Your erotic stories

Judge Thomas Oakley slowed the car as he crossed Martin Luther Key Street on St. Catherine where it turned into Jefferson. He often slowed down here, in passing the King's Tavern Lounge—although he'd never gotten up the gumption to go in there. It was too close to home and he was too well known.

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It all started a few weeks ago while I sat in a bar after a long day of searching through the want ads. "How's it going?" said the clean headed muscle man who sat down next to me. "Not the best," I said, looking up from the paper. "I've been slogging around town all morning, looking for a job."

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I was hopelessly lost. The company had sent me to meet with a potential client, so here I was, hundreds of miles from home, driving a rented car, with no clue where the hell I was. The map the girl at the convenience store had drawn me was totally fucked up, and I was sure I'd made at least one wrong turn anyway, so there I was.

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He was rude to me when I first saw him, which is one of the reasons I remembered him. The other was that he was drop-dead gorgeous. This was in the souk (Arab market) in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, one dull Saturday morning, and I was shopping for a Quran. Not some paperback English translation, but something really nice, an ornate Arabic copy I could display in my office at home.

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Derek leaned against the metal railing as his grey eyes passed over the crowded cafeteria. With the entire population wearing the same uniform he had to focus on faces in order to differentiate each inmate.

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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.

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"Why don't you and Clancy go fishing," my dad said. The five of us, Uncle Ted, Aunt Bessie, Clancy, dad and me were finishing our afternoon tea in the farmhouse kitchen after unloading the fourth load of hay for the day. The new corrugated iron shed was a quarter full of hay and that was all there was room for. The rest was taken up with the farm machinery. The few horses dad still kept were in the old split log barn, which had seen better days.

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As the family wagon pulled into a small truck stop in the middle of nowhere, Jack's father turned to him and his mother. "Who else is hungry? " They had been driving across state to visit family and were now heading back home again. The problem is that it's a long drive and Jacks iPod ran out of battery a long time ago.

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One warm Saturday morning in June I decided on a shopping trip to Birmingham, a drive of around 60 miles. The journey, which I had made many times before, was pleasant and uneventful in the sunshine. On arrival I parked my car in the open-air public car park, threw my jacket into the boot and walked towards the road leading up to the shopping centre.

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"I think we can dispense with these," he said, casting off his human visage. I followed suit, and we both took a few moments to stretch our wings, swish our tails and stamp our broad clawed feet, feeling the life pour back into our neglected bodies. We were the only two of our kind on Earth, and it was rare that we got an opportunity to relax into our native forms.

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