Blading in California
By Muse Calliope


Story codes: MF cons, oral

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This is a work of erotic fiction and should only be 
viewed by adults. Minors and those who are easily 
offended should not proceed. This is a work of fantasy, 
and no resemblance with any living person is intended. 
Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental and was 
not the intention of the author.
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1.

Hey there, people, I'm Bobby Brown 
They say I'm the cutest boy in town 
My car is fast, my teeth are shiny 
I tell all the girls they can kiss my heini
(Frank Zappa)


I was not dating him for long, since he was not really 
my kind of man. Too superficial, too much convinced of 
his looks, his sex appeal, and definitely not 
intellectual enough for a relationship beyond the wanton 
bonking we enjoyed for some time.

To give you an example of his background: On our first 
date he took me to a brainless horror movie of blood 
sucking vampires in present day L.A. Don't get me wrong. 
I have nothing against L.A. In fact I like California; I 
liked it the very first moment I set a foot on Pacific 
Beach in San Diego, after a 20 hour journey from London. 
London, England, that is; or to be precise: Camberwell, 
part of the borough of Lewisham, should you be interested 
in some European geography.

Camberwell is probably the grottiest part of Southern 
London, and has neither the class of neighbouring 
Dulwich Village, nor the bohemian flair of the better 
known Brixton. It is, however, the place where I had to 
spend the first twenty-five years of my life; and if you 
want to understand why I never left San Diego again, you 
have to understand the connotation of growing up in 
Camberwell. I guess in old American movies you would 
compare it with being born at the lower east side 
(whatever that means).

For a Camberwell girl the idea and most definitely the 
actual act of inline skating along Pacific Beach towards 
La Jolla is like stepping into an episode of Baywatch. 
And David (that was his name), even though he had no 
resemblance with a certain popular actor, was clearly 
something not to be seen in any part of London. 

One of the advantages of west bound jet lag is the 
experience of witnessing a sunrise at 4:30 a.m. Pacific 
Time. It may be more impressive coming from Europe to 
the East Coast, facing the nascent sun in the warm waves 
of Miami Beach, but for me the cold Pacific, the white 
reflection of the wave tops, and the thundering, foaming 
water was enough to bring tears to my eyes. You may not 
believe me, but I had never before seen the ocean. 
Besides Brighton, of course, but that does not really 
count.

So, to cut a long story short, the ocean and the sunrise 
was responsible for dragging me out at first light every 
day of my first week. Skating along the beach, dressed 
in light clothes with proper protective gear, I studied 
carefully my fellow early morning risers, scrutinising 
enviously the elegant joggers and skaters that started 
to fill the curb along the sand.

Looking at the women with full makeup at 5 a.m., I was 
reminded of the game we sometimes played in the London 
tube: Guessing the country of origin of the tourists in 
front of us. How do you spot an American girl? Look for 
the one wearing heavy makeup and runners. That was of 
course the time before high platform runners and boots 
became the standard foot wear of girls all over the 
world, except maybe Milan, where the natural elegance of 
Italian women prevents such tastelessness.

Looking into the bright sunlight, I also realised why 
everybody in this country had eyes like an insect, due 
to the modern addendum of a reflecting blade across the 
face, what our parents might have called sun glasses. 
Now with blades across our faces and blades on our feet, 
we resemble more and more those creatures out of early 
science fiction movies.

But I am getting a little distracted from my original 
intention, which was telling you about David (or Dave, 
as in "call me Dave"), whom I met in my second week at 
around 5.45 a.m. He bashed into me after haphazardly 
overtaking an elderly couple. Due to the facing sun and 
my lack of blades, I could not react in time to avoid 
the impact. After spinning around and some desperate 
movements to maintain balance, I performed an 
involuntary summersault across the little concrete wall, 
separating the beach from the curb.

Please don't take me for naive. I have been dating boys 
since I was 14, and I lost my innocence at 16 (which 
happens to be the age of consent in England). But I have 
never really met an American, or shall I say Californian 
boy. Boys in Camberwell have generally white skin and 
brown teeth. Dave had brown skin, blond hair, and his 
shiny teeth reminded me of a line in a Frank Zappa song. 
Well, the next line of named song was a natural thing to 
happen later in our acquaintance. But let's not rush 
things here.

"Are you alright?". He was leaning over the wall staring 
down on the tempting picture my body must have provided 
lying like a beetle on sand close to the rising tide. 
His metallic eyes did not reveal his expression, but I 
gave him the benefit of the doubt that he was genuinely 
worried about the consequences of his aggressive 
skating.

Spitting out some sand and clumsily rolling over on my 
side, I blinked into the bright light and asked the 
shadowy creature still lurking over the wall.
"Is that your way of chatting up girls?"
He started to stutter some response, but I was not in 
the mood to listen to his excuses.

Looking along the wall, I realised that the next steps 
where about 50 yards away. No chance to reach them 
without getting out of my skates. I slowly stood up, 
which caused me to sink ankle deep into the dry sand, 
checked my bones and looked to the face above me.
"Well, you clearly succeeded, because I need you to help 
me up that wall."

After a brief moment of hesitation, he reached out and 
offered me his hands. I stood one foot against the wall 
and grabbed his upper arms, while he tried to get a grip 
under my shoulders. Ready to scratch his face, should 
his hands move closer to my breast, I found reassuringly 
firm deltoid muscles under his shirt.

"Here you go!" he said and I felt his strength pulling 
me off the ground. Since he was still wearing his 
skates; and I was considerably lower than he, it was not 
an easy task. Half way up, with both my skates on the 
brim of the wall, my sweltering anger overcame my good 
upbringing. Pressing against the wall with both feet, I 
had no difficulty breaking whatever balance he had left, 
heavily bent over and connected to the ground merely by 
a few inches of round rubber.

"Shit!" was all he screamed, before I hit the ground 
again. This time I was prepared for the impact. His body 
landed heavily on me, which took my breath away. His 
razor blades fell off, and I was looking into green 
eyes; they were as green as the foaming waves, that 
started to reach up to us. (Romance, here I come!)

"Quid pro quo." I said with a smile.
"Wha'?"
"Pleased to meet you. I am Calliope."
"Wha'?"
"That's the name of a Muse, you know."
"You're not from here. Are you Irish?"
"No, I am from Camberwell."
"Wha'?"



2.


Oh God I am the American dream 
I do not think I'm too extreme 
An' I'm a handsome son of a bitch 
I'm gonna get a good job and be real rich
(Frank Zappa)


We ended up along the beach, sitting outside a coffee 
shop, where we did not have to get out of our skates. At 
six in the morning the place was not exactly full, and 
the smile of the waitress was still a little bit rusty, 
when she scanned our sand covered bodies.

Of course it was David who suggested this joint after 
more small talk overusing the word "what" on his side. I 
did not make it very difficult for him, since I found 
myself genuinely interested. To give him credit, he 
tried pretty hard to keep a conversation going; and 
after his ears got used to my southern London accent, 
even the frequency of the whats dropped to a bearable 
number. He asked me what I was doing in San Diego, and 
when I told him that I was here to escape the London 
wheather, he gave me a shiny smile. His physical shape 
was more impressive than his eloquence, but since the 
opposite maybe true for me, I counted myself content.

When the waitress came to take our orders, I went for 
fresh orange juice and scrambled eggs. Once I ordered 
tea outside Britain, but you are supposed to learn from 
your mistakes.

"Thought you English drink tea in the morning?" he asked 
with a polite smile.
"You probably listened a bit too often to a certain 
song. Do you have Werewolfs in New Orleans, like Sting 
sings in "Moon over Bourbon Street"?"
This was the first crucial mistake in my conversation. 
His smile broadened, and I was swiped by a fresh 
eagerness in his behaviour: "Hey, you're into horror 
movies?"

Of course I could have turned his immediate invitation 
down, but I was a bit flattered by the fact that this 
handsome guy was asking me out on a date. Later I 
realised that San Diego is swarming with similar looking 
guys, and that David was by no means the handsome son of 
a bitch of the Zappa song. But he was fascinated by my 
white complexion and black hair, which reminded him of 
one of his favourite comic book characters, some Lady 
Death as he explained, written by a bloke from London, 
as he explained eagerly. But my guess was that his 
curiosity was more raised because up to that day he had 
not fucked a girl from England, and clearly not one from 
Camberwell.

So I followed him to this swarming cinema complex, where 
from all the movies available he selected the one with 
the vampires. I barely managed to sit through it. So 
after the big vampire villain was dead and the half 
vampire hybrid was cured, David and I ended up in his 
car. 

"You look great, girl!" was his invitation to proceed 
with more lively matters. Although I knew what was about 
to come, I enjoyed the compliment like most other girls 
would. I left the initiative to him, and was only hoping 
he had a decent place to go. Heavy physical exercise on 
the rubber matt of his car was not high on my agenda.

Nothing against sex in a car. I have wonderful memories 
of my first boyfriend burying his face in my wet pussy, 
kneeling before my seat, my legs spread wide open, one 
tucked behind the wheel and the other resting on the 
dashboard. All windows were fogged from inside by our 
steamy action, and it took us some time to get a clear 
view before we headed back through the cold London night 
to my parents place. It also took some time to get the 
deep grid marks left by the rubber matt out of my 
boyfriends knees. That was true love, kneeling on this 
floor while giving me my first orgasms! But since I had 
a wage suspicion that with David I would end up on the 
rubber grid, I was relieved when he suggested coffee at 
his place.

I always find it an exceptional example of pseudo 
communication, when a guy asks a girl at 11 p.m. to have 
coffee at his place, when in reality all he wants is 
sex. This is a cross cultural phenomenon, except that in 
non Anglo Saxon and culinary more advanced countries, 
like France, Germany or Italy, the offer mostly includes 
some alcoholic beverage. But since for many people in 
Britain or the US alcohol and sex have similar sinful 
connotations, the politically correct surrogate offer of 
a late night coffee is widely used.

I slightly got David on the wrong foot went I suggested 
to substitute coffee for a glass of dry Chardonnay. In 
turn I was surprised to hear (instead of a what) that he 
did not have any at home, only some Miller light. 
Although I do not share the arrogance of my European 
friends, who would laugh at the offer of American beer, 
I dared to ask him whether we could buy a bottle of 
California wine. But since my request (" Do you fancy 
getting some from the Off License?") generated another 
"what", followed by a blank look, I quickly embraced his 
coffee invitation.

His place was fairly decent, a small condo close to the 
Beach on the way to La Jolla. I settled on a chair, some 
distance away from the bed, and took the Miller light 
option after David realised with some embarrassment that 
he was out of coffee after all. Somehow his lack of 
preparations comforted me in my line of thought that he 
did not plan to take me home. But soon the suspicion 
grew, that he might not care much about the wishes of 
his conquests in the first place.

Some people judge the owner of a place by the furniture 
or the pictures at the wall. Well, the furniture was 
cheap and the pictures comprised of a few posters with 
either sporty women at the beach (at least no 
centrefolds), and some horror or science fiction heroes. 
Personally, I judge the owner of a place by the content 
of the bookshelf, since books tell me enough about the 
person who lives in the room. To my surprise Dave was 
the owner of a modest wooden construct, which qualified 
for the description bookshelf by the skin of it's teeth.

I stepped closer and my eyes flicked over the back of a 
few well thumbed books. Based on the experience of 
tonight, I did not expect to see Wardsworth or Byron, 
more authors like Lovecraft or Poe, but the books were 
mainly collections of monthly DC or Marvel comics. As I 
started to browse, the tune of the Sting song filled the 
room. I don't take coffee, I take tea, my dear. Grinning 
from ear to ear David fiddled around with his HiFi 
tower, which he must have bought from the designer of 
the Space Shuttle cockpit.

After several long and boring discussions with my 
brothers on the advantages of certain amplifiers and the 
right length of a speaker cable, I was convinced that 
adolescent men spent their money either on the tuning of 
cars or on their HiFi system. I'm an alien, I'm a legal 
alien. I'm an Englishmen in New York. Thanks for 
reminding me. 

He sat down on a chair next to me, opened his can with a 
splash, and started to gulp down the cold liquid without 
taking his eyes from me. I sipped my beer and endured 
his stare. I was a little bit surprised that he did not 
start getting physical immediately.
"So what're you doing?"
"Why I am here in California?"
"Yeah!"
"To escape the London whether."
He laughed, more relaxed now compared to this morning.
"Vacation then?"
"Nope. Job offer."
"What sort of job?"
I gave him an inviting smile. "Three guesses. If you 
guess right, I owe you a favour. You guess wrong, you 
owe me a favour. Deal?"
"What sort of favour?" 
"Deal?
"Deal."

He looked me over and pursed his lips.
"You're an actress, or a model."
I laughed at his compliment. He was pretty clever.
"That's cheating. The answer is no to both of your 
flattering suggestions. You're two down.
"Come on."
"Ok. Second try.
He paused for almost a minute. I could see his mind 
working. Why would somebody from England come to San 
Diego?
"You're in the travel business. You work for a travel 
agency."
"Wrong. Not even close."
Again he paused, than he shrugged his shoulders.
"I give up. You work in a hotel."
"Cold as a dead fish. You think I am a waitress?"
"So what are you doing?"
"I started a job as a postdoc."

It took some time for the meaning of this words to sink 
in. He became slightly irritated.
"You're a doctor?"
"Yes, but not a medical doctor. I am a scientist. I have 
just finished my PhD and this is my first job as a 
postdoc. I work at the University of Sand Diego in La 
Jolla."
He stared at me, as if I had told him I was an 
astronaut. A scientist did not fit into his picture of 
potential female jobs, not in the same ball park as 
model or travel agent.
"So what about the favour?" I asked with a smile.
"Go on. What do you want?"
"Later, we have enough time for this. First tell me what 
you are doing."
He hesitated, than he grinned and as I expected he got 
the idea.
"Three guesses. Same conditions."

I accepted. So how should I start. I wanted to be fair 
on him, but the first thought that came to my mind was a 
David Hasselhoff look alike coast guard in swimming 
trunks on a chair with the typical glasses on his face.
"You are in the sports business. You run a fitness 
studio, or a health club."
"Not bad. But wrong."
I got bored of my own game.
"You are bodyguard of a famous Hollywood star."
"Come on, be serious."
"No, you are an actor! Everybody in California is 
somehow in the movie business. At least that's what I 
heard back home."
He had an uneasy smile over his face.
"Not really, but I do some acting. Otherwise I work for 
a local security company."
I was surprised to have guessed it right.
"What kind of films do you make? Have I seen you?"
He blushed and did not look me in the eyes:
"I do porn movies."



3.

Eventually me and a friend 
Sort of drifted along into S&M 
I can take about an hour on the tower of power 
'Long as I get a little golden shower
(Frank Zappa)


Well, when you accept the coffee invitation (or the 
Miller light), you also accept the sex that comes with 
the package. This is part of the non verbal 
communication, and you should be fair enough to follow 
it through even on your first date. How far the sex goes 
is certainly up to you, but I was well aware of the 
rules, when I turned around and accepted his hungry 
kiss. His tongue was penetrating my mouth and his hands 
marched from the shoulders to my breasts. When he 
pressed me against the bookshelf, I felt his strength 
and his arousal. I must admit I was pretty horny, 
despite the still lingering jet lag.

The last time I had had sex was ages ago on the other 
side of the world. Maybe not ages, but a few weeks could 
sometimes feel like an eternity.

Writing up my PhD had left me short of my active life 
besides science books and the laboratory workbench. 
Although I had avoided a stable relationship for various 
reasons, the usual ongoing laboratory incest gave me 
enough opportunities to forget my experiments in the 
evenings. Not all scientists are the dull nerds people 
believe them to be. In fact working together long hours 
creates a lot of tension between colleagues. I had ample 
opportunities to relieve some of this tension in places 
like the darkroom, while my experiments kept on cooking 
or incubating on the bench next door.

A science lab is almost never deserted, at least if it 
is a productive and cutting edge institution, where each 
inch of lab space is competed for by numerous people 
from all over the world. Sometimes researchers work in 
shifts, just to avoid the cluttering of equipment or the 
cueing up for crucial machines. But the dark room was 
the one room in the department, where you could lock 
yourself in without raising any suspicions.

Instead of messing around with photo developer and X ray 
films, I got messy with the cum of a couple of guys. Off 
course time was a crucial factor. My record blow job was 
one minute and 25 seconds with my PhD supervisor, who 
was a high flying immunologist at the peak of his 
academic output and in desperate need of a tenured 
position. Afterwards we had still enough time to develop 
two gel X rays, that allowed us to frown over some 
inconclusive data while walking past the guys waiting 
outside. The cleverer ones might have guessed, but they 
did not dare to mention anything to the head of the 
department.

I know, it was totally unethical of my mentor to start a 
relationship with a dependent student, but you have to 
understand the pressure these guys work under. 
Approaching middle age, fighting for a tenured position, 
competing for grant money and publication space, and 
absolutely no time to date, since all free time is 
focused on their Nobel price aspiring work, which so 
very often ends up in the bin next to the crap of an 
undergraduate freshman.

So if a nice young girl enters the field of science, 
they forget their Oxbridge education, and let their 
sperm level cloud their brain. Especially since 
attracting young undergraduates into science is a 
difficult one. The pay is lousy and you could earn 
easily ten grand more a year (pounds Sterling off 
course) just wiggling your ass on high heels in a bank 
or a fairly decent company.

So I did not blame my boss, when I saw the huge bulk in 
his pants on those occasions, when we worked late and I 
had to lean over him to reach for some picture of a gel 
or a printout of my petty scientific work. Since 
virtually his entire waking life was spend in the lab, 
he was pretty desperate for a good lay, and it was easy 
for me to lure him into the dark room.

Once he had sprayed his hot cum over me for the first 
time, I had him literally by the balls. Not that sexual 
harassment is a big issue in the UK, at least not money 
wise, but you know how funny we English behave, when it 
comes to sex. We mostly pretend it does not exist. 
Taking advantage of a student on departmental premises 
is unlikely to increase any changes you might have to 
get this senior lecturer position. My boss was not 
stupid.

Do not misunderstand me, I am not the stupid bimbo, who 
slept her way up to an academic degree, like in so many 
silly stereotypical stories on high school tarts 
graduating with their oral and vaginal skills. I really 
like science, and I passed my BSc and my PhD with 
honours.

Fucking my supervisor was more useful in other matters: 
It got my name as first author on some of his scientific 
publications, although I had done hardly any work for 
it. It helped to persuade the bitchy departmental 
administrator to cough up the money for this very 
important scientific meeting at the Breakers Hotel in 
Palm Beach, Florida (where one single shark could have 
wiped out the entire scientific elite of cellular 
immunology, as they were all paddling in close vicinity 
by the hotel beach, showing off their pot bellies in the 
warm water). And ultimately it made him write to his 
former boss, a professor of immunology at La Jolla and 
definitely the biggest name in my scientific field.

The Professor happened to be in desperate need of a new 
postdoc. After all, besides being a good lay, I also had 
a pretty impressive scientific track record, which 
certainly helped with the application. My former boss 
and I parted as friends, since I always live up to my 
depts. But I refused to marry him, no matter how much he 
pleaded after our last clandestine encounter in my flat, 
where I had introduced him to the, shall we say, kinkier 
aspects of sex.

All this went through my head while Dave was fondling my 
breasts. He was much too tender for my liking, and 
obviously needed some encouragement. I reached down and 
got a strong grip around his groin, taking the whole 
package in one hand.
"Easy baby!" he gasped.
I bit his lower lip. "I think you are somebody who likes 
his sex hot, don't you. So stop playing with my breasts 
and show me something real. People say male porn stars 
are selected for their size. How about you? Strip to 
your bare ass!"



4.

Oh God I am the American dream 
With a spindle up my butt till it makes me scream 
An' I'll do anything to get a head 
I lay awake nights saying: "Thank you, Fred!"
(Frank Zappa)


I certainly enjoy a muscular male body. Even more since 
I am a lazy couch potato. Not that I am fat or plumb or 
even chubby, I am just not much of a gym person. I keep 
a natural fitness by my inline skating, which also helps 
to keep the cellulite in check, so my ass is pretty much 
the best part of my body. But Dave was a real beauty. 
Firm arm and shoulder muscles, all well defined, deep 
tan, flat stomach, nice firm ass. He was a real dish, 
almost like a birthday surprise, your friends might 
organise for you as a treat.

I enjoyed touching his body, stroking his shaven chest. 
As soon as his circumcised cock was out of his pants, I 
held tight, pulling him to his bed.

The difference between being a good lay or a bad lay is 
very much based on the way you give head to your beau in 
question. I am not talking about romance, or love, or 
feelings or the emotional part of a relationship. All I 
mean is the pure, straightforward sex on a one night 
stand or with a distant acquaintance. At the end, for a 
man, it all comes down to blow jobs. Even if he is one 
of the rare exceptions, who does not want to come in 
your mouth, or all over your face, he still likes the 
wet foreplay of having his dick (and balls) sucked at 
least as much as the actual act of shagging you.

If you are good at sucking him off, you are a good lay, 
if you are pathetic, you are a lousy lay. Period. You 
ever come across a bloke who tells you the opposite, 
don't trust him, don't fuck him, don't even date him, 
because he is most likely a liar (or if not, he is a 
virgin and has never had his dick sucked in the first 
place). In any case, the wrong guy for you.

Therefore, I was absolutely in control with Dave. I went 
on my knees, took a tight grip, looked him in the eyes 
and whispered: "I am going to suck you baby! I am going 
to make you come all over my face. "

Hell, this is what I learned with my first boy friend 
(the one with the rubber grid on his knees). He made 
damn sure I learned it, even buying me books on "how 
to". Giving a good head is not easy, it requires some 
practise. You don't have to go to the great length of 
deep throating any monster cock that comes in front of 
your mouth, this is just a juvenile porn fantasy. The 
secret of giving a good blow job, is to concentrate not 
only on one thing at a time.

This is were most inexperienced girls fall short. Don't 
think having his dick in your mouth will do the trick. 
No, you have to support your mouth by some handy work. I 
always use two hands. One hand has to stroke the shaft 
of his penis, while I suck and lick and lick and suck. 
The other hand has to work his balls. The best thing is 
to grab his scrotum with one hand from behind, so that 
his balls are fairly tight and exposed to your tongue. 
Then, change the rhythm, move up and down the shaft with 
your mouth, make him wet all over, alternate between 
sucking his balls and sucking his dick. Make slurping 
sounds, grunt, moan, but never forget to support your 
action by stroking the shaft of his penis.

Very advanced experts also involve his prostate gland, 
by sticking up the lubricated index finger of one hand 
deep into his anus, pressing to the base of his penis 
root. That in combination with the sucking will send 
every man over the edge.

On top of this, you can drive him wild by talking dirty. 
What you say does not matter, even silly platitudes like 
"come all over me!" or "shoot it baby!" will do the 
trick. I always found eye contact very important.

Now comes the Shakespearean Question: "To swallow, or 
not to swallow?" Sorry to be pedantic, but if you don't 
swallow, you only get 8 out of 10, even if the rest is 
perfect. The reason? A male orgasm may not be as long as 
one of ours, especially once you have mastered the multi 
orgasm bit, but it takes at least a few seconds. So, if 
you do not follow it through by staying tuned to his 
desires, you take away the ultimate satisfaction.

I am not saying, he won't like the 8 out of 10 version 
(provided you do everything else right). That will 
definitely do for weekdays. But on Saturday night, you 
have to go for the moon and the stars. Afterwards you 
could probably ask him for anything you want, from a 
Ferrari to a Diamond ring, if he is loaded. So it is 
worth the effort.

However, if you do not want to exchange bodily fluids 
(like I did not with Dave), you have to introduce a 
rubber at some point in your play. Again, if you are 
experienced it is not a problem. Just make sure his dick 
is very wet, than take the rubber in your mouth (make 
sure the outside is in your mouth), and with one quick 
move, supported by your hand, you can slide it down his 
shaft. If you do this just before he is about to come, 
you won't spoil much of his pleasure. 

One more word about the position. Men like to watch. So 
sitting with his back to him, hiding your face behind a 
curtain of hair, or doing it in complete darkness is not 
the best idea. I prefer to sit between his legs with him 
on a chair, looking him in the eyes when I talk dirty to 
him, so I can also bring my tits into action, rubbing 
his balls against them, in case I go for his prostate 
and need a third hand.

There is one disadvantage to treating your man like 
this. He might prefer your blow jobs to intercourse. So 
if you like being fucked, it is a setback.

"That was absolutely great, baby" was all Dave could 
moan, after I was finished with him. Unfortunately, he 
was in not much condition to keep up his erection, or to 
stay awake, not even talking about returning the favour. 
It was my own fault, since I should have known better. 

Here was I, playing with myself, dripping wet and horny 
like hell, with an American porn actor lying next to me, 
whose muscular body could have fucked my brains out, but 
whose snoring was breaking my concentration. I let him 
sleep.

I give him credit, he fucked my brains out on several 
later occasions, but he was spoiled and demanded more 
and more blow jobs. Eventually, things entered into the 
kind of relationship that has no place in a story like 
this: The usual boredom, him watching football instead 
of fucking me. Me, ending up in his kitchen. We even 
stopped inline skating in the morning.

So, in lack of mutual things to talk about, a strikingly 
different taste for movies, books, music, food, even 
cloth. I told him it was over. He almost cried but I did 
not relent. The sex was good until the end, but sisters 
in arms, is that really enough? After all, we are not 
men.

Eventually I started dating my present boss. The 
professor of immunology. Of course he was married to 
some dried up prune, whose father owned half of southern 
California. According to his account, the marriage was 
not very happy. I did not really care either way, as 
long as there were no kids involved. Call me 
conservative, but a married men with a young family is 
definitely off limits.

I did not suck him off in the dark room, but in his car 
(back to the roots, I guess). He was a witty, 
intelligent, warm hearted and very entertaining 
gentleman. The sex was not as good as with Dave, but you 
can't have it both ways. We even ended up married. This 
is, however, a totally different story, and should be 
told elsewhere.


Oh God, Oh God, I'm so fantastic!
Thanks to Freddie, I'm a sexual spastic
And my name is Bobby Brown
Watch me now, I'm going down
(Frank Zappa)


Copyright by Muse Calliope 2002. Do not post this story 
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