Your erotic stories

One of my father's crudest friends had a saying that he reserved for men he thought were losers with the women. He would say, "That guy couldn't get laid in a whore house with a pocket full of hundred dollar bills." I never thought about that much; I figured I was doing alright with the ladies until I turned forty. Then it dawned on me, I had never had one that truly cared about me. Through my blue collar hard-working, long-hour days, I had a long string who abused my trust, used me and made me pay too much for the attention I got from them.

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I've always loved Paris art cinemas. These old, worn-out theatres, showing forgotten films in bad state, smelling of rotten fabric and dust, nowhere in the world is quite like them. There is something special about Parisian art-house cinemas; the very bohemian meets the very snotty, the richness of the film and the beauty on the screen conflicting with the nastiness of the space and people.

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I kissed my wife good-bye. Then I watched as the car pulled out of the driveway of our beach rental with her and my sister. I didn't waste time before I pulled on some swim trunks and headed down to the shore. I made my way across the street and up the public access out to the beach. There was nearly no one around as made my way across the sand. It was no wonder, the waves were pounding hard on shore and the water was still too cold for swimming long this early in the season.

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