Your erotic stories

John Harrison had not enjoyed the best of days at work. His boss had been acting like a tyrant, he'd spilled coffee on his shirt, the sandwich shop got his order wrong and sent him Ham instead of Turkey. He wanted to get home, open a beer and relax. He walked in the three bedroom apartment he shared with his daughter, Penny, and there it was.

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I lay in my dad's arms, still woozy from what just happened -- physically and emotionally. My free right hand reached for his arm, and caressed the knots of muscle that roping from the shoulder to the elbow. It struck me then, that there was something about an older man in peak physical shape that I found desperately attractive. Of course, he owed this fact to his job as a conditioning coach -- but there it was all the same, this frame of capable limbs, narrow waist, and a big, brutish chest.

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I use hook-up apps as a way to travel I suppose. I don't have the luxury to flit about the globe taking selfies with landmarks, so more often than not, when I get to chat up a guy, I'm dipping my toe into a completely different life. To a degree, if and when we hook up, I become a different, more adventurous guy. And perhaps, ashamedly - when I'll leave town, there's no looking back.

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When you start writing a fiction story, it's fun to think about where to start. But when you're writing a true story, especially one with a lot of threads runnings through it, deciding where to start is really hard. There are so many strands involved in explaining the key event, and people won't understand you if you don't describe them well. They may even judge you.

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My father-in-law is tall and well-built, with really sexy bedroom eyes. But I hardly gave Daddy Jim—the pet name I gave him to distinguish him from my husband, who is also named Jim—a second thought, except for the times we went out to visit him, so we could use his pool. Sometimes, when my Jim had to work on the weekends, I drove out there by myself to swim and work on my tan. One Saturday morning about a month ago, pulling into his driveway, I noticed a strange car parked in front of the garage.

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This is a true story. It is the story of a young man who was sheltered, unsophisticated about the world and not sure of himself. He came to Memphis from the countryside of Arkansas with no real experiences. It is about me. Growing up, I knew no real want. My parents were gainfully employed and made good money. I was the middle of five kids and did not get much attention. So, I was always trying to figure out my true identity. I had gone to a small local college and remained fairly sheltered. No one talked about anything out of the ordinary. No taboo.

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Kenny Cho arrived at the Korean restaurant just as the other members of the group arrived. The group comprised of mainly gay Asian men of various ages and nationalities and some of their invited, non-Asian male friends/partners. Once a month the group would dine out at an ethnic restaurant of their choosing. Last month was Vietnamese.

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"Hello, you must be Shayne. I'm Mr. Caldwell's boy, Jerome. Come on in. I'll take your bag to your room. He's out beyond the great room, in the pool. Go on back." With that welcome, I entered the world of Ted Caldwell, retired supposed master spy, the man I'd been sent to the New Jersey shore to interview over the weekend for Spy magazine.

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