We should not speak of it out loud, to tell all we feel all
at once, in a gush, love or lust, it breaks bones as it breaks silence, this
confession of intimacy we ought to keep to ourselves, to bath in its beauty,
it's tenderness, it's lush embrace, yet no declare it all, or rush,
overwhelming the soul we seek to cherish, a wise man will dole out his
admiration, a little drip st a time, soft drops into her open mouth, a taste of
it, bit by bit, time letting it fill her up, but not drown her with too much too
soon, or she might flee to a wiser soul, doing for her what we could not, seize
her love from our grasp, we need to keep love closed mouth, or st beat, lips
barely parted, giving her the flavor of what we feel, bit by bit
Sometimes back then, I had to check my phone to see if I had
called one of those area code 900 numbers, since she seem to have that routine
down pat, a regular mistress of the night, who sent dirty pictures and expected
them in return, whose soothing voice lit me up like a Christmas tree or Fourth
of July fireworks. Even her texts sent me over the edge.
Where did she learn all this stuff, and did she do this to
all the men in her life, making me one of her all male harem, all of us completely
shocked about it, some of us aching to keep in going, to bring up those amazing
dreams we have to clean the sheets from in the morning.
This 900 number lady, who somehow learned the craft and plies
it, a master who has each of us hanging on every word, waiting for the next
text or picture, and hold our manhood tightly for when she asks for a picture
back.
“Go to the men’s room and do it there, thinking of me,” she
told me, and like a submissive following a directive of a goddess, I do, climbing
in the one stall on the third floor because I was scared to be seen going into
the one near the owner’s office on the first.
But even as I stroked it, I kept waiting for someone else to
come in, the stall door having gaps that allowed anyone to see me with it in my
hand, worse, could hear the slap of flesh on flesh, and eventually the moan
when it spurted in my hand, all this she wanted me to describe in detail when I
got back to my desk.
Even back then, I knew just how much more experienced she
was in these things, how to turn on a man like me like a light switch, and
leaving me to sputter when not turned off.
She had asked other men to do these things, had them cradling
their manhood in public space for her amusement, asking us to take a picture
with our cell phones just to prove we had done what she told us to do, and even
as old as I was, older than she, I felt like a kid, unable to fully grasp her
intentions, or deal with the self-torture these things forced me to inflict upon
myself, my imagination painting an even more vivid picture of what was possible
and how far we might go, and how she might tell me to go there, in public, or
in the dead of night.
These days a slut is a liberated woman, who controlled who
she has sex with, while continuing to have a much of it as she likes, sometimes
with questionable characters, other times with men she thinking might provide
her with opportunities in a world where men rule, often leaving a landscape strewn
with cuckhold men, who mistook her attention for love., men like me, who watch
her walk off with men I know, or others like husbands or boyfriends who
mistakenly believed they could keep her corralled, when there is no attachment,
a fashionable lady ahead of her time, doing what is a fact of life, a pretty
woman who prowls night clubs and other dives like a shark looking for guppies
to devour, while men like me continue to adore her.
I wake and it hits me, not hot or cold, just there, pressing
on m chest and groin, I struggle to breathe.
How do we love this away, born each day bearing the same
burden, the constant urge, the irresistible temptation, the struggle to
overcome what we generate inside, love, an illusion we hang on to in order to
decorate something we wish for rather than anything real, the roughness of it,
rubbing against us each time we move until it rubs us raw. We stagger with it
all day, sleep with it all night, waking again elevated, needing to appease it,
stroke by stroke, a remedy that works for so brief a time we forget we had
relief at all, until it overwhelms us again, we lion tamers without chair or
whip to keep back the inevitable.
Thinking back, it still haunts me, a double life in which we
live day or night, as if we are different people, and I find I lost you in the day
light and cling to the one I secretly crave by night, life once a romance amid
paper clips, file folders and mistaken emails, divorced from when someone better
came along, the man or men with that Midas touch, and the determination to keep
you – as if you could be kept by any man, you keep yourself, while I became the
cuckhold on the stairway between two floors, forced to bear witness from afar,
imagining the worst, men doing what I wished I could still do, a secret life live
behind the meetings and memos, while in the end, I tried to avoid the angry
looks, the cold shoulder, while knowing the real view from her desk was of
somebody’s bed, breeding nightmares in me that are still nightmares when I wake
up, the illusion fading now that someone else has that desk, a strange face I
see when I expect to see yours.
I would bring her a box of chocolates, but she would only
hate me for it, just as she did that night in the bar when she humiliated me
for bringing her flowers and candy, when she never told me she hated those kinds
of gifts, and that somehow, I should have been aware of this fact, that night
when she seemed ready to turn me into a cuckhold, inviting me for this belated
birthday drink only to spend most of the night flirting with the bartender, so
intimate their connection, I suspected that night she would likely leave with
him, when I exercised my only option and left.
I still recall her screaming at me over the phone, as to why
I left her at the bar, as I took the long stroll up the hill for home, as if I had
spoiled one of her grand plans, even a box of chocolate could not make up for,
and every day since I have relived those moments in the bar and afterwards, revisiting
it all, examining into the most minute elements for something I might have
missed, might have done differently, something I could have changed that might
have brought about a different outcome, assuming finally I could have done nothing,
she would have gone off with the bartender, condemning me to watch.
When her nails click on the table top, I think she’s angry,
though at times when I look up into her eyes, she seems calculating.
All this might be wrong.
But each time we come to the same place at the same time, I
check out her fingernails,
whether they were
polished or not, what color they are, do they match the color of her lips.
The brighter the color of lips and fingernails tells me she
must be horny, other colors mean other things much like a mood ring.
They are darkest in a bad way when she looks at me.
I recall her nails being blood red those few times we dated,
a color she long ago abandoned, except when around other men in our office who
I think she’d like to date. It drives me wild to think about, even if none of
it is true.
I didn’t know it at the time, and only learned it now, but with
a girl like her, it has to be pleasing her or it will never work.
This is what sissy world and their goddesses understand best,
and I think that was the lesson she learned on the cruise with that old lady.
Men are best when they serve her interests, and that their who
lives should be focused on ways to make her happy, not their own pleasure.
This is how women really survive, shifting the balance of
power, if not literally castrating men, the way Goddesses do when creating
sissies, then making sure the men who want her attention must serve her first.
as I noted, the pills the doc gave me don’t work, or at least
I didn’t think they did, and so I kept on increasing the dosage until they did –
moderately, enough to wrap my hands around when I got there.
Since the surgery, I religiously kept to the prescribed
dosage, feeling the tinkling at times, but nothing dramatic. Upping the dosage
did enough to keep me content, even if I had to create the satisfaction for
myself.
Had I been wiser, I might have read the instructions better.
While I did take the pill at the same time every day – a pill
that would allow me to be ready on the unlikely chance I would actually need
it.
What I did not notice was that the effects were cumulative,
safe enough at the recommended dosage, but magnified with each escalation.
Thus was the shock when I saw the pretty young black woman
on the train, a woman who made things worse for me by wearing an amazingly
tight white blouse. Not only could I not stop staring (a repeat of those
uncomfortable horny days at our office years ago), I dared not leave my seat,
having mysteriously grown a third leg.
She noticed me noticing, too, shifting from foot to foot at
the far end of the train car, but never fully away, as if she enjoyed someone admiring
her. When a seat opened after several stops, she sat, but did not turn away
completely, leaving me full view of her blouse, her amazing boobs, and yes,
also amazing legs.
When she got off a stop before my stop, she looked worn out,
as if she’d made love in her brain the whole trip, glancing briefly at me
through the window at where I still sat on the inside of the train.
When my stop came, I still didn’t move, figuring it might
take a few more stops there and back to shrink the leg my excess use of the
pills had provided me with, leaving me more than twinge when I finally got up
and out – a lesson learned the hard way.
I still am to some degree, something has been added since that puzzles me
When I was young I could not stop from staring at women's chest s
Size never mattered but I really got off on cleavage
I often wondered what the nuns who taught looked like underneath their habit, did they have cleavage too
But what still gets me off is any woman wearing a white shirt with breast poking out
Pretty or ugly or, anywhere in between mattered not
lately I started noticing women's butts and tight jeans
Everywhere I Go women seem to be wearing garments that literally are so tight I could see everything without my x-ray glasses from where I was a kid
On the train or walking down the street , I seem to be behind women with these tight little butts, that's all I look at the whole way down the street until either they turn off when I do ,
This became something a problem I when I noticed the butt of a girlfriend to a local politician, the two of them scheduled to be married short ly,
She noticed me noticing her and to my surprise she strutted several times in front of me ,
When I looked away she moved to where I was looking I started to react
Now it's become an obsession I can't look anywhere else but at the butts of the women working in front of me or behind or on the train
The pills the doc gave me after the surgery never really worked, these low dose medicine designed to keep me aroused and yet did nothing,
When I really wanted something, even if I could not do anything with anybody after the result ,
I just want to see if I could still get it up like that when I think of her,
The way I got it up sometimes like I did those nights whenit's still was possible to do something ,
So I started doubling the dose and felt the tingles there if not quite a balloon , more so what I looked that old photos, not the nude ones but the ones in when she was going out and I imagined her being with someone else ,
It's hard to feel like a cuckold with nothing else is possible,
So i increased the dose again, just to see what would happen, just to see if the tingling amounted to more than just a twitch,
And I felt something more, growing inside and outside me, and finally I had it, more for medicin recommended, and more of a tingle that turned into something much better and themore I coveted her photos, the more intense it became until I pumped up the volume pointlessly, alone and yet somehow satisfactory
I did it just to keep the blood, I tell myself, feeling convulsions through my whole body, perhaps the way a woman feells it, without the seed ,
A man can only torture himself so much for so long before he has to give in, even with the poor excuse of making it all flow,
Convulsions rippling through my body in the night, strange, different maybe the way a woman feels it, maybe just my imagination, clutching my manhood both hands, nothing coming out but convulsing anyway, all the way down deep in the bones, in the stomach, in the chest flowing up into my brain like a drug,
Is this really how it all happens, when you're not dependent on the one place to come out of, when bad plumbing forces the whole revolution to stir you up all over, making you shutter, making you feel different, making you feel just like a woman
I’ve done this before, of course, if not for so long, and
perhaps never before with the help of my prostate, in between times of chastity
when I let more hormones go insane, on the presumption that I was somehow
saving myself, rare moments between the much longer times when I stroked myself
blind.
With a man it’s complicated. His libido might be going
haywire, but unable to get the mechanism to function right, never stiff enough
for long enough to be effective.
Chasitity hotwires the libido and creates the illusion that I
could do it if I wished to do it, but since I’m being chaste, I choose not to, when
that’s a load of hogwash.
The surgery to reduce the size of the prostate screwed up
the mechanism, too, leaving the libido to go hog wild while the plumbing got
confused, the seed and the pee somehow confused in the pipes so nothing comes
out right, and I’m sometimes tempted to take the other route through the
backdoor where some say a man can milk his prostate with results almost as good
as the front door. But that’s a little gay, I think, allowing my libido to do
what it does, fog up the windshield, and fool me into thinking I can still do
what I used to do, when most likely, I can’t.
Rob came up to me between sets and said he needed a favor.
He was one of the old crowd from the regional high school
who came to see the band, on the extremely unlikely chance they might pick up a
girl and get laid.
Rob, Alf and Tom were the nerdy set that kept up their friendship
after graduation, as unpopular now as they were then, mostly because they fell
into the category of having little dicks.
In clubs like this, they only way to make up for having a
small dick was to have a lot of money or work for the band like I did.
I would have fallen into their lonely hearts club, too, had
I not lucked on and become sound man, a similar fate for the rest of the road
crew.
I didn’t get laid a lot, but at least I wasn’t a virgin the
way Tom and Alf were. Rob only last his virginity because Hank’s girl, Peggy,
had felt sorry for him that one weekend when Hank went out of town.
Having a small dick meant for a very lonely life, made worse
by the club scene where big dicks got all the chick.
“What favor?” I asked Rob, assuming he needed a loan. He
worked for an auto parts store for very little pay, while my day job at a
warehouse brought me a better wage.
“We want you to tell us which one of us looks the most like
a girl,” Rob said, while Alf and Tom looked a bit embarrassed on the other side
of the club, well-aware of what Tom asked me.
“Why?” I asked, a bit embarrassed myself, since I felt a bit
gay in making that assessment.
“Because we want to get laid,” Rob said. “We’ve decided the only
way that’s going to happen is if one of us becomes a sissy, and the other two get
to fuck her.”
My mouth must have fallen open with the shock of it. This
was no joke. These three seemed to see this as a long-term solution, a guarantee
the three of them would always get lucky.
“You’re talking to the wrong person,” I said.
“But we trust you,” Tom said. “Anybody else would laugh at
us.”
I wasn’t laughing; It wasn’t funny to me since I might have
been one of them if fortune had turned a different way.
Rob, with his delicate features, struck me as the most
likely candidate. The other two were bulkier, too much like their working class
fathers. Rob seemed to know this, too, but wanted someone to tell him it was okay
for him to take the plunge.
Maybe he was even attracted to the idea in a more fundamental
way, knowing that he would always have two men interested in him, when nobody
loved him as he was today, a perpetual riveraly for Rob’s affections – even though
unlike typical bar girls – he had too much of a conscience to fully exploit it.
“I don’t know anything about turning someone into a sissy,”
I told Tom, seeing a shadow of disappointment in his eyes.
“But you must know someone who does?”
Yes, a few of the girls that followed the band sometimes
teased me in that way, suggesting I might look good dressed up and with makeup.
They were teasing me because I didn’t have the big dick they went home with
each night.
But would they push things as far as Rob and his buddies
wanted to go? How far is too far before there is no turning back. And did Rob
really want to go that far, to trade in his small dick for giving blow jobs and
anal penetration? Did he fully understand that once he got there, he would
become a play thing for men with any size dick.
Maybe he did. Maybe that was the attraction, to become
something he’s never been able to be: popular, even if it meant he might have
to have sex with every other man in the bar.
With a heavy heart, I directed him to those other girls. He
thanked me profusely.
But before he would make contact, I made contact with them
first, a clutch of the more popular band followers, who frequently went out to
the parking lot with band members between sets.
Liza was the most brazen, and I told her what Rob wanted.
She grinned.
“You mean he wants to do what you won’t?” she teased.
“I’m serious, Lisa,” I said. “Please be kind to him.”
Something glinted in her eyes. “Aren’t I always?”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes, you can be down right cruel.”
“Only with you,” she said. “But I’ll do my best. And who
knows, if he turns out right, maybe you’re reconsider and I can as much for
you.”
“Stop kidding,” I said, and turned to walk away.
“Who’s kidding.”
At first, I thought it would all blow over, and it seemed
to, Tom, Alf and Rob showed up together each time the band played here, taking
their place at the bar with other losers like themselves, the Little Dick Loney
Hearts Club.
After a few weeks, I noticed Lisa and Rob seemed more openly
friendly with each other, and then, I saw the changes start.
Not all as once, subtle at first, as if Lisa did not want to
scare Rob out of the scheme, or to shock the rest of us with something too
dramatic. In the men’s room, I noticed Rob coming out of one of the stalls. He
couldn’t pull closed his pants fast enough to avoid my seeing him girly underwear
and after closer examination, panty house.
“Lisa suggested it,” he finally admitted. “She said it would
make me feel more like a girl.”
This was followed by a more obvious change in his clothing:
blouses and slacks that other girls at the bar might kill to wear. When he
showed up with a bulge to his chest, I confronted him about wearing a bra.
“I have to,” he said. “With the hormones I’m on, I’ve
actually developed breasts.”
This caused another change of wardrobe. Skirts instead of sacks,
and shirts that exposed Rob’s cleavage.
Most people didn’t notice the makeup at first, just a touch
to his lashes, though Rob clearly had done other things. But when he started wearing
earrings, red lipstick and red nails, others began to talk.
Eventually, everything boyish about Tom vanished, and he
appeared at the club completely dressed as a girl, acting like a girl, flirting
with the boys like a girl.
Tom and Alf were elated, hovering around her like proud
husbands, clearly having succeeded in one essential part of their plan: they
were getting laid regularly along with the regular blow jobs Rob gave them.
At first, the regular crowd of bid dicks laughed, mocking
Rob, but not all.
There seemed to be a growing interest in Rob because in his
new state, he was as pretty as any of the popular girls, and over weeks and
months, the mocking stopped and the jockeying began.
The hefty big dick men lined up to take Rob out into the
parking lot or to take her home at night.
“You like may handiwork?” Lisa asked me.
“I’m amazed,” I admitted.
“Why aren’t you lining up with them, I’m sure Rob would like
to show how grateful he is for all you’ve done for him.”
“Not interested,” I said, drawing that same look from Liza.
“Is that because you’re secretly a bottom?” she asked.
“Stop it,” I said.
But Lisa would not.
“I can’t make you into a stunning woman,” she said. “You’ll
be even more popular than Rob.”
“I said stop it!”
She shrugged. “It’s your loss.”
Not long later, Tom and Alf came upto me where I sat behind the sound board.
“We need a favor,” Tom said as Alf nodded in agreement.
“No, I’m not going to find someone to turn you into girls,”
I said.
“God No. We don’t want that.” Tom said.
“Then what do you want?”
“We need for you to help us turn Rob back,” Tom said.
“Rob has become so popular he doesn’t have time for us anymore,”
added Alf.
They looked utterly sincere, and extremely disappointed when
I said, “There’s no turning back, boys. She’s graduated from the Little Dick
Lonely Hearts Club and you’re going to have to live with it.”
All that is unsaid, is made clear by circumstance.
Do what she says or else, accept what is and always will be,
settled for what she allows you to have when in face there is nothing you can
do about it anyway.
Rule # 1 rules all, nothing else exists, and the sooner you
accept this, the better off you’ll be. You can’t ever make her happy, but you
might manage to satisfy her needs.
You do what she says or she has no use for you. Don deep,
where I counts, where the truth lay, it is all you really want anyway.
She said she never cheated, although men sometimes cheated on
their wives and girlfriends with her.
Something that didn’t bother her, it’s on those men’s
shoulders.
But is it cheating if the man she’s with cheats on her first
– claiming she was cheating so he had a right to cheat as well.
How can she not cheat when she is the eye candy on stage all
the men on and off the stage lust after.
How could she say “No” when she could have any of the, all
of them, even all of them at once if she wanted to?
She talks about the old woman on the cruise that taught her
how to trickle up, using men’s dicks a stepping stones?
When did she realize just how potent she was, how men like
me would fall over backwards to please her, how we all craved her, and she
could pick and choose to come up with someone who could please her best.
Is it cheating to get what you need when the one she’s with
won’t give it to her, or is it just how it is.
It is all about pleasing her, not yourself, and man with big
dicks please her more than you ever will, and no matter how loyal she claims to
be to you, the moment she sees a man with a dig, she goes for him.
This is a reality of life, big dicks rule, and the sooner you
accept this as fact, the less you’ll agonize as to why you can’t get the girl
you want.
You need to let her go to where the big dicks are. If you
don’t, you’ll always be miserable, even when she is willing to give you a bit
on the side.
Love doesn’t do it for her, can’t satisfy her in the way a
big dick can, and you have to live with it, and let her get what she wants, and
it may be the only way you can’t actually please her.
After all these years, I have become what nuns wanted, to be Beating me into submission with their rosary beads, making me ashamed back of my reactions like the one with that science teacher in junior high, a woman is provocatively dressed as a prostitute and I had to clutch my books in front of me to keep from showing my admiration, scared of it, stroking it away over and over for years, until I became castrated,unable to get a rise even with the bluest of movies or the most provocative of girls, then later denying myself to get back to what I had been in the past. Stirring Myself up inside, whipping myself into a frenzy till I boiled, making myself become with the nuns wanted, an inferno and now, without options, I am back, lacking any relief, a self torture that is sweet as it is sour, my head so filled with it I can think of nothing else, the priest with unpriestly thoughts and a body that inflates like a balloon, rising and falling, waking me in the middle of night with an emergency I still refuse to relieve, I am priest the nuns always wanted to be, whipped and chained by my imagination
We had not intended to come this far north, taking a trek along River Road that turned into 9W, following signs that said, “Bear Mountain.”
Only when we got there, we kept going, this long and winding thing, and then, we stopped at the sign saying “28 miles” because we had never intended to go there, not yet, not since I took my daughter there before COVID, seeking a bit of the East Village she could no longer find in NYC, we stopped and wet back, leaving the sign and its destination behind, for another time, for our annual overnight stay when we were better prepared to deal with the consequences, 28 miles turning into 30, then more as we made our way home.
