Some Like It Straight by Barringer

Hi there. This is Barringer on the rebound and seeking consolation. I've just broken up with the 'partner of a lifetime.' After seven sizzling years the flame that ignited us has finally petered out and man that smoke sure does get in your eyes.

It wasn't as if we'd developed an itch for somebody else exactly but we'd definitely lost the spark that had ignited us for so long. So here I am looking back at the dying embers of hot memories and trying to remember what it was like being unattached and lonely. Being 'out there' before finally coming out.

Unless you've read any of my stories you may be surprised to know I was a late, and rather slow, starter which I used to blame on my New England upbringing and the Puritan fathers although, to tell you the honest truth, I was afraid of the emotional risk. Also, being in the closet and very much in denial, I was never part of the gay scene and tended to complicate matters by falling for straight guys, which of course only led to frustration. That is until I left Boston for San Francisco and met Ruairidh Beauchamp. No I didn't make the name up. He was of Scottish origin and professionally known as Rory Fields and I met him at a party. A fancy dress party to be precise.

To all and sundry - and Rory seems to have known a lot of 'sundry' - he was officially straight but, according to Lester Sanders who'd invited me, he was presently humping the lady of the house and probably her husband too. Not that his gossip was gospel. He was your typical waspish scene-queen who thought all straights had to be straightened out. And he was bitchier and more malicious than any woman I knew. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Still, over the years, he'd insinuated himself into all the influential social circles and got invited to a lot of parties. But not, as it happens, into a lot of beds. This fact made him a potentially dangerous rival, as he was both jealous and vindictive. Sour, wrathful grapes expressed by a sour and bitter tongue. But, for some reason, he was still invited to a lot of parties. That's how the 'cultural' cookie crumbles, I suppose. It thrives on gossip and twitter.

I was all of a twitter myself when I first set eyes on Rory. His straight looks were straight out of a Playboy centrefold. His beautiful body was encased in a figure-hugging sailor suit, bursting at the seams in a lost battle with his rippled six-pack and rocklike biceps. In fact, the pants were so tight you could see what his religion was. They clung to him like a mermaid's tail. Rather appropriately, his name in Gaelic meant 'famously powerful red king' and while he wasn't yet famous he looked very powerful indeed. Right down to his red, unruly hair, which seemed to be having a struggle of its own, trying to escape from the sailor's cap perched precariously on his head. It reminded me of a small white fort in the middle of a sandy desert. By way of contrast, I looked like a stiffly starched penguin stranded on a rock somewhere as I'd been lacking in inspiration and had come dressed as an English butler and was feeling very much out on a limb as Lester had abandoned me early on in the proceedings and I had remained coldly aloof until Rory, who was warm and friendly, and also several sheets to the wind, took me under his wing and I eventually succumbed to his considerable charms although initially it took him quite a long time to break down my rigid reef of resistance.

Just as millions of little coral animals in so many years construct a fortification against the sea, so closet cases like me, over a period of time, build up a barrier reef against the tidal waves of ridicule and disdain in their vain attempts not to appear gay. At least they do where I come from. At the time of the party I'd just started working in L.A. as a scriptwriter and had come to San Francisco to give a workshop on screen writing. Rory seemed very impressed by this and told me he'd just completed a picture called 'Dangerous Island' and was due to start another called 'Tumult.' For him they were only B, as in bicep, movies and he wanted to do something more serious and speak with something more than his body.

To me, he sounded like the male equivalent of a modern day Marilyn Monroe and I wouldn't have minded one bit being his Arthur Miller. Obviously his physique was the secret of his success but I noticed that his voice was rich in tone and at times almost caressing and he also showed promise of handling dialogue well even if nobody was really interested in listening to him. They only wanted to observe, and hopefully handle and caress, his protruding parts.

We were interrupted by our hostess announcing dinner after which we rather sleepily gathered together to play a guessing game which consisted of identifying old movie stars with names like Lucille LeSueur (Joan Crawford) and Marion Robert Morrison (John Wayne) which was plain sailing for me but not, it seemed, for my drunken sailor friend. However, even I was stumped by Reginald Truscott-Jones, a famous Brit of the thirties, forties and fifties who'd made movies with all the female stars of the time including Dietrich and Grace Kelly but who wasn't Cary Grant. Of course I was side-tracked by various red herring clues such as the fact that "he had a tattoo on his upper right arm of a skull with a snake curled up on top of it with its tail sticking through one of the eyes and that he was the only winner of the Best Actor Academy Award to have uttered not a single word during his acceptance speech." It turned out to be a long forgotten actor called Ray Milland and Ruairidh Beauchamp alias Rory Fields couldn't have cared less although he was very interested in the snake tattoo and said he had one himself.

I sat next to him wondering where it was. The many cocktails had seeped through my reserve and I was beginning to let down my New England guard. I had to admit to myself that he was absolutely stunning and, as I did so, my dick joined me in agreement and my mind boggled at the thought of him 'tumulting' on a desert island without any clothes on. It was at that precise moment that he asked me to come for a swim. I was sitting at the bar and he prised me not so gently off my stool.

"Come on," he said.

The idea of swimming at midnight and almost immediately after dinner seemed fantastic to me. Even more fantastic than the beautiful boy trying to get me in the water.

"I don't think I will," I said.

"Come on be a sport."

"I'd rather watch you."

"Nuts to that," he said taking me firmly by the arm and leading me to some changing rooms.

I dutifully and drunkenly followed him on three legs.

He handed me a pair of swim trunks.

"Why should you be so anxious for me to swim?" I asked.

"Because I like you," he said with a disarming smile.

"I liked you from the word go and you like me too, don't you? Come on admit it."

"Of course I like you," I said. "I like you very much."

I was afraid to undress as, by now, my interest in him was all too evident.

"Very well. Do we swim or don't we?"

"You do and I don't."

"Come on now, quit stalling," he said advancing towards me and forcibly removing my jacket. He had loosened my bow tie and was beginning to unbutton my shirt when Lester came in.

"Boys, boys," he said admonishingly.

But he didn't seem at all surprised to see this straight stud undressing his strait-laced friend.

"We're going for a swim," explained Rory.

"The pool's positively churning with party guests. It's got more things in it than Macy's window."

"To hell with that I'm going to swim if it kills me."

"Probably will too with all that stuff you've been drinking, not to mention the other substances."

Rory didn't listen to Lester's advice but stopped trying to tear off my clothes and began peeling his own off, peel being the operative word as they were sticking to him like syrup to a banana split.

Once naked, he stood over us with his arms folded and his dick straight as a flagpole so I was able to get a good long look at his snake tattoo. It wasn't in a skull at the top of his arm but curled up in the nest of his pubes like a python ready to strike. I gazed at it through bleary eyes in fascination.

"It's ok baby," said Lester. "We've seen all that before and it's gorgeous. Go jump in the pool."

I sat mute and unresponsive, my head swimming even if the rest of me wasn't. The sight of Rory's mammoth dick was almost too much for my addled mind. Lester handed him my discarded trunks.

"Go jump in the pool, cool off and sober up and you'd better get into these before you do so."

"I don't know what's the matter with you guys," said Rory disdainfully.

"If he could think with his dick he'd be a genius," said Lester after he'd gone.

I said nothing. I was still dumbstruck. I was glad Lester had asked me to the party but angry he'd spoiled my fun. I'd probably never get an opportunity like that again.

Subconsciously, I'd been looking forward to Rory fucking me, feeling his python writhe and spit inside of me. At that point, I didn't care if he came up later with the classic downer: 'I must have been drunk last night, I don't remember a thing.' I'd have remembered everything for both of us.

"Let's get you some coffee," said Lester, not knowing I was wishing he would go away.

While we were drinking coffee he did nothing but bad mouth Rory and made me even angrier.

"Got the hots for him have you?" he smirked.

I didn't answer. I probably didn't need to.

"Don't know how a man of your calibre can imagine having a relationship with a guy like that."

"I wasn't thinking that far ahead," I said.

"That's good because Rory doesn't even think past his dick. Always ready and willing to go to bed with anything that attracts him. Man, woman or beast. In that respect, he's a bit like Marlon Brando. Animal to the core. Have you read that book about him?"

Before I could answer, Rory dripped by to join us. He apologised to me.

"I'm not planning to become a genuine alcoholic," he said. "It's merely a passing phase."

"If your alcoholism is a passing phase it's sure taking a hell of a long time to pass," said Lester.

"I'm going to bed," I said, not wanting him to ruin any more of my evening.

"See you in the morning," he grunted.

"Till we meet again," said Rory rather ambiguously.

I arrived in my room utterly dazed and with a blinding headache. I undressed in a trance and fell into bed but couldn't sleep. Whenever I have insomnia at home I either look at the news on CNN or try to read a few chapters of 'Sense and Sensibility', which usually have the required effect.

I lay staring at a patch of moonlight. There was a small lizard in the corner of the ceiling using all its wiles to catch a fly. It stalked it very slowly and then suddenly shot out its long tongue and there was no more fly. Then the lizard relaxed. I relaxed too thinking about Rory and imagining that my long wet tongue was the lizard and it was slowly but surely consuming his thick ten-inch dick.

To my surprise I woke up to find the man of my dreams stretched out on the guest bed next to mine. His long red hair freed from the restrictions of his sailor cap lay unfurled on the pillow and seemed to have deepened in shade in the morning sunlight, forming a halo of fire around his head. He was naked except for a makeshift sarong loosely draped round his waist. Last night it had decorated the back of a sofa, now it was slipping down over his buttocks. Pangs of love and desire swept over me.

I lay staring at him for a long time. I couldn't believe he was there. And within dick-reach. This was much more intriguing than the lizard on the ceiling and his ass crack seemed to be breathing in time with his mouth and opened and closed like a fly trap for my tongue. I don't know about you, but the full-moon heavenly vision of that particular bit of butt, on which the sun has never shone, makes me horny as hell. Just when I was going to strike where the butt was hot, he turned over and I could see he had a hard-on. He was either just about to wake up or had a constant woody all through the night.

I decided there and then to have my breakfast in bed.

I knelt down beside him and nosed and nuzzled his dick savouring the sweet perfumes of pre-cum as I wet mouthed him and brought him to an early morning climax. My hands were pretty busy too as I explored every inch of his beautiful body and gave full vent to feelings that had previously only lurked in my fervid imagination. I had absolutely no problems about what Lester would have called "bridging the culture gap between Rory's appearance and his conversation." Words were absolutely superfluous anyway and, besides, my mother had always taught me not to talk with my mouth full.

After he came, he opened his eyes and kissed me.

I ran my white cum-covered fingers through his curly red hair.

"It's better than balsam," I told him.

"I found Lester stretched out on my bed like a beached whale so thought I'd try this one for size."

"You did well," I said. "And I'm glad I didn't lock my door."

"Which only goes to prove you're asking for trouble or, like me, open your arms wide to life."

"You open your legs wide too sometimes," I countered.

"Only when they're prised open by a moist New England mouth," he replied.

"Touche'!" I said.

"Why not!" he agreed.

I didn't know if he was playing with words or playing with me, or even if he spoke French, but we were soon French kissing. One thing of course led to another and we kissed and sucked and fucked the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon and never seemed to have time to eat much. Most people divide their day by meals. We divided ours by fuck feasts with very short intervals between them. In fact, when we moved into my rented apartment, we sometimes 'ate' all through the night.

I was basically a beginner and he was basically straight so we learned from each other. A kind of work in progress and we progressed pretty quickly. He had two weeks before his next film and he followed me about on my lecture tour and attended my screenwriting workshop, 'intellectualising' himself as he called it. I filled in the vast gaps in his knowledge and he filled in the ever-widening gaps in my ass although he did let me fuck him once, which was quite an achievement. Initially, he didn't give me much encouragement but I didn't give up and eventually he gave in. Mind you, I had to soften his slot with a whole lot of spunk and spittle before I could even get a finger inside.

I slobbered on the puckered rim of his butt hole and teased it with the tip of my tongue.

I thought wryly of Lester. He used his tongue maliciously but I was going to use mine deliciously.

That hardy muscle of mine had rewarded me with a hearty breakfast that first morning. I'd made Rory's dick sob and throb and quiver like a harp string and produce a mouthful of double thick cream so I knew there was no reason it shouldn't work harmonious wonders on his asshole too.

I was right. After a little gentle 'feather-fucking' I forged my way in with a finger. He gripped it like a vice. I worked it around, trying to stretch him out, but he remained tight as a kettle drum until I touched his love button and gave him a thrill he'd never before experienced. He began purring like a cat and yapping like a dog.

One minute his gorgeous head was swaying to and fro on the pillow saying 'no, no, no!' and the next his butt was saying 'go, go, go!'

His asshole quivered and convulsed and started squirming around in circles, eager to swallow more fingers and I just loved the latent lust I detected in his eyes. My dick was primed like William Tell's arrow and it was aimed right at Ruairidh Beauchamp's awesome apple butt.

I tell you man that Rory sure did roar when I struck home and scored the prize and I was halfway up his fuck channel before either of us knew quite what was happening.

He wriggled and writhed in horny content.

"Do me, do me now," he whispered. "Put it all in me, straight up to the root. Now, now."

I did as I was bid using my dick as a kind of sexual tuning fork to scale the heights of him while I chartered my way into the very depths of him. His horny grunts and moans sounded like the music of the spheres to me as I listened to his body talk - and sing - and adjusted the rhythm of my thrusts ac-chord- ingly. I could feel his prostate thrumming against my cock and changed gear with it using it now like a pitchfork to tone up his tones and plough him to a climax. He came like a fire hydrant.

The hot jizz burst like white lava from his erupting cockhead as I burst the banks of his ass. As he shuddered beneath me I pressed deeper within him. Every thrust of my cock produced more roars and moans and sent fresh spouts of cum flying all over his meaty upper body, coating his tight abs. It swam down his six-pack to end up puddling in his belly button. He dipped the tips of his fingers in some and tasted it. Then he kissed me, long and strong, and said something I'll never forget: "Thanks for being the first person to fuck me."

I felt so proud and happy. My Christmases had all come at once.

We lay for what seemed forever in a post-coital haze and then after a shower finally had something to eat although we devoured it real quick and were soon back devouring each other. Unfortunately, we were devouring time too. Or maybe time was devouring us. Day after day, night after night, the moment for his departure drew nearer and nearer. Just as we were drawing closer and closer. And more and more inseparable. Literally.

The night before he took off to some exotic island to make 'Tumult' he made sure I took off too. He fucked me in mid-air. Sent me flying without a safety net. Not that I needed one. He sat me on the kitchen table in the midst of a chaos of dirty dishes and got me to fold my arms round his neck and my legs around his waist. Then my formerly straight stud flexed his formidable loins like a taut rope and sent his dick straight up my butt like a greyhound leaving the starting gate.

He sent a searing sheet of fire right through me. It had me gasping for breath and sobbing for joy. In fact, it made me feel so good I wanted to crawl inside his skin and wrap him round me. I sat further and further down on him until I was sure my ass lips must have been kissing his python. I felt his pubes scratching my butt as I swung on his dick, just like I was astride one of those carousel horses at the funfair, and tugged at his long red mane riding him all the way as he rammed me across the finishing line.

The sizzling of saliva as our lips locked threatened to solder them together and we shuddered in a happy humping heap onto the kitchen floor, like two freshly caught trout, slithering in a slimy sea of cum wash. It was gross but it was great. We didn't say a word. Just cherished the moment. Only two weeks had passed since that 'coming out' party and, during that timeless time - that long, long 'now' - Rory and I hadn't wasted one minute getting to know one another. In fact, as I said before, we'd literally got more and more into, and out of, each other.

And when he came back to me after filming, we picked right up where we left off and it went on, with various ups and downs, but fortunately far more ins and outs, for seven fabulous years so I have no regrets.

I've just been listening to Barbra Streisand's great new album. One of the lyrics is still strumming through my mind: "All you give is all you get so give it all you've got." And we certainly did that.

I wonder what happened to Lester Sanders.