Your erotic stories

Henry 'Rocky' King lived two doors down from me. We had 'bumped' into one another at least three times a day for a year, coming and going mostly from our jobs. We had never actually had more than a casual conversation as we passed each other in the hall or shared a ride in the elevator. Henry, or Rocky as he preferred, was older than me by about 15 years but was in better shape than most guys my age.

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They had first met in an insurgent camp outside Yogyakarta in the Indonesian jungle, far from their own country of the Philippines. In the Philippines there was little chance that they would have met, especially while the Americans were still there in force, but even in more recent years when the government had been weak and taken up with internal squabbling.

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"So, would you like to put your mother's name on the card?"

I stood there in the florist shop, completely stunned. I couldn't speak for a moment. My mind was both a total blank and fast-forward video, my whole life racing before my eyes.

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He was laid to rest in the crowded little graveyard adjacent to the small Anglican church on the fringes of the Kyrenia Harbor in Cyprus. My mother had shown no interest in interring him in the States—or even in attending the burial ceremonial in Cyprus. But I thought that, in any event, this was a fitting place for him to be buried. This was where he belonged. He had taken his stand here and lived the last decade of his life here. I just wished I had been part of that last decade. Of course, that was as much my fault as it was his.

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It was a good night at the Crow's Nest Coffee House. The audience was larger than usual, probably because it was the beginning of the tourist season. My set went off without too many problems, rare when I'm working on new songs. At the end of the evening several people came up to the stage, where I was packing up my guitar, and commented on my playing.

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"First the tide rushes in, plants a kiss on the shore . . ." Matt often started a set with something quiet and slow, like "Ebb Tide," when there was a convention or two in the hotel, like there was today—electricians and bankers. What a combination. Something quiet tended to settle and quiet them down to the point that he could stand it.

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"My name is Nario. You are Mr. Armstead?" "Yes. I was expecting my uncle." "He could not come. I am his boy." Yes, I'll just bet you are, I thought. But then he clarified, if not enough to make a difference to me. "I am his houseboy. Welcome to Naples, Mr. Armstead." "Call me Harry, Please. Is it far from here to Positano?"

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Before starting my tour of duty in Okinawa, I thought my primary talent was playing the piano. I was soon to learn otherwise, though, and my late coming to "the" life gripped me like a disease or an unshakable habit. I had known since not long after puberty that I had an unusual attraction. I had formed friendships quickly from my days in high school—and not just with my school chums but with their parents as well. Everyone wanted to get to know me—to get close to me.

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Part 1 I walk in the door at Boyrdon Pharmaceuticals, leaving behind the slightly chilly outside spring air and traverse the huge lobby in direction of the check gates to the office area. I feel good and refreshed, squeaky clean, well made-up and elegantly dressed as I walk along, collecting a few short, hidden glimpses from a couple of delivery guys over at the reception desk as I pass by.

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When my fiancé and I graduated from college, times were tough. There wasn't a single employer that was hiring. For a while I waited tables as we struggled to pay basic bills. After putting in hundreds of applications, I finally received an invitation for an interview from a company called QJ Productions.

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