Your erotic stories

I had always been curious, even if it was just a pang of interest in my mind. Growing up, I had lusted over girls like any other adolescent, the word "vagina" was almost enough to make me cum on the spot. As I grew up, however, I learned to embrace my sexual interests. Once I began to look at pornography, I realized that my eyes were not drawn immediately to the cunt and tits, but to the cock. From that age forward, I began to explore with my gay curiosity.

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If you ask me now what I was doing there, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t remember much about that day; where I was going, who I needed to see, even which direction I was headed. The only thing that stuck out was a chance sighting on the subway of the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on. He was like a vision from a dream. Tall and slim with delicate, tanned and seemingly hairless flesh that peeked out of the top of a silken button-down shirt.

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His name was Roland and he was from Jamaica. I'm guessing he was about 30. He had deep ochre skin, eyes that were almost black, closely-cropped hair, and was tall, lean and very graceful. At one point in his life he'd been a dancer, but was now a set designer for one of the larger theater companies in Amsterdam. He was just a little bit effeminate, and overtly gay.

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Pain. Hot. Blinding. Horrid pain. There was heat and wetness. But all I knew was pain. Over and over the waves of agony swelled inside me. I opened my eyes but could barely see the twisted mound of metal that was once my car. Panic rose inside me. I looked as far as my head would pivot, but I saw little but blurriness.

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I hurried out of the building, my cock hard and dripping copious amounts of precum, staining the front of my slacks. I awkwardly attempted to cover myself with my briefcase as my mind raced. "Did that really just happen? Did one of the most powerful industrial giants just use me as his cumslut?" I hailed a taxi and offered a generous tip to get me to my hotel as quickly as possibly. Ten minutes later and $30 poorer, I was safely enclosed in my suite at the Hyatt.

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Last fall, when I was starting my graduate studies at NYU film school, I found myself sexually frustrated and unhappy with the guys I was meeting. The sex was OK, but nothing really special. I think that's kind of understandable because, after all, we were mostly all in our early 20s and not very experienced. Plus, if I was to be really honest, the guys I met (and I include myself here) were kind of immature and unworldly. We barely knew who we were, let alone capable of thoughtful, meaningful and satisfying sexual relationships.

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Sixty two year old Wallace Stone wasn't from Saratoga Springs, he was just passing through on business. When after dinner he walked through the park and stopped near the little stage where an angry young man was singing angry songs, mercifully without benefit of amplification. Most of the couple dozen or so folks who were around the performer listening didn't seem much more interested than Wallace was, but the salesman didn't care about them.

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They say you never forget your first time. Although it's been nearly 20 years, I can still remember it well. It was January of 99 and I had just turned 18. 

My parents went out of town to celebrate their anniversary for the weekend, and that meant one thing for me. Busting as many nuts as I could.

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I was on business in the Fire Island area of New York. Checking into a small motel I was surprised to see the small, old, Jewish-looking man behind the counter, in effect, checking me out. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or get annoyed by his eyeing me and smiling at me in what could only be described as a leering way.

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All comments or criticism welcome. * I had just settled onto the couch to watch some television when the phone rang. "You available?" a familiar voice asked. "Yes." "I'll be there in 20 minutes." "I'll leave the door unlocked, I'm going to jump in the sho--."

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