While waiting for my wife to come out from under the hair-dryer in our local beauty parlor, I was thumbing through one of those ubiquitous women’s magazines. You know the kind that loves to hypothesize on how many American men are potentially gay. Still, I must say this one had some interesting things to report like: “Today’s modern woman spends years building a house and home on the rock of her husband’s virility and then can’t wait to turn it all to sand.” It also pointed out that there’s a ‘fuzzy line’ between being straight and being gay. I certainly crossed that line with my best man on the eve of my wedding.
It was just after my bachelor party or stag night when we macho men were supposed to be banging girls that popped out of cakes or burst balloons but I was popping my cork and bursting my balloon for Dave. Pastor Dave actually. He was a minister in our local Baptist church and keen on football. He was also very well endowed. I know because he’d built up quite a reputation. He liked to work out at our local gym and used to give all the so-called straights boners as he came out of the shower and walked through the locker room baring all before him. You would have thought that a man of God would have covered his earthly endowments with a modest loin cloth or something instead of displaying his rod and his staff to all and sundry. He certainly put a ding in everyone’s dong and I’m absolutely sure many a guy would gladly have gone jogging along the road to perdition just to get some juice out of that appendage of his.
Anyway we fell asleep in a drunken stupor on the hotel bed and woke up doing it. Talk about my cup runneth over! I’ve never seen – or felt – anything like it. It was unbelievable. Indescribable. And you’re going to have to believe me because I’m not going to describe it to you. It’s not that I’m a party pooper or a cock teaser or anything – although I can be both of those too – but this story is supposed to be about how I switched from husband to hustler so I’d better get on with it before you lose interest. Suffice to say I’m real glad Dave wasn’t performing our marriage ceremony. I’d have found it difficult saying ‘I do’ in front of somebody who’d done me to a crisp only a few hours previously. As it was, I felt like I was marrying him and not Barbara when he handed over the rings. Besides his other endowments, he had big brown eyes that you literally melted into. But once again I digress. Let’s get back to the magazine article and fuzzy lines.
I was soon to find there was also a fuzzy line between having sex for rent and doing it for free. I explored that fine line too. In Boston, one wet Friday afternoon in February. Barbara was moving fast up the corporate ladder as a creative consultant in advertising. Unfortunately for our marriage I was several rungs behind her as a freelance fashion photographer. I soon ended up with a lot of time on my hands and took to following my successful spouse from one city – and 5 star hotel – to another. This particular Friday Barbara was out ‘clinching a deal.’ It was what they call the ‘happy hour’ although I couldn’t see too many smiling faces in the hotel lobby that afternoon. I had a few solitary drinks and was going to make my way to the steak bar when Mr Armani walked in. I call him that because he was immaculately and expensively dressed. Oozing dollars, self assurance … and sex. He sat at the bar on one of those high stools. You know. The ones that gave you a good view of a guy’s legs. And crotch. He was the kind of guy who had a wad of money in his wallet and an even bigger wad between his legs. And he was very good looking. Just a bit older than me. He had olive skin and bigger and browner eyes than Father Dave so I was immediately attracted to him.
I concluded he was probably Egyptian or something. This was before 9/11 – and bomb scares and such – and good looking Arabs were still a turn on for most women … and men. Especially the refined type which he definitely was. He kept looking across the room at me so I knew he was interested. What the hell, I thought. While Barbara was away why shouldn’t Barringer play! I gave him a cursory glance and smile as I headed for the elevator. I was just stepping in when I found him there beside me. We didn’t say anything. People usually don’t in elevators. But there was soon a horny haze of desire hovering just a humping space between us. The elevator arrived at my floor and I was just about to get out when he grabbed my arm. The firmness of his hold and the browness of his eyes sent the blood flooding to my dick. I was hard immediately.
“Why not join me for a drink?” is all he said. “I live on the top floor. There’s a stupendous view.”
“Why not,” I concurred, trembling in spite of myself.
We duly arrived ‘at the top’ and the lift opened directly onto the executive suite to which he had a special key. I’d never seen such luxury.
“I’m Samir,” he said.
“Barringer,” I replied.
He drew me towards him by my open-necked shirt. I dress casually in the afternoons. Even in a 5 star hotel.
He kissed me. Very lightly. No penetrating jab or stab of the tongue which I had half expected but a marvellous manoeuvring of the lips that had me half hypnotised with the pleasure of it. He worked his way into and under my shirt and his fingers were just as soft, just as expert as his mouth. They passed slowly but surely over my nipples and drove me wild. He’d honed in immediately on one of my most erogenous zones. My legs gave way and my pants followed obediently. Soon he was hand fisting my dick with his silken palms and making me purr like a contented kitten. All this only ten minutes after we’d met. Then he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom. I’m no lightweight but he made me feel like a piece of thistledown. Absolutely boneless.
He literally threw me on the bed and proceeded to peel off his Armani suit and expensive trappings. I watched fascinated. He looked even better undressed than dressed and had the kind of firm, well-tanned body that I had always admired. It contrasted nicely with his whiter than white underpants. Armani of course. There was also quite a bit of thistledown on his chest too which really tickled my fancy as he pushed his softness, and eventually hardness, right into me. This turned my kitty purrs into out and out groans. I’d closed my eyes like a blushing schoolgirl and had no idea of the size of his dick until it entered me. Wow, those cartoon expletives really came in handy as I made every sound known to man (and probably beast) and then emitted low guttural growls that tore through my throat as he tore into my ass. He was a long-laster too and rode me all the way to Banbury cross, and back again.
Afterwards we had a long relaxing shower and then sat in his hot tub imbibing what room service had speedily produced. Then he did something nobody had ever done to me since bath night with my mom. He padded me dry with a huge soft towel and tucked me into bed. I didn’t get any hot milk but I got plenty of cream and fell asleep in his arms.
I woke up with a start to find a text message on my mobile. Barbara was tied up and wouldn’t be back for dinner. I almost found myself saying “Barbara who?” I was so far gone by then. In a never-never land of sexual fulfilment. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, he quietly announced that he had a midnight plane to catch and would be back on March 21st. He kissed me a fond good night and pressed something hard into my hand. It was a cigarette case. I didn’t smoke but didn’t think this was the time to look a gift horse in the mouth. I tucked it into my pocket and limped back to my hotel room. Just in time too. I was only 5 minutes ahead of Barbara.
“Hi honey,” she said. “Sorry to desert the ship. Did you have a good dinner? I’m all pooped out.”
You can say that again, I thought as I sailed into sleep.
Next morning Babs was already out and about. I remembered to look at the cigarette case. It was silver of course but there were no gold-tipped cigarettes inside. Just five hundred dollars. I don’t suppose I should technically classify myself as a whore. Not yet anyway. But I certainly have no intention of giving Samir his dollars back when I meet him on March 21st. What’s more, in the meantime, I’m hankering with the idea of following Barbara to Chicago, and maybe New York, to see what ‘happy hours’ I can find there. Just to keep my hand in so to speak. I’ll keep you posted.
The model used to illustrate this story is Dartan. If you'd like to see more photos of him, click here.
The Badpuppy.com model in these pictures is Dartan
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