Your erotic stories

Marcie gave a grin at the tousled-haired, platinum blond who rubbed at sky-blue eyes that normally held at least some vague sparkle, but that presently simply reflected bone-weariness. "I hate nights," came from behind hands which hid a face of delicate bone-structure and beauty most women would be envy. "I know, Layton, but you'll get in the swing of sleep by day soon." She allowed sympathy to colour her voice.

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Les, my closest friend now that Mike has been killed in Iraq, sits quietly on the couch listening intently as I tell him about my explorations with Mike in that scout tent so many years before. How our relationship had grown beyond experimentation. How our experiences had left me shaken, doubtful about my sexuality, but oh so excited. About how I believed that I had "loved" Mike in a way that was very close to the love I had felt for women.

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One often wonders if their life really has any meaning at all, or if it is just some big cosmic joke where supernatural beings are laughing and pointing at our misfortune, all the while eating a large bucket of overly buttered popcorn and drinking something unnaturally sweet. This thought has often plagued me. Especially when circumstances would lead me to tell the guy I really liked that I liked him after I had hidden it so well, while precautious perched on a tree limb. Yep. I'm fairly positive my very existence is merely for someone else's amusement.

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