Date: Mon, 20 Oct 2014 14:13:43 -0700
From: ian wylde <wyldenights@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Erotic Adventures of Jack, the Omnisexual Detective Part 2

The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.  As such, all
characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind.
Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence.
If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual
nature, you shouldn"t be reading this.  For those under eighteen,
experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with
your mind enough after you reach adulthood.  You really don't need a head
start.

Now, without further delay, back to the story!

                            4

                     Passage to Zebulon

As I sauntered into the cool night, I pulled a pack of cigarettes out of
the pocket of my black tee-shirt.  The garment was just long enough to more
or less cover my crotch, and just short and tight enough to look more or
less like a little black dress.  Add to it the fact that I kept my
straight, dark brown hair at shoulder length, and was wearing tight sweats
that showed pretty much every single contour of my ass, and it wasn't much
of a stretch to suggest I looked like a girl – from behind, at any rate.

I flipped open the hard-pack and looked inside.  There to my surprise
leaned a thin but tasty-looking joint.  I pulled it out, flicked on my
lighter and said hello.

Pot always makes me horny.  Maybe it's a Pavlovian thing between the porn
and the buds and Izzy's Mom, or maybe it's just that pot makes me horny.
Or maybe it's that at twenty-one (or, for that matter, eighteen, or
sixteen, or fourteen, or...) pretty much everything made me horny.
Whatever the case may be, at that moment it was having its usual effect,
especially since this part of the evening's entertainment had long been
planned and anticipated.  I smoked about half the joint and put the rest
away for later.

                             ??

We'd all heard the stories – the late nights, the men entering (but
maybe not leaving) alone, the booths with the glory holes, the theater.
And I'd seen those men there, sitting alone in their cars.  And sometimes
when I looked at them I'd see someone else's head pop up from below the
dashboard.

Sometimes I'd see them looking at me.  I never lingered and they never did
anything about it, but the implication and the possibility always hung in
the late night air, with molecules of sexual potentiality flitting and
flying about on their micro-biological errands: atoms of impending orgasms
bouncing off one another, blowjob neutrons and ass-fucking electrons
creating a whirling dervish of microscopic aerial acrobatics.  In other
words (scampering my word-typing fingers away from literary discussions of
organic chemistry just as fast as I possibly can), each time I walked by
and saw those men, I could almost see inside their heads; catch the mental
images they had of me and my young body, and what they wanted to do.  And I
could also visualize my head moving downward with open and willing mouth,
taking them in, slurping and sucking and reveling in yummy entertainment.

                             ??

Ain't a dirty mind great?  But I digress.  Sorry.  I got caught up in the
moment.  I'd like to say it won't happen again, but I'd be lying, so I
won't.  Shall we...?

                             ??

As I said, I'd never had sex with a man before that night.  I'd seen it on
video, who knows how many times, so I certainly understood the concept, and
I had done an awful lot of fantasizing about it over the past couple of
years, but I'd never done anything, except for this interesting trick
Izzy's Mom used to do with her finger – and occasionally fingers, and
yes, even a small butt-plug.  And neither did I (nor do I) consider myself
gay.

                             ??

And yeah...yuk it up...bang four thousand pussies and you're a God among
men, but suck one cock and you're gay for life.  Get over it.

In my opinion, too many gay people let their sexual orientation serve as a
description of who they are.  But it seems to me, who you have sex with is
only part of who you are, not you in its entirety.

Of course, as I said, this is just my opinion, and I'm entitled to it in
the same way everyone else is entitled to theirs, and that's my point.
Your sexuality is just that – yours – and as such, it's nobody else's
damned business.

                             ??

I wouldn't exactly be voted the most masculine man in the room, but neither
would I be called a flouncing fairy (which is not, in any way, shape, or
form to denigrate those fabulous few who do seem to dance through life in
fairy-like fashion).  It's just that through luck and apparently good
breeding somewhere along the dark path of my questionable ancestry, I
became blessed with an attractive face and (so I'm told) a very nice butt.

"Attractive" is an adjective that gets tossed around with clichιd
regularity.  In my case, it's also a verb.  This is not the boasting of my
enormous ego; simply a statement of fact.  I have always attracted people.
Throughout my life, from the time I was a baby right up to and including
this moment as I tell this tale, I have been told over and over again I
should be a model.

My father, showing great wisdom, declined the offers to take me down such a
self-absorbed path.  I'm glad he did.  The last thing I needed as a
youngster was the temptation of a world filled with indulgence and drugs
and trips to Milan or Paris.

I already had the money.

His father had been disgustingly wealthy before he died (rumored to have
happened while screwing his much younger secretary) and had left the both
of us with gobs and gobs of disposable cash.  My father – no dummy –
doled out my trust in miniscule quantities, so that by the time I received
it in full, it had been relegated to the mundane, matter of course type of
thing, like having a car once the novelty of a brand new driver's license
has worn off.  His restraint probably kept me alive.

                            ??

On the subject of cars and the great American love affair with mobility, I
did own one and occasionally drove it (particularly when it rained), but
I've never lost the charm of strolling down the sidewalk, taking my time
and enjoying the town in which I live.  Contrary to popular belief, six
blocks (the distance between my house and Izzy's) is nothing.  Those who
feel incredulous to this notion should get off their asses and stretch
their legs.

I'm just saying...

                            ??

I did eventually start doing some modeling, but not the kind originally
suggested by the people who thought I should.  I wonder what they would
think if they found out I did my photo shoots in women's clothing, or that
the sessions almost always end with me getting resoundingly fucked up the
ass?

Hmm...

                             ??

They (that ubiquitous bunch of know-it-alls) say the libido is also
genetic, but I couldn't tell you from personal experience.  I don't know
much about my mother, except that every now and then when my father is
drunk, I'll hear him grumble the words fucking whore in conjunction with
her name.  Maybe it's true.  I couldn't tell you.  And as far as my father
goes, I think he gets laid every now and then, but I honestly don't pay
that much attention.  As I said, we pretty much ignore each other.  We've
found it works for us.

Whatever the results of the Nature versus Nurture debate, my libido was and
is extraordinarily strong, and on that particular night it felt as if it
could leap tall buildings.
 I was ready, I was eager, and I was dressed the part.  I
 was going in.

                            5

                          Inside

A Goth girl (pardon the labeling, but sometimes a single word can provide
an instant, albeit superficial, visual), perhaps a year or two older than
me, dressed all in black, with multi-colored, primarily purple hair and
numerous piercings upon her bored-looking face, glanced up from whatever
magazine she'd been reading as I entered.  She scowled briefly, pausing in
her chewing of what must have been an enormous wad of gum behind her
blood-red lips, and said, "Show me some ID, Kid."

I approached the glass counter and its wide assortment of sexual devices,
lubricants, and novelties, on suddenly unsteady legs and removed the
driver's license from my tee-shirt pocket.  She perused it, confirmed I was
indeed twenty-one, and then handed it back, saying: "Five bucks in tokens
for the booths, ten bucks for the theater."

The booths (and their mysterious glory-holes) sounded inviting, but I had
something a bit more visceral in mind.  I handed her a ten.

She motioned toward a door marked "Theater" and said: "Have fun.  They're
going to love you," as I moved toward the door with my heart hammering in
my chest and a delightful tingling in my testicular region.

Just before I went in, she offered, "If you strike out, come on back.  I'll
show you what fun really is;" an entertaining offer, to be sure.  I might
have taken her up on it, but I had other plans.

                             ??

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I stood there,
barely breathing, my entire body playing a symphony of erotic music ribald
enough to make Barry White blush.  I moved inside.

I had discovered some time ago that if I rolled down the waistband of this
particular pair of sweats while tugging upward, sans underwear, the effect
left nothing to the imagination, or – perhaps more to the point –
sparked a certain dark and horny part of said imagination with all sorts of
wonderful possibilities.  Trying not to be too obvious, I did so then, as I
felt more than saw my way into the theater.

It appeared larger than I expected, once the outlines became a bit more
solid, with seats for maybe forty people in three sections: four rows of
five seats more or less in the middle, with as many rows of three on one
side, and four rows of two on the other in a semi-circle facing the
entrance next to the fifteen foot wide screen, upon which a guy was
pounding this blonde girl in the ass while he sucked a tall, thin brunette
tranny's dick.  I'd seen this movie before (at Izzy's), but it hardly
mattered as I walked toward the back of the theater and took a seat in the
last row of two.  I had not, after all, come to enjoy the feature.

This was it.  I was in.

Now what?

I began to see the outlines of eight or ten people – presumably (and
soon enough confirmed to be) all men – scattered throughout the seating
area.  One of them sat across from me and up one row in the middle section
on the aisle, with no pants on whatsoever, stroking his impressive penis.
Even in the dark with him sitting a few feet away on an angle, it seemed
out of proportion to the rest of his scrawny body.  I felt intrigued but
wary, and he seemed to be ignoring me completely so I moved on in my visual
sweep of the area.

A few of the men appeared to be asleep, as they did not move, and a couple
of the others had paired up and were fumbling about in the dark, and all of
them seemed as oblivious to my presence as my neighbor and his enormous
appendage.

I had imagined this scenario a hundred times amidst the friction of
stroking myself, and the theater of my imagination had always looked a lot
more like a Roman orgy.  Accompanied by heavy bass-lines emanating from
hidden speakers playing hard-core blues within my inner-ear, the
participants of my fantasy would writhe in paroxysms of orgasmic ecstasy;
some bent over, some on their knees, some pinned against the wall, and all
of them active players.  This Danse Sexual would go on and on; a writhing,
twisting, contortionist pile of arms and legs and mouths and cocks and
asses, the like of which has not been seen outside of a San Francisco
Tenderloin District bathhouse since BC became AD.  Instead, I got a bunch
of guys sitting around, in the dark, watching a porno I'd already seen.
Ah, well...

It felt like a pause.  Perhaps the theater was like one of those old
speakeasies from back during Prohibition: the kind with the flashing red
light warning of a police raid just in time for the bar and the wall of
booze bottles to spin, leaving only a painting of the Virgin Mary, while
the patrons snuck out with their drinks through the secret door to the
emergency exit beyond and were replaced by a table full of octogenarians
innocently playing canasta.  Maybe it only looked like a theater filled
with bored and solitary men.  Maybe the guy on the aisle with his enormous
appendage was a shill, a fraud, a plant, a sham; an impostor meant to lull
the uninitiated into a false sense of "This place sucks, guess I better
leave," so that when they do the real action can resume.

Or maybe not; sometimes a guy stroking his Johnson is just a guy stroking
his Johnson.

I squirmed in my seat, trying to get comfortable, determined to wait it
out.

I sensed more than saw The Man as he slipped out of the darkness at the
back of the theater and stood leaning against the side of my seat.  He
smelled of dark cologne and sex and his sweatpants – far looser than
mine – hung on little more than his barely concealed bulge, which
dangled in the air mere inches from my face.

My mouth feeling unusually moist, I contemplated this latest development
for a moment, intrigued, and (not for the first time) wondering how it
might taste.  I saw no immediate downside.

And just like that, my mushroom head made a decision.

                          ??

A study should be conducted to discover the average intelligence quotient
of the "second head."  If an IQ of 180 is considered genius-level and a 140
is still pretty-damned smart, then the head of the average male penis
should score somewhere around a 12.

I'm just saying...

                             ??

With only minor hesitation, I reached up and ran my fingers along the
waistband of his pants finding only smooth skin where I had for some reason
thought would be coarse pubic hair.  I pulled further and still saw nothing
but skin, and so I pulled a little more and the unexpectedly hairless
object of my search and desire popped out and lightly tapped me on the
lips.

Kissing it seemed the neighborly thing to do.

And so I did.  And then I did it again.  And then I nuzzled him with my
cheek and started kissing the underside of his shaft.  And then I licked.
And then I alternated (not wanting to get into a rut): cuddling then
lapping at the hard yet tender skin then smooching then slurping then
hugging then planting a wet one right on the tip.

Moving on, his head tasted salty as I sucked it into my mouth.  It had an
interesting and delicious flavor not entirely unlike pussy, but darker, and
my salivary glands started shooting moisture in anticipation of more.
Slowly, carefully, working back and forth and ever downward I got him deep
within my throat and held him there for as long as I could without shoving
oxygen tubes up my nasal passages, before finally pulling him out with a
moan, his tonsil probe dripping with my saliva.

Izzy's Mom would have so been proud.

I took a deep breath and swallowed, my heart pumping, and my mouth and
throat tingling and wet.  I swallowed again and once more moved my lips to
the tip, breathing through the nose as I opened my enthusiastic mouth.  He
let it dangle there in front of me for just a moment like the carrot, and
then grasped himself at the base and smacked my cheeks with it like the
stick in advance of finally putting it back deep inside.  I made a small
strangling sound, most likely the result of having that thing shoved way
down my throat, but it didn't hurt and my saliva production went into
overdrive.  And then just like that, it was gone.  He pulled it out
(stifling a small groan himself), stuffed it back into his pants and took
one – but only one – step back.  I sat there with my mouth slightly
open, staring at the tent in his clothing.  It's possible a bit of drool
dangled from the corner of my lips, but as I was just a bit preoccupied, I
cannot confirm.

I looked up at him.  He held out his hand.  I gave him mine.
 Gently but insistently, he pulled me out of the seat and escorted me into
the darkest part of the theater, like a lamb to the slaughter or a young
and horny man to a potential gang bang.  I had no idea what awaited me and
I did not care as he drew me toward the place the orgy-seeking diving rod
in my pants would have eventually found without assistance once my eyes had
completely adjusted to the low ambient light.

Behind the center section at Zebulon, there existed an eight inch wide,
four-and-a-half-foot tall half-wall, and a five foot deep open area, beyond
which there were two private rooms – ostensibly for the purpose of
watching different (though equally award-winning, I'm sure) pornographic
films than the one being presented.  Word had it, however, that the reason
for these rooms was something other than variety and/or artistic
differences.

I never did get the opportunity to explore those rooms for myself; never
managed to sequester my naked body within their confines with door slightly
ajar, waiting for some stranger (or two) to come in and fuck me up the ass.
An undisclosed amount of dynamite intervened before I could, but let's not
get ahead of ourselves.

It was to the open area The Man took me, pressing me into an interesting,
groping sandwich between him and the half-wall. His cloth-covered erection
slid into the cleft between my tightly cloth-covered cheeks and wiggled
around back there in a most entertaining fashion, grinding into my ass as
he reached around and gave me a squeeze.

He leaned closer and in a deep whisper said, "You need a good fucking,"
punctuating it by humping me while he ran his hands over my...everything.

And I let him do it, leaned into it, squirming my posterior in what I hoped
was an inviting manner as my pelvic region became the focus of my entire
attention.  The thing in my pants felt like an I-beam, stretching the
material to the point of bursting through in an apparent homage to that
scene from Alien – just, you know, without all the blood and death and
screaming.  And all the while I knew there was no way in Hell it was going
to happen.

Beyond the two fingers (and okay...I admit it...small toy) Izzy's Mom had
used on me more than once, I'd never had anything up my ass, and certainly
nothing as big as The Man's dick.  He wasn't as ludicrous in size as the
guy on the aisle, but still far too large for a first time fucking.  It
wasn't going to fit and I sure as hell wasn't going to try and make it.

I looked around and noticed a surprising number of people standing (and one
kneeling) there in the dark at the back of the theater.  The man on his
knees had his hands and his mouth full as he stroked two men and sucked a
third.  It looked like fun but I had little time to dwell on it as it
appeared The Man had invited a friend, and the two of them were now running
their hands over my entire body.

The Man replaced his bulge with his hand as he squeezed my firm but fleshy
cheeks and played his fingers across the thin material covering my anus.
His friend paid extra close attention to my throbbing appendage.  I found
both methods of manual stimulation to be most entertaining.  And then, as
if by some unspoken signal, they each grabbed one side of my waistband and
pulled downward.

                           ??

There are times when the veil of self-absorption lifts and you can almost
see the crossroads as you get to them.  Turn one way and this happens; turn
another way and this other thing happens, and maybe you go right and maybe
you go left and maybe you have a moment of clarity just before your
mushroom head starts making decisions for you again and draws you into
something like, say, a gang bang.

                            ??

Time to leave.

I barely caught the waistband of my sweats before they dropped down around
my ankles and out of easy reach, and then sidestepped about a foot.  The
two gentlemen groping my body resisted at first, but only a little.  In my
current state, it wouldn't have taken much encouragement, but no means no,
even in a dark movie theater filled with horny men who don't want to be
publicly involved in a legal incident at the local jack-shack.  They let me
go.

                          ??

Lest I come off seeming like a tease as I beat a hasty retreat, in spite of
my long history of fantasizing about doing exactly what I had almost done,
and my absurdly strong desire to just go for it and allow myself to be
fucked up the ass by untold numbers of men, my reasons for stopping in
mid-grope were based in sound logic.

Giving in to temptation, allowing the scenario to play itself out, letting
myself be stripped naked there in the anonymous darkness and gang banged
like there was no tomorrow, while delightful to consider, would have been
deeply, deeply dangerous.

                             ??

I shuffled my way back into the relative light of the seated area,
struggling to pull up my pants as I went.  They didn't seem to fit right.
Not sure why.  Might have had something to do with the blood-engorged,
tingling and throbbing thing I was trying to force into them.  And it
didn't help that I felt all those eyes on me as I made my way toward the
exit with my clothing askew and my hardon damn-near ripping through the
fabric; or that every adjustment I tried to make in them seemed to pull the
material farther and farther up my butt crack, and made it abundantly clear
to everyone with eyes that I wasn't wearing any underwear.

Trying not to think of, well, anything, I pushed through the exit and out.

                           ??

The Goth chick was still at the counter as I stumbled through the theater
door.  I stopped for a moment to collect myself, decided it wasn't doing
any good, and started walking toward the outside exit on wobbly legs.  She
tossed a momentary glance in my general direction, as she might gaze at a
fly buzzing past: close enough to notice but far enough away to ignore.
And then she paused in her gum chewing and slowly brought her eyes back to
me from the ground up.  They stopped about halfway there.

It seems that when erect (as I most certainly was right then) I appear to
be rather noticeable, especially when wearing tight sweats and not a damned
thing else.  And, well, she noticed.

She wore the strangest expression on her face, but nevertheless smiled and
said, "Damn, kid."

I kept walking, trying not to look like I was having an out-of-body
experience, which I kinda was.  Things were throbbing between my legs and
my pants were creeping higher and higher up the crack of my ass.  I was
hornier than I had ever been and dangerously close to doing something
stupid like...gee...I don't know...going back into the theater and letting
one (or all) of those strange men fuck me bareback.

The girl didn't help matters when she said, "Bring that lovely thing back
here."

On any other night, I might have taken her up on the offer.  I might have
wandered behind the counter.  I might have pushed up her black spandex
skirt and pulled down her purple nylon stockings, bent her over the
convenient display case and, with little or no preamble, done to her what
those men wanted to do to me.  I might have, but I didn't.

I kept moving to and through the door and into the night air.

...To Be Continued...

Dear Reader: I hope you are enjoying this tale of sexual awakening and
sloppy wet blowjobs thus far.  I truly look forward to your comments.
Please e-mail to wyldenights at yahoo dot com.

Thanks and support Nifty.

-Ian Wylde-