My Story

Discussion in 'Relationships, Discrimination, and Jealousy' started by pony9a, Sep 21, 2004.

  1. pony9a

    pony9a Member

    Aug 18, 2004
    Likes Received:
    I put this story here cos it kind of has to do with relationships.
    I felt every second of this and I suspect that many of the guys here
    will relate in some way to this story.

    He approached me. It happened in the crowded
    cafe on 8th Avenue with flashing disco lights and
    pounding wordless music. I'd stationed myself in
    the back with a book as if to read even though the
    concentration of laughing and chatter made it
    impossible to connect words and higher meaning.
    He stood in front of my table with a rude smirk. My
    chair was wedged against the wall and I couldn't
    move. Mr. Casanova, dressed in a tight v-neck shirt
    and crisp jeans that hugged his thighs, grabbed the
    other chair and sat down before I could say no.
    "Don't you want to tell me your name?" he asked.
    "I'll tell you mine. It's easy. Ken, like the doll."

    Ken had a long pointy nose. His dark blue eyes
    pinned me to my seat. He grinned just wide enough
    to show off his sparkling teeth, which stood in even
    rows like Marines in their dress uniforms. "What's
    the matter?" He reached across the table to touch
    my average-sized, not abnormally large hands. "Are
    you shy?"

    "Not shy," I shot back. "Just tired."

    "That's your name? 'Just Tired?'" He grinned again.
    "You want to go for a walk with me, Just Tired?"

    My father was a great believer in walks. He called
    them "constitutionals." How could anything
    constitutional have been immoral? My parents used
    to host our family's Passover seders, and after we
    ate my father insisted on leading all the men folk
    around the block to digest our food. I always
    lingered in the back of our troupe with my older
    cousin, who embarrassed me with his boasts of
    bobbling Jewish girls' bazooties.

    "I don't know if I'm up for a walk," I told Ken.

    "Come on, before I take it back." He stood up and
    waited for me.

    My stomach rumbled like when I ate spicy food. I
    took extra time leaning over the side of my chair to
    zip up my bag because I could feel what one old
    boyfriend called "the Monster" and another, "Your
    Big Fat Earthworm," stir in my pants. I tried
    counting to ten backwards to make it go away.

    I knew gay guys who went through men like potato
    chips. They were always catching eyes with
    someone walking his dog, across a crowded bar
    room, at the gym. Hey, want to come up? I was the
    only one who was embarrassed about what those
    words could have meant when I knew perfectly well
    what they meant: you win a free trip to Disneyworld.
    And why not go to Disneyworld, unless you had
    something to hide?

    I'd spent months in that cafe next to a cup of tea,
    my nose buried in the same copy of Anna Karenina
    as if I were absorbed in some higher calling, some
    great literary study. I usually chose tables near the
    door, to keep hasty exits possible, but today the
    place was so crowded I had to sit in the back. My
    eyes darted up enviously after the steam from my
    innocent tea that floated without shame through the
    dark heart of the room, its mysterious corners,
    behind men's ears, up their nostrils.

    We picked our way to the door through a maze of
    men with sculpted hair. They were dressed in tank
    tops and soccer shorts and they'd jammed their
    tables together in the center of the room. A few of
    them fanned their necks with glossy gay magazines.
    As we passed a big blond, built like a star quarter-
    back, I sucked in my stomach and stood on tiptoe
    so my crotch wouldn't graze the back of his neck.
    I'd seen him in the cafe a few times, but I had sense
    enough not to dream about him.

    Outside, the sun hurt my eyes. Ken linked his arm
    through mine and my penis stiffened again. "I bet a
    lot of guys come up to you like this. Is that why you
    go to Big Cup?" His shiny boot heels ground out a
    barbarically thrilling beat against the sidewalk. No
    one seemed to take any special notice of us. I tried
    desperately to recite the alphabet backwards and
    cursed my stubborn penis. The stupidest things
    made it grow: a man slipping off his shoe or licking
    ice cream off a spoon or rubbing his hand over his
    chest while deep in thought. Innocent things like that.

    "I don't meet so many guys," I said simply. "Many"
    wasn't so different from "any." It sounded more
    professional, as if sex was something you made an
    appointment to have done right after getting your
    tooth drilled.

    "You're not going to meet many guys if you don't
    tell them what your name is." Ken clicked his teeth
    and winked. "So how old are you?" he asked.

    "Thirty." I added a few years, hoping to come up
    with the correct answer. "You?"

    He clicked his teeth again. "You don't need to know
    how old I am."

    "Then why did you ask me?" I tried to giggle.

    "I think you're feeling uncomfortable," he said.
    "Don't you like talking to me?"

    "It's not that I don't like talking to you, it's just that,
    well, yes, I do feel uncomfortable. You're making
    me feel uncomfortable."

    "I'm very sorry." He winked and clucked his teeth.
    My penis bobbed up again so I took off my back-
    pack and dangled it in front of my waist. We
    stopped at the street corner to wait for a red light.
    I took the opportunity to hitch up my pants and re-
    arrange the tumor swelling behind the zipper of my

    "We're not far from my place," he pointed out. "No
    pressure, of course."

    "Fine!" I burst out without thinking.

    Silver duct tape buffeted the cracked glass in the
    front door to his building, next to a Chinese laundry.
    "Tell me you like me," I whispered to myself as he
    led me up a flight of dusty stairs. "Kiss me quietly.
    Hug me in the dark place under your covers."

    He lived in a one-room apartment with dirty dishes
    piled in the rusty sink and garbage and old clothes
    spread over the bare floor instead of a rug. The
    walls were stained with mysterious spots. I sat on
    his mattress, which was barely covered by a dirty
    sheet. Ken yanked at my belt. "What have we here?"
    he said.

    I moved my hips to hide my mid-section. "Can't we
    turn out the lights?"

    He hiked down my jeans and boxer shorts at once.
    "Jesus. That is one big dick." His icy fingers fluttered
    over my penis, then pinched it. "Yes." Ken pulled
    down his pants with one hand. He wasn't wearing
    any underwear. His dick wasn't the size of mine, but
    it was fairly large. "I've always thought mine was
    nothing to sneeze at, but I'm embarrassed next to
    this masterpiece. You've got a big dick. You know
    that? Allow me to honor your hot dog." I squeezed
    my eyes as he swallowed my penis whole and hum-
    med like a hungry man tearing through doughnuts.

    I first became aware of my big dick when I was
    twelve and my older cousin made me strip for him
    in my bedroom after one of our seders. "Jesus,
    that's one hell of a package!" He grabbed it like it
    was a firehose and twirled it around while he mas-
    turbated. After, he threatened to tell the family I was
    a nymphomaniac homosexual who wanted it if I said
    anything. Who would they have believed, he said,
    the sports-playing, good-looking sixteen year old or
    the hook-nosed wimpy pre-pubescent shit with
    white skin and red freckles who still read fairy tales
    for fun? Before his holiday visits, I'd shut myself in
    the bathroom, curl up on the tile, and clutch my
    stomach. When his parents moved to Florida unex-
    pectedly, I should have been relieved. But when I
    lay in bed waiting to fall asleep and my fingers found
    my penis, I dreamed about him, dressed in his Pass-
    over suit.

    In high school, I went on a date with a Jewish girl.
    She kissed me and I gagged. I went to the University
    of Michigan and spent two years escorting young
    ladies with milkmaid skin to movies in exchange for
    chaste hugs, and then I fell. I kissed the chubby
    guys and the depressed guys with funny eyes or
    computer nerds with pimples left over from high
    school. In the middle of the sloppy kissing, when my
    big, fat dick popped up, they couldn't help making
    some stupid comment and they'd grab it. I let them,
    as their reward for kissing me, for telling me they
    really liked me.

    Before I came out, I used to wonder how you crossed
    that line from going on a date with someone as if you
    were just two people who enjoyed each other's
    company to full-blown kissing, or even holding hands.
    When I started seeing men, I never solved that
    mystery. Instead I transformed from a sexual non-
    entity to an over-sized head, shaft, and testicles that
    loomed over someone's hungry mouth.

    The men who gave me blow jobs were so un-used
    to something that big in their mouths, their teeth
    scraped my skin. It wasn't their fault. They'd tell me
    how lucky I was to have such a big penis, how lucky
    they were. I'd let them blow me for weeks, even
    months at a time, just to prove it wasn't about lust.
    After they spent the night, I walked bow-legged
    across campus with cotton balls stuffed into the
    crotch of my underwear.

    When I graduated, I moved to New York to meet
    Prince Charming, who lived there I heard. I found
    my job as a paralegal at Kamisky and Klein and
    embarked on a course of self-improvement, visiting
    art museums, theater, and art galleries, taking a
    French class. Once I went to one of those big New
    York clubs, paid my twenty dollars, frowned on a
    stool at muscle queens groping each other with their
    shirts off, and left after an hour. I visited another bar
    where this time I frowned at lecherous old men. I
    went back there a few times, just to sit in the corner
    and nurse a drink and watch the older guys flirt. In
    a restaurant, a handsome waiter asked me to meet
    him when the restaurant closed. The waiter held my
    hand in a bar and extended his foot under the table
    to rub my big, throbbing dick. I wouldn't go home
    with him. He promised to call and didn't. He was too
    good-looking. I thought about visiting one of the sex
    clubs described in the back of the bar rags under
    the heading "Getting Off", but the day I decided to
    go, I caught the fleshy underside of my penis in my
    zipper. The mishap left an oval-shaped pink sore
    that made it painful to masturbate. I never thought
    of visiting a sex club again, even when the wound

    "Get off me, please," I whimpered to Ken.

    He pulled my dick out of his mouth. "Did I hurt you?
    You know your hot dog's so big, it's hard to open
    my mouth that wide. I promise to be more careful."

    "No, no, no," I whined softly. "I want something else.
    Where are my pants?"

    "No one's forcing you here. What do you want?
    Make up your mind and quit leading me on." Ken
    ran his fingers through his black hair, glossy with
    gel. "I'm sorry. You should know, that's one hell of
    a... I never saw anything like it. I mean it." He
    pressed my hand to the mattress. "Lie back a
    second. I promise not to suck it."

    I sat against the wall. Ken smiled, then reached
    through the slit of my boxer shorts and pulled it out.
    "Nice and hard. I'm going to beat you off. Is that okay?"

    It wasn't bad. His hand swung up and down gently
    enough. I screwed my eyes shut. "Yeah," I admitted.
    "It's alright."

    "Yeah," he teased and grabbed his own penis. "It's
    alright." I came first. "That's nice," he said. "Nice."
    Then he squirted a few spurts of juice and handed
    me a towel. "Hey, I'd invite you to hang out, but I'm
    on my way..."

    "Sure," I said. He pulled on a pair of white briefs
    with some designer's name on the label. They
    stretched over the curve of his hips and hugged his
    normal-sized penis.

    Everything was moving too fast now. Ken liked me,
    enough to pick me out of a crowd, to invite me back
    to his own bedroom, to beg me to stay just when I
    said I wanted to leave, to make me come. I turned
    my head everywhere, desperate to memorize details
    of the room, inside-out socks flung into the corners,
    hollowed-out envelopes torn open, a bicycle leaning
    against the wall, the wadded-up come rag by his bed.

    Ken reached for his pack of cigarettes and tapped
    it impatiently against his thigh.

    I scribbled a note on the back of a receipt for
    Chinese food he'd already eaten. "Here's my name
    and number."

    "Great," Ken said without making sure he could
    see where I'd left the note or make out my hand-
    writing. He led me out the door. "It was fun. And
    again, real nice dick."

    "Thanks," I said. My hands shook so badly I balled
    them into fists. "As a matter of fact," I added, "I made
    it myself."

    "Oh, yeah," he replied and closed the door in my face.

    And then I was free. There was nothing left for me to
    do there, but I stood for a while in the hall, alone,
    with dust settling on my shoes. I wanted to figure out
    what, if anything, I was supposed to learn for next time.

    "Be Cool and Play Safe"
  2. Pecker

    Pecker Retired Moderator
    Gold Member

    Mar 5, 2002
    Likes Received:
    Be cool and post in the proper section.
  3. pony9a

    pony9a Member

    Aug 18, 2004
    Likes Received:
    Be cool and post in the proper section.
    [post=256933]Quoted post[/post]​

    I am very sorry Mr Pecker Sir, if I have offended your sense of order and my little faux pas has created disorder in your little world, but if you had actually read the post you would have seen the reason I gave for posting it in this realtionship section. As the story is more of a relationship issue I posted it in the relationships section.
    I don't want to offend anyone here so I will refrain from posting anything again.
    So sorry to have upset you Sir.

    MASSIVEPKGO_CHUCK Well-Known Member

    Aug 9, 2003
    Likes Received:
    the pain behind your eyes
    Pony, don't be an asshole about pecker's reply there dude. It just so happens that your little story does indeed belong in the Fictious Stories section, 'kay?
  5. pony9a

    pony9a Member

    Aug 18, 2004
    Likes Received:
    I am sorry.
    My initial reactions were bad ones, things arent so good around me at present.This group was an escape from things. It felt good to be in a support group where things could be discussed without prejudice.
    I didnt mean to cause a problem when I posted, I just wanted to share and contribute to the forum.
    Is there a moderator who can remove the post from the forum?

    Mr pecker I apologise for my intial "knee jerk" reaction.
  6. Hockeytiger

    Hockeytiger Active Member

    Sep 14, 2004
    Likes Received:
    Midwestern US
    I'd prefer that it was not removed. If anything needs to happen, just move it. Personally, I found the story pretty well done. It definately evoked an emotional response from me. It obviously has a theraputic effect for you pony9a, so I'd encouage you to continue writing. It just looks like some people would prefer it be located in the Ficticious Stories area. I understand your reluctance to post it there. This isn't just some trashy erotic story designed to titilate us.

    Before I looked at it, I was a bit surprised and a bit annoyed that it was posted where it was. Then I read it and inferentially understood why you posted it where you did.

    My suggestion is, don't let this incident get you down. Yeah you overreacted. Its not like any of us haven't done that at one time either. If posting in these forums helps you out any, please continue to do so. Personally, I'd suck it up and post any further stories in the Ficticious Stories area to avoid this problem again. But it is your choice really.
  7. dikkiedik

    dikkiedik Member

    Aug 6, 2004
    Likes Received:
    the Netherlands, near Utrecht
    pony9a you gave me sight in a world I don't know. I feel the emotion. I guessed you had to write it down as part of what’s going on in your head. Now all of us can read your thoughts you must be prepared that not everyone feels the same. Reactions can hurt you. I think personally that many guys read your story and recognize their own feelings at moments they were not sure how to handle them.
    Just write down your story. No need to change the place where it’s placed. Any place is good.
    Please feel free to write down your thoughts. If you feel better ……….. it worked.
    Don’t take reactions too serious.
  8. txquis

    Gold Member

    Feb 25, 2003
    Likes Received:

    Was the story actually fictitious,
    or just told in that kind of style?
    Perhaps it was autobiographical?
    perhaps i should read it???
    LOL :p
  9. blue27

    blue27 Member

    Jul 28, 2004
    Likes Received:

    I read your whole story and I have to ask the same as some of the others....

    Is this all true, or is this a story and you want to get a response?

    If it is true, I think you have some issues you may need to resolve with yourself or you need someone to talk to and work through the issues with.

    I'm no expert and frankly my life is pretty screwed up but somehow I maintain a balance and keep from going crazy. I call myself a bisexual but often I wonder who I am hurting, if I can continue to function as 2 different people and if I will ever be able to drift off to sleep at night without constantly thinking about who / what I am and what is wrong with me.

    It seems like you have hangups that you need to resolve too....

    If so, GOOD LUCK
  10. hungthick

    hungthick New Member

    Jul 8, 2004
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    PONY9A you wrote an amazing story.
  11. Imported

    Gold Member

    Jan 1, 2000
    Likes Received:
    Driveway: I would have to say that this thread is ideally suited to this forum considering that it's the "relationships" forum and that this tale is far more concerned with relationships than it is with sex, or even cocks really.

    Not to mention that the writing is about a zillion times better than most of the shlock in the fiction forum.

    I tell ya what though, I'm sure as shit glad I don't date men. We're an uncomunicative, distant, self-centered bunch at the best of times.

    that said...

    You are not your body. You are not your face. For most of the history of our species a person would live their whole lives and only ever see their reflection in standing water. Imagine that, living to be thirty, fifty, having no idea what your face looks like.

    By the same token, your body does not define who you are, you can shape it, but it is not you. People who believe otherwise end up crazy....or governor of California.

    You are three things. You are your thoughts, you are your feelings, you are your actions. of these things we can control only one.

    We are slaves to our emotions, we cannot control when or how they come or how strongly the affect us. Ditto thoughts, scary to think that a thought comes when "it" wants, not when I want.

    The ONLY thing that we have is our actions.

    Take control. Have faith in yourself.
  12. george

    george Member

    Aug 2, 2004
    Likes Received:

    I loved your story, everything about it. You're a very good writer. I also read your other story in the fictitious section. Awesome!
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