they wanted to be and sleep with whomever they wanted to sleep. Certain lifestyles and behaviors and activities of an erotic nature were accepted with a wink, a nudge, a smile, and the occasional friendly pat on the naughty behind.
While I worked my way up from little kid-dom, through adolescence and into legal adulthood, there were concerts in the park and pagan festivals in the woods outside of town. There were dance clubs where one could meet the kind of potential lover who best served their tastes, be it straight or bi or gay or trans-gendered or swingers or girls in tiny cheerleader outfits who'd let you spank their inner slut, or who might do the same for you. There were Drag Queen breakfasts on Sundays, and several good coffee shops, and craft fairs on most weekends when the weather was nice. Ronald Reagan or Edwin Meese or the ever-so repressed members of the Christian Coalition might not want to walk the streets of our fair community on the warm summer nights of my youth, but nobody really liked them, anyway, so we did not care.
Marijuana wasn't legal, per se, but it might as well have been. As we had the good fortune to live in the most prime pot growing country within the Continental United States, combined with an economy that left few alternative opportunities, several farms of a special nature sprang up like weeds (pun absolutely intended). The local sheriffs left the growers alone (provided they didn't make a spectacle of themselves), because even a small operation brought in gobs and gobs of much-needed cash.
It was a good place, a friendly place, a place with virtually no crime (the thriving herbal business notwithstanding). We enjoyed ourselves and we left each other (and everyone else) alone.
And then a writer for Rolling Stone stumbled into town, quite by accident, having experienced car trouble while en route from somewhere to somewhere and, being both an opportunist and on a deadline, decided to write a feature story about the beauty and splendor and great sexual (and intoxicating) possibilities of our fair city. Curious readers came to see for themselves and decided to stay. Others followed, perhaps to get in on the action, perhaps to see what all the fuss was about. More articles appeared, as did a number of celebrities seeking arespite from the false facade and non-stop paparazzi of LA. We became popular, with-it, hip; the choice of a new generation.
And everything turned to shit.
It did not happen overnight, however, though gazing through the rose-colored glasses of memory, it might seem that way. It happened slowly, over time, and like the biological axiom about the frog in the pot of boiling water, we did not notice. For those not up on such things, the story goes like this: if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it'll hop its froggy ass right out; if you put the same frog in a pot of cold water and slowly bring it to a boil, the thing will sit there while it cooks to death.
While our version happened to be less extreme, the correlation still applies. The signs were there, and we did not notice, but others did.
The crotchety old man waggling his finger and yelling at the kids to "Get off my lawn," and his schoolmarm wife admonishing us to "Sit up straight," have always lived in their nondescript house with the white picket fence and their two-point-five children on the Main Street of our nation. Since our Puritan beginnings, there has been a constant battle between our desire to have fun and the little voice in our heads telling us to quit acting the fool and start acting like everybody else; to conform, to behave, to put aside childish things. For the most part, it has been an internal conflict within our national zeitgeist; a friction between social morality and our individual longing to get naked and wrestle around in a vat of lime jell-o.
Or maybe that's just me.
In any event, there have always been those who would impose their morally-superior version of how we are supposed to act; of what we are supposed to want, of which behaviors are acceptable and who are the people who are not. Sometimes, as with the unpleasantness in Salem or the fatal gay-bashing in New York, that little voice takes shape, assumes human form, getselected to the City Council and breaks out their big stick.
This is such a tale of woe; the story of free-spirited, independent and delightfully horny individuals pitted against a group of holier-than-thou, sexually-repressed, ethically-challenged assholes, and the hypocritical douche bag who placed himself in charge; a literary journey of awakening; a legend of justice and the true meaning of morality. We shall take this sojourn, Dear Reader, and with a little luck, we shall learn and grow. And in the meantime, there's always sex.
2
Fantasy, Pornography, and the Sloppy Wet Blowjob
I was a month or so past eighteen the first time I walked into Zebulon. It seemed inevitable that I should do so, having spent so many nights walking past it on my way home over the previous three years, high on pot and teen-aged hormones.
Zebulon, that neighborhood bastion of all things pornographic, laid on the mid-point between my house (three blocks to one side) and my friend Izzy's, three blocks the other side. The black and deep-purple building sat thirty feet back from the intersection of Carter and Industrial in the middle of a chewed-up, weed-festooned asphalt parking lot, and stood exactly one hundred and one feet away from the county zoning area that would not have allowed such windows into an endless variety of sexual possibilities.
Location Location Location
All of this was fine and good, but at the tender age of eighteen I could only access the front of the establishment. I could peruse the DVD section and purchase a wide variety of sexual materials. I could buy lubricants and novelties and toys galore. I could procure any number of liquids, devices, or aids to the imagination, bring them home, and masturbate to my heart's content, but I could not go into the back, with its booths (and glory holes) or its theater until I turned twenty-one.
This seemed odd when the City Council (led, as we later discovered, by the Reverend Collingswood - much more on him later) imposed the restriction, but harmless enough on its face. I rationalized there must have been some valid reason for the edict, accepted it, and moved on to bigger and better and decidedly female things.
But still, there it was, and so I waited, patiently, biding my time and occupying myself with dreams of erotic possibilities, safe (or so it was believed by the local protectors of our morality) from the temptations of homosexual activity, able to enjoy my adolescence free of groping hands and clandestine oral manipulation and anonymous penetrations of my nether regions.
That this turned out to be true: that I did not explore the possibility of sex with men until I reached the dictated age, is mere coincidence. I could have done those things. I could have given blowjobs and taken large cocks up my ass at virtually any time. I just could not do it there.
Like beer commercials unable to show people actually drinking beer, the statute restricting my access did not stop me from either wanting or acting. It's just that I was entirely too busy exploring the beauty, the splendor and the wonder of pussy.
Lest I add fuel to the idiotic fire of certain theorems concerning the reasons for gay male sexuality, let me state with perfect clarity the facts of my libido. I like sex, period. As I've already said, I do not consider myself to be gay or straight or whatever. Who I have sex with is a simple matter of interest and circumstance (and occasionally a combination of availability and alcohol, but we won't talk about that). It so happens, my tastes are eclectic.
This is not the case with some, or even most people. We are attracted to whom we are attracted. We can't help it. It is as natural a part of who we are as is the color of our eyes. It just so happens, I'm attracted to everybody.
The fact I did not act on certain aspects of this attraction prior to my twenty-first birthday had nothing to do with a sudden dearth of available female partners. My hetero activities were (and are) wide and varied and one hell of a lot of fun. The timing of my foray into alternative possibilities was pure coincidence. The lifting of restricted access at Zebulon just served as a convenience, and nothing more.
While we're on the subject, however, allow me to (briefly) pontificate about the arbitrary nature. I have always found it interesting that a person could volunteer for the military, serve and, if necessary, die for their country at the age of eighteen, and yet still be restricted from certain adult activities like, say, buying beer or entering a night club, or sucking some anonymous cock at a local porno theater.
It seems to me, if you are old enough to die and/or kill at the behest of your nation, then you are old enough to have access to everything that nation offers. It seems the least we could do.
I never joined the service, to a large degree because of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Even years before I had done anything that I (under those constraints) wouldn't want anyone to ask about, the basic idea of someone being able to stick their nose into my bedroom and make judgmental pronouncements about who I chose to sleep with, combined with the access to deadly weapons I would have as a natural result of being in the military, made me say to myself, "Step away from the recruiting office before you end up in a clock tower."
I'm sorry, but people who try to tell me who I can and cannot have sex with make me a little crazy. Let me make this clear: It's none of their fucking business.
It was 2005, when I reached the magic age the double decade, plus one. Dubya still resided in the White House and he and his cronies were currently in the process of running amok and forcing their social agenda down our collective throats. This had local effect in that a concerted effort was being made by the City Council to stamp out anything that wasn't White Bread American Christian, and/or didn't resemble something straight out of the 1950's and Father Knows Best.
The situation had been coming to a head for some time, but in the rarified air of my new adulthood, it caused barely a blip on the self-absorbed radar of youth. This would be changing, sooner, rather than later, amidst the slapping of many labels by other people: labels like faggot and homo and pervert and slut, and even that cardinal sin during the Dubya Years: Liberal; but at the time this tale begins, my mind was occupied with other things.
The Good Reverend, on the other hand, had his mind focused with laser-like intensity on what he claimed to see as the perverted degradation of certain portions and factions within our Fair Community, and so he'd set himself up as the protector of our social morality. That this public viewpoint gave him a great deal of power and influence was, I'm sure, pure coincidence, as was the fact that, in doing so, he was being an unmitigated, gay-bashing, boy-fondling, tranny- fucking hypocrite.
But to me and my rarified, self-absorbed, hard-dicked, stoned and horny, recently post-adolescent mind, the focus remained on the black and purple edifice and the infinite sexual possibilities waiting therein as a spider might wait for a fly - except, you know, in a good way.
It had certainly seemed so to my pre-twenty-one year old dirty mind, high on Izzs always plentiful supply of green sticky chronic buds and fueled by his disturbingly large porno collection. Let's get this straight he and I never "did anything" together. We'd been friends so long the idea would have seemed absurd. I mean, Izzy jacked off in front of me on a regular basis of course, but that was Izzy. He didn't mean anything by it. It's just that to understand him, you gotta understand his Mom. But that's a story for another time.
Zebulon had this large purple door that always seemed to mock me as I walked by on my way home after a quiet night of bongs and Cheerleader Blowjobs #45, or Fuck My Teen Tranny Ass numbers one through seventeen (Izzy was nothing, if not eclectic).
It didn't call to me - I wouldn't hear voices or anything psychotic and needing immediate massive injections of Thorazine - it just sat there, with a big and purple come hither and I'll grant all your fantasies feel to it. Oh, and I had fantasies aplenty!
Fantasy is as important to sex as a good hard cock or a talented tongue or a dripping wet pussy or the feel of someone's hand on your ass. And if you have an active enough imagination (and a one-track mind) you can provide yourself with hours and hours of amusement, safe in the knowledge that no one else knows your dirty little secret - whatever it might be. You might like a little spanking, or bondage, or anal sex, or a bit of role play where you're the TV Repairman and your partner is the poor, helpless MILF in desperate need of your technical assistance. You could enjoy wearing panties or playing with T-girls or teen cheerleaders with no underwear, or lesbians wearing strapons and wrestling in jell-o (lime being my favorite), or giving sloppy wet blowjobs. And all of these myriad possibilities could be explored once you walked through that large purple door. All you had to do was wander back to the arcade and the booths and the glory holes. Or you could go straight to the theater.
We all like porn. Come on, you can admit it. No one has to know. But watching porn in a porno theater, in the dark, surrounded by horny men with hard cocks and dirty minds and wandering hands that might at any moment find their way to certain parts of my highly aroused body...That's just fucking hot - to me.
To you it could be something completely different; whatever trips your erotic trigger. You could turn it around and cast a willing woman yearning to be treated like the delicious slut she has always wanted to be as the star of your own personal mental theater gangbang (and believe-you-me, I have). Or a tgirl, or a couple of women, or a couple of guys, or midgets; and the beauty of it is: none of these people has to actually exist, outside of your own dirty mind or, perhaps, within the ones and zeroes of a DVD being presented upon the large screen in the darkened theater - fuel for the groping erotic fire.
And so you dream about the possibilities and you masturbate like mad and you walk by that black and purple repository of a thousand different fantasies time and time again, week, after week, after week. And every single day brings you closer to your twenty-first birthday and legal access to all of it.
And then you stop thinking with your dick and realize that actually doing anything about it would be deeply, deeply dangerous. And so in the dark, alone with your dirty mind and your pulsating erection, you keep the secret hidden and the fantasy unfulfilled.
But you want it and you walk by it every day, and you're stoned, and your damnable dick is hard, and your impulse control has packed its bags and taken a vacation to Aruba with your father and his large-breasted secretary. And so you plan this evening, wanting it to happen, making things extra clean in the shower, putting on tight gray sweats and no underwear and wearing a long, black tee shirt to cover certain areas until you want them uncovered.
And yeah okay diseases and practice safe sex and all that. Of course! Sex is great, in all its many LEGAL permutations, but I've never had any good enough to die for.
Yes! Absolutely! Wrap your Willie, by all means. Don't be stupid.
We'd been watching this movie featuring two guys, one woman and one oh-my-god-fucking-gorgeous teen-aged tranny. She was very limber.
Izzy's Mom watched with us.
4
Izzy's Mom
It should be noted at this point that Izzy's Mom wasn't actually Izzy's Mom – at least not in the sense that she gave birth to him. She was, however, the closest thing to a maternal figure he'd ever known. How this came about is (also) rather convoluted, but for historical purposes, I'll try and unravel the confusion as best I can.
Izzy's birth mother was a crack whore – one of those lost souls who populate our greater metropolitan areas. She'd hooked up with Izzy's Dad, who may or may not have been the actual sperm donor, but who helped her get off the drugs long enough to give birth to my friend (the future chronic masturbator) before disappearing back onto the mean streets, never to be heard from again. She had, however, left the man with a nine pound baby boy with (in all probability) a degree of hormonal and/or brain damage resulting from her chronic drug use.
Izzy's elevator didn't go all the way to the top, he was a few bricks shy of a load and he wasn't playing with a full deck. Didn't make him insane or mentally-challenged or a bad guy, but it did make him somewhat different.
He had one advantage, aside from a mother figure who allowed him to get stoned and watch porn at home: the kid could do just about anything with a computer. I know how to bring up the word processing software, use the music database, and play the occasional game (provided I have detailed instructions), but Izzy could perform digital miracles.
He could have caused all manner of mischief. He could have hacked into banks, spread viruses all over the Net, wreaked havoc on infrastructure, changed his grades at school; all those things seen time and time again in brain-dead movie after brain-dead movie where the outcast kid saves the world from his bedroom PC. He did none of them – except the changing his grades thing. He did do that. Instead, he put all his efforts toward stealing copyrighted music and porn. In other words, he personified every parent's worst computer-related nightmare. I liked him. That's all that mattered to me.
??
Izzy's Dad had been remarkably incapable of serving as a father, but had had the good fortune to meet the woman I came to know as Izzy's Mom. They somehow managed to stay married for twelve full years (as she explained it, he either had a shitload of money or a ginormous dick, depending upon her mood when you asked the obvious question of why) but inevitably, Izzy's Dad's many and varied failings as a human being proved to be too much for her to bear, and so she'd kicked him out, and subsequently gained custody of both the house and the Izz-Meister. And the rest, as they say (whoever they are) is history.
??
Ginormous (for those not up on the hip lingo) is a combination of the words gigantic and enormous. It means the guy's love sausage was fucking huge – so I'm told. I have no direct knowledge.
I have also been told mine is rather large and impressive, though I honestly don't give it much thought. It came with the package, so to speak, and so large or small, medium or tall, I'm stuck with it.
I have, however, asked the question of Does size matter to many women over the years and have received as wide a variety of answers as there is a diverse assortment of women giving them. The most honest one goes like this: "Of course size matters. But it has to be the right size."
??
In any event, there we sat in three separate overstuffed chairs watching the cocks and pussy and asses and extraordinary flexibility. Izzy was jerking off, naturally, and I was damned close to doing it with him, if for no other reason than because Izzy's Mom kept showing me her nipples and demonstrating her total absence of underwear.
This was an old, old story.
??
I guess you could say Izzy's Mom was a classic nympho-slut: hyper-sexual, willing to fuck pretty much anything with a dick (real or plastic), and seemingly obsessed with teasing the living shit out of yours' truly. You could say it, but in my opinion, you'd be wrong.
It wasn't that she was a nymphomaniac – at least not in the psychological sense. It's just that she had absolutely no hang-ups about sex. Well, none, that is, except for one: she steadfastly kept it legal, refusing to break the age of consent law with yours' truly, damn the luck. This was not, however, to say that she didn't dance around the edges, as it were. She wouldn't have outright sex with me before I turned the magical (yet arbitrary) age of eighteen, but this did not stop her from purposely creating a steel rod in my pants whenever possible.
For example, I met Izzy when I was fifteen, the year we started high school, and the first time I visited his house, Izzy's Mom wore this flimsy silk robe, and not a damned thing else. I found it interesting that as we talked that first glorious day, her breasts kept "accidently" popping out for all-the world to see (the world at the moment consisting of me and Izzy) and Izzy seemed blissfully unaware or unconcerned, as if he'd seen it a million times (which he almost certainly had).
I, on the other hand, had not been desensitized to the sight of naked breasts (and I hope I never am). Naturally, therefore, I developed an erection, which she noticed and took full advantage thereof by playing the tease for all it was worth: flashing her tits, letting the bottom of her robe fall open enough to reveal a hint of pubic hair, and touching me in that supposedly non-sexual way women have of indicating their interest. She even went so far as to "inadvertently" brush her hand against my crotch when I left to go home (that part was purely sexual and the impetus for extraordinary and acute masturbation).
??
The word Slut is generally used as a pejorative and carries negative connotations with it like an executive carries a briefcase. It conjures images of loose women with wide-open legs and a propensity for giving blowjobs in public lavatories (and receiving subsequent free advertising on the walls: For a good time call...); of those girls in high school who "put out," and those women in bars with whom you might find yourself embroiled in a game of slap-and-tickle in one of the booths in back.
Its word-origins are shrouded in the fog of several centuries past, although it should be noted, no less a literati than Geoffrey Chaucer is known to have used the derivative "sluttish" back in the late Thirteen Hundreds to describe a "slovenly man." As has happened throughout history, however, what may have started as a derogatory masculine description soon found its bony finger pointing at women: those creatures that have borne the responsibility of men's inability to keep it zippered since the time of Eve and Original Sin.
In my mind, however, a good slut can be a wonderful thing. As with most human concepts about various members of society, perception and perspective are everything. If you perceive a slut to be someone with a libido strong enough to flip a bus, who chooses to exercise their natural inclination toward raw, unbridled fucking again and again with a variety of partners (provided they are at least a bit discriminating about who those partners might be), and if in your perspective this is not a negative trait, then a slut can be a lot of fun to have around.
??
Izzy's Mom was 40 at the time of this tale, stood about five-foot-six, with short blonde hair and crystal blue eyes on a slender frame, with large round breasts and a somewhat flat butt. I didn't hold this last detail – the non-bulbous nature of her posterior – against her (except I suppose when she was bent over and I happened to be pounding her from behind) for the simple reason that I love the female gluteus in all its shapely variety. But I'll be waxing poetic about feminine ass cheeks a bit further along in this story, so let's move on, shall we?
She worked as a legal secretary by day and ran her own adult website by night. Not one of those Cam sites where she hooked up in virtual fashion with all manner of men, but one that featured herself and a few of her select friends, all of whom shared an enjoyment of having load after load of hot, sticky, oozing cum shot all over their lovely faces.
Two of her friends and nighttime co-workers were married, three were divorced, and one was ostensibly a lesbian, except for a certain oral (and money) fixation. Four had children. One had five cats.
Neither the children, nor the cats were ever involved in any way, shape, or form. The way it worked was that every weekend, one or more of them would host a little get-together (at one of the homes without kids – or cats) with themselves at the center of a circle jerk/suck/cum-fest with a photographer and a videographer on hand to record the events (for historical purposes, of course). These events would then be posted on the site, and men – and as near as Izzy's Mom could tell, they were all men – would pay a monthly fee to view the gooey fun.
They made a shitload of money. The men attending these events did so for free. The women each pulled down between five and seven thousand dollars a month.
Izzy knew about it (and had even checked out the site a few times), and so I knew about it, and had seen Izzy's Mom in all her photographically cum-splattered glory. Let me tell you, folks, it was a sight to behold.
??
What a great slut!
??
I lost my virginity to my babysitter, Delores Finklestein, when I was twelve. Without getting into details of a pedophilic nature, suffice it to say I caught her masturbating in the shower when she "accidently" left the bathroom door open, and she caught me masturbating as I watched (because I'd "inadvertently" started doing it while standing in the bathroom doorway) and one thing led to another, and before you could say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (whatever the hell that means) we found ourselves bumping uglies on my father's king-sized bed (and the bedroom floor, and the livingroom couch, and every other vaguely horizontal surface we happened to stumble upon in our erotic frenzy). So by the time I met Izzy's Mom, I'd been laid on several memorable (and a few best-forgotten) occasions. In other words, I wasn't exactly a babe in the woods when it came to fucking, but prior to that point, I'd never had a girl say "no" to my sexual advances. Izzy's Mom was the exception.
??
So there I sat, nicely stoned, with a raging hardon, a flirting MILF, and three cocks, four asses and one pussy on the sixty-three inch flat-screen TV with surround sound speakers blasting out each and every ooh and ah and oh god as the "actors" fucked each other silly. Something needed to be done, and it wasn't going to happen at Izzy's house.
I made my excuses and stood to leave, at first trying to hide the obvious bulge in my bit-too-tight sweat pants, but then giving it up as pointless. Izzy merely waved with the hand that wasn't busy stroking his Johnson and said, "Fuck off," (his usual goodbye), and his mother – of course – rose to escort me to the door.
"Are you sure you have to go?" she said as soon as we rounded the corner into the foyer and out of the sight of her probably oblivious son. She accentuated this question by rather lewdly rubbing one hand on my ass and the other on my crotch. She explored both regions as if looking for something, and then, with a lustful moan, explained what it was. "You're not wearing any underwear, are you?"
"No," I replied.
"I want to fuck your brains out...Right now."
I let her give me a good rub and some interesting play with her finger on my anus for a bit, and then broke it off by stating the obvious.
"But you won't."
"Sorry sweetie," she said as she stopped molesting me.
??
Izzy's Mom finally lifted the age of consent rule when she drove me home after my birthday party, which had been held at their house. There in my driveway, at exactly eighteen years after the moment of my birth (I was a late-night baby) she gave me my present – a sloppy wet blowjob. Naturally, I deposited my seed upon her face.
All things considered I thought it was pretty nice of her.
??
Three years later, she taught me how to give one. In due time, Dear Reader; patience is a virtue.
??
And in between then and the timing of my initial foray into the magical land of Zebulon, three years hence (and about two weeks after my twenty-first birthday), we fucked somewhere in the vicinity of four thousand times. It seems she had wanted it as much, if not more than I had, but then there was that whole legal and personal morality issue, and well...
The first time we consummated our over-sexed, yet under-realized relationship was the morning after my birthday blowjob. I'd come over to collect Izzy (at least that had been my excuse), and as per usual he'd been dawdling and had barely gotten out of bed when I arrived. When he left to hop in the shower, Izzy's Mom took me by the hand and dragged me into the kitchen, where she unceremoniously dropped her pajama bottoms, bent over the table, and said, "Get to it, nasty boy!"
And so I did.
It seemed the polite thing to do.
And that's how it progressed for the next three years. Izzy would go to the bathroom; I'd go down on Izzy's Mom. Izzy would take out the trash; she'd work her oral magic on me. And when Izzy would stumble off to bed, we'd screw each other silly. We never did it in front of him, I guess for the sake of decorum, but it's doubtful he'd have noticed or cared if we had. And when Izzy was away visiting his father (every other weekend, even after he reached adulthood), I'd come over just after he'd gone and we wouldn't come up for air until just before he returned.
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Izzy's Mom and Izzy's Dad were (as I said) divorced and nobody seemed too broken up about it, least of all Izzy. My own mother took off so long ago, I barely remember, and my father...well...he tries. It is what it is.
Don't get me wrong, Izzy's Mom – the whole molestation (sans actual intercourse before the pre-determined legal age) cultural values pseudo-morality bullshit – I don't think it was a bad thing. Her incessant teasing of yours' truly and/or her permissive attitude toward Izzy's porno collection, chronic masturbation and continuous smoking of marijuana made the people in her life happy. She chose – for whatever reason – to give them what they wanted. I think it was a damned-sight nicer and more honest than if she'd tried to impose some arbitrary moral code. And yeah, okay, she was the adult and was therefore supposed to do exactly that: to provide the moral center. But what good is an imposed morality when the person imposing it doesn't believe in it for themselves? She remained true to herself, allowed Izzy to find his own (albeit twisted) path, and gave me what I so obviously wanted (even though my gratification had to be delayed). We can go into the moral questions in greater detail later.
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But while we're on the subject, and while I have this literary soapbox, those ever-present conservative arbiters of our national morality enjoy tossing around Biblical quotations, so why don't I throw one back and see what happens? Let's try...Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
If you don't want me sticking my nose in your bedroom, then don't stick your nose in mine. We all find comfort and pleasure where we can. You have your way. I have mine. Izzy and his Mom have theirs.
What do you say we each mind our own damned business?
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And if I may be permitted one more divergence from the story, please allow me to defend the decision to remain living at home. While it might seem pathetic to some (perhaps most) that both Izzy and I chose to continue residing in our respective familial households after reaching legal age, the reasons – though as different as Izzy's and my personalities – were sound and bordered on being down-right logical.
Izzy had the perfect situation, could do whatever he wanted, and it didn't cost him a dime. The same situation did not exist at my house, but it hardly mattered, because I was hardly ever there. My father and I had long since been ignoring each other and so he knew little or nothing about where I went or what I did. There were no negative connotations to this; we just left each other alone.
Upon graduation from high school, I went onto the local university – not out of any sense of purpose or any great desire for knowledge, but simply because I hadn't made up my mind about anything else I wanted to do. Plus, there were hundreds and hundreds of hot chicks. In any case, the college was close enough to my father's house that it just made sense for me to remain there. And besides, I spent all my time either shacking up with some coed, hanging out with Izzy (and/or his Mom), or at the apartment of my lesbo-friend, Frank.
I'll be getting to her in intimate detail, by and by.
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In any case, on the fateful Night of Zebulon, Izzy was present, so nothing was going to happen, and she and I both knew nothing was going to happen because her son was both there and awake (albeit stoned and masturbating). And so all of that delightful groping – though both desired and appreciated – was nothing but a tease both of us were in on.
She gave me a pat on the behind and sent me out the door.
...To Be Continued...
Dear Reader: This has been but a small piece of a novel-in-progress, about three-quarters complete. I have split it into smaller, more easily-digestable pieces for your ease and pleasure. I hope you have enjoyed it and look forward to the next installment (coming soon...I promise). If so, please let me know via e-mail to wyldenights at yahoo dot com. If not, then by all means, do the same, but please, keep your criticism both constructive and civil.
Thank you and please support Nifty.
-Ian Wylde-