Comrades Three

I’m going to relate to you the most erotic experience I’ve ever had.

It happened last summer when I was nineteen. My college roommate, Allen, had a friend named Randy who he used to bring over to the dorm a lot, but I had never really gotten to know him very well. But all that changed one hot summer night.

Randy was eighteen and incredibly good looking. His hair was long, cut in a punkish style. On this particular night, Allen, Randy and I were sitting around watching porno tapes. I had always thought of Randy as very reserved, so what he did really shocked me.

Allen was involved in watching the tape, so he didn’t notice what was happening at first. Randy suddenly unbuckled his belt and pulled his zipper down, then raised his ass from the couch and lowered his pants to his ankles. Then down came his bikini underwear, revealing the most luscious cock I’d ever seen. The sight of it produced a huge bulge in my own groin. It jutted seven inches into the air, a massive piece of fuck meat. He took the organ in his hand and began stroking it slowly. I couldn’t believe this was happening! Randy had Allen’s attention by now.

Apparently this was the first time Randy had ever exposed himself to Allen too. Allen quickly jerked his shorts down and began masturbating in a frenzy. As Randy stroked himself, he looked over at me and motioned me over to him. I stood up, my cock rigid in my jeans. When I reached him I took a good look at his prick. God, it was so long! His large nuts drooped heavily against his thighs. Bushy black hair surrounding his proud organ. His cockhead was shaped like a mushroom, smooth and rounded and noticeably thicker than his massive shaft. But it was not the color of a mushroom it was red hot and swollen. The shaft was a deep tan, except for the blue vein running the length of it.

Randy grabbed my hand and clasped it firmly over his prickhead. My own member pulsated in reaction. Then he stood up and walked to the bathroom, and I followed. Once inside, with the door locked, we wasted no time. I got down on him real fast. Popping the gigantic cockhead in my mouth, I sucked on it like a baby sucks a pacifier, eagerly and hungrily. Randy wriggled his ass as though he was sitting on ants. He really got off. His nipples got hard as rocks, like his cock. When he blew his wad he laughed hilariously, and then let out a groan from deep in his bowels. How much come did he produce? Well, let’s just say that my belly was too full to eat for quite a while afterward. When I had swallowed all the jism I could, he squeezed the last drops out of his cock and brought them to his mouth with his fingers, eating them himself.

It turned out he could take quite a bit of cock up his ass too. True, I only have six inches, but he took every last inch. He even fucked himself on it once he got loosened up. It felt so damn good when I shot my load up inside him!

Poor Allen don’t know what he missed. When we emerged from the bathroom, he had jerked off to the tape and was sitting there in a pool of his own semen, with a dreamy look on his face. We helped him lick up the mess.

The three of us had a lot more fun that night, more than I could ever tell you about. With nineteen inches of fuck meat among us to play with, how could we miss?

J.C., Wichita, Kansas

My Friend Foster

I am eighteen years old. I live in a trailer park and do very well with women. My friend Foster, also eighteen, is a great looking guy. All the girls are after him. He has a nice ass and a great cock. Now I am not a fag and have never been turned on by a guy in my life. But one night last year, I stayed at Foster’s house when his mother was not home. We were drinking and having fun, and didn’t get to bed until about four thirty in the morning. Foster took off his clothes and asked me if I minded him sleeping in his underwear, and I said no.

I was just about asleep when I felt something rubbing my crotch. I looked up and saw that it was Foster. He unsnapped my pants and unzipped them. Then he pulled out my cock, looked me right in the face and said, ”I hope you don’t mind. But I’ve wanted to suck you for a long time.”

All I could do was stare, I was so shocked. I have a ten inch cock and he took the whole damn thing down his throat. Here was a great looking young guy who the girls were crazy about, giving me the best blowjob I’d ever had. He sucked me for about four and a half minutes, after which I all of a sudden shot off the biggest wad of my life. He swallowed every drop, then licked my rod clean.

Then he started kissing my stomach and chest. He sucked and licked my nipples for a few minutes, then looked up and said he wanted us to 69. He put his mouth to work and had my cock standing straight again in a minute flat. His ten and a half inch cock was staring me in the face. I hesitated at first, but then thought what the hell. I grabbed his soft round ass and shoved his cock deep into my throat, then started sucking on it like a wild animal. His prick was delicious.

After about three minutes he came. His sperm flooded my mouth. I swallowed his load and loved the taste. I asked him if I could fuck him in the ass, and he gladly said yes. I greased up my rod and started to slip it in. I soon had my cock all the way up his ass, and a few moments later I came.

As he lay in my arms he told me he had been a virgin, and that I was the first person to make love to him. He said that he had been turned on more by guys than by girls all his life. He asked me not to tell anyone, and I said I wouldn’t.

Now we have sex twice a week, though I still make it with women as well. One thing I can tell you is that you shouldn’t put down the idea of two guys making it together until you try it.

G.C., Mesa, Arizona

Booth Blowjob

I am a twenty eight year old male and really like women. But last week I had a great experience in an adult bookstore. I was in a booth watching a porno tape, when to my surprise I saw a cock coming through a hole in the wall. I never thought of myself as gay, but I suddenly felt a need to suck that cock. I started masturbating it till it was real hard, and then began sucking on it. I wasn’t sure what to do at first, but I soon started to get the hang of it. The feel of that thick mass of meat was very pleasant as I stroked my head back and forth on it, until I was able to take all of it down my throat. The sensation made me come in my jeans. I sucked on that cock like a baby with a bottle, licking it with my tongue and letting it fuck my face until I knew its unseen owner was reaching the point of no return. Then he let loose with a flood of come that seemed to last forever. The taste of jism drove me wild, and I sucked out every drop.

I stayed in that booth for hours, sucking any cock that came through that wall, even one so big that I could barely get my mouth around it. I must have swallowed half a gallon of jism that night.

L.F., Akron, Ohio

SEX IN AMERICA: Pure Pleasure

Arrayed along the border of Nevada is a string of nearly identical small towns. Posted at every major port of entry into the state, astride every major highway, their purpose is to relieve travelers of their gambling money just as soon as is humanly possible. Some of them are famous (Reno, Laughlin), some are not (Jackpot, Stateline).

Mesquite, Nevada, is one of these casino towns. In this tiny border outpost, one of America’s longest running morality plays is being enacted. It pits an organized gang of Mormon didacts against a lonely but determined purveyor of sexually explicit material, Pure Pleasure Adult Bookstore.

A group of Mormons has been picketing and harassing Mesquite’s sole adult bookstore for more than two years now. Twenty four hours a day, every day, the Mormons pursue their crusade against Pure Pleasure. Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these guardians of the public morals from their self appointed rounds.

“You’re sick,” one of the protesters screamed at a Pure Pleasure patron recently as he disregarded their taunts and entered the establishment.

The persecution doesn’t stop at verbal harassment. “If a person comes in who they think looks like he’s under 18,” said Pure Pleasure owner Gary Enea, “they right away call police.” This is in spite of the fact that the store has its own rigorous ID check at the door.

“The kid is 18 he’s old enough to go fight in Bosnia Herzegovina, but he can’t buy a sex book,” Enea said. “He can’t get a hard on in this country.”

The Mormons have organized their crusade against Pure Pleasure into four hour shifts. They’ve constructed a staging area 40 yards from the store, a jerry built plywood superego monitoring a neon id. “Operation Desert Porn” the protesters call their effort, much to the disgust of area veterans.

“Keep Our Town Clean,” reads one of their placards, although many of those manning the shack have crossed three state lines to get there. Other placards read “Say No to Porno,” “This Store Is Anti Family,” and “Bundy Started With Porno” a reference to serial killer Ted Bundy, who left a trail of corpses in the Salt Lake City area. Before his execution, in an interview staged by right wing talk show host James Dobson, Bundy blamed his murderous rampages on exposure to porn a transparent lie that was swallowed whole by pro censorship forces.

In inclement weather and there is a lot of inclement weather in Mesquite, where the sun blazes down in summer and the winds howl out of the Rockies in winter the Mormons huddle in the shack, emerging only when a customer dares to exercise his Constitutionally protected freedom of choice to peruse Cum Shot Babes.

The weather represents a real hardship for the protesters. “Some of these people are elderly,” Enea said, sounding almost as if he worried about them, out there in the cold. In fact, age doesn’t seem a qualifying factor for joining the crusade. Even though one of the main thrusts of the protest is that the bookstore is a corrupting influence on youth, the Mormons bring their kids along.

“They’ve had little tiny tots on the picket line. They’ve had teenagers on the picket line,” Enea said. “If they don’t want to expose this material to young people, why have them out there?”

The protesters make an elaborate point of writing down the license plate numbers of Pure Pleasure customers, sometimes photographing them also. They occasionally go so far as to harass employees of the bookstore.

“They’ve followed me home twice,” said store manager Mike Holland. “I turn around and just stand there and wait for them. When they see me waiting for them, they turn around and go back to the picket line.”

The tenacity of the protesters is remarkable. “So far, I think they’ve missed one day,” Holland said. But even with such a determined effort, the picket line has had a negligible effect on Pure Pleasure’s sales.

“Business is good,” Enea said. “I’m happy.”

Mesquite seems an unlikely venue for such a clash of cultures. Yes, those are the Mormon Mountains looming to the north, and yes, that is the Virgin River that flows out of the Virgin Mountains and through the town. But aside from the symbolic backdrop of topography, there is little to recommend the place as a First Amendment battleground.

More a glorified truck stop than an actual town, Mesquite grew up along the Virgin River and, more important, along Interstate 15. You can walk from Mesquite across the border into neighboring Utah, if you care to, but most of the traffic is coming the other way, heading from the purified precincts of “Zion” as the Mormons like to call their theocracy south to Sin City, Las Vegas, 60 miles away.

For the expansionist Mormons, though, Mesquite represents a beachhead in their effort to export a form of heavy handed sociological control beyond the borders of Utah to Nevada, the West, America, the world. Always a zealously missionary and relentlessly proselytizing religion, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints prides itself on sticking its nose in everyone’s business.

But when you strip away its modern day trappings of respectability, Mormonism is simply an overgrown religious cult. Founder Joseph Smith can be seen as the David Koresh of his day. Like Koresh, Smith was murdered by a government suspicious of religious zealotry. And like the teachings of the Branch Davidians, the theology of the Latter day Saints is replete with loony mythology and bizarre doctrines. Orthodox Mormons, for example, must remain in contact with what amounts to holy long underwear holding onto it even when they bathe.

There is some disagreement about the degree of direct support the Pure Pleasure protest gets from the church. Protest organizer Rebecca Hartley presents the picketing as a spontaneous crusade. Enea believes there must be some funding provided. Spokespeople for the church refused to return calls from Forum, but in news reports they have been blandly supportive of censorship efforts.

“The church encourages its members to do all they can to oppose pornography and other social ills,” Mormon spokesperson Don LeFevre told a reporter.

It represents a particularly twisted form of historical irony, of course, that Mormons should set themselves up to judge anyone else’s approach to sex. For much of its existence, the Mormon church itself was on the receiving end of criticism and protest for its unconventional manner of coupling.

During the last half of the 19th century, newspapers and magazines in the East were full of lurid accounts of Mormon polygamy in the still wild realm of Utah. Back then, the church’s embrace of the practice (“celestial marriage,” church elders loftily called it) was at least as controversial as anything going on inside Pure Pleasure Adult Bookstore today.

The church’s fling with plural marriage lasted for half a century, and continues even now as an underground practice in some fundamentalist pockets of the backwoods West. “In recent years,” state the authors of a book on the history of the Mormons, “those interested in alternative lifestyles and marital arrangements have looked at the Mormon experiences with more sympathetic interest.”

Joseph Smith received the divine okay to marry more than one woman at a time in a “revelation” he experienced on July 12, 1843. Given the stern Victorian mood of the time, Smith and his followers were in no hurry to publicize their novel connubial arrangements. In fact, they lied their faces off about them, repeatedly denying rumors that the church elders were each servicing a whole stable of wives.

The truth didn’t come out until 1852, when polygamy was publicly and officially embraced by the church. From then until 1890, when it renounced the practice, the Mormon church was under constant siege sort of like those Pure Pleasure customers who are being called “sick” by a lame group of conveniently forgetful picketers.

In 1857, the feds actually organized an army expedition to end the racy little sexual experiment going on out in Utah. The church was dissolved as a legal institution, test oaths were required as conditions for voting (“Do you now, or have you ever believed in plural marriage?”), and anti polygamy laws aimed at the Mormons were passed in Congress.

“It really seems strange that these Mormons, who have undergone a tremendous amount of prejudice against them in their own right, would not at least be willing to live and let live,” said Gary Enea.

Those who do not remember the past are sometimes not condemned but delighted to repeat it especially if there is a change in roles involved. The Mormons were victims of vicious religious prejudice for decades, until they were clubbed into submission by a society intent on enforcing sexual conformity. The Mormons are presently engaged in the same forms of antisex hysteria once leveled at themselves. Only this time, in what must be a much more satisfying variation, they are the ones wielding the club.

THE ART OF THE QUICKIE: Beating the Clock

Got a minute?

We do everything else on the run, so why not sex? Block out some time in your organizer right now to consider the quickie copulating to a countdown, doing it with a deadline, fornicating fast and furiously.

Quickies, of course, aren’t meant to take the place of long afternoons in bed, late night romps or even sleepy wake up sessions. But sometimes, when you’re short on time, you have just enough time for a quickie. You grab some ho hum spare moment, some short respite in between meetings or just before a scheduled event, and you make the most of it with a lightning fast erotic pick me up.

Maybe he stops by your place for a shower after a softball game, on his way to a victory dinner with the team. There’s time so what if he misses the first round of drinks?

Perhaps you’re just back from a business trip, due at a debriefing, and you run by his apartment to “debrief” him first. If you’re late to work, you can always use the excuse that you were stuck in traffic at the airport.

Say you’re getting dressed for your nephew’s Eagle Scout banquet, and your lover decides to undress a few of your more salient parts. How long can it take to retrieve your undies from beneath the vanity bench?

No matter how hectic your life is and we know it is there is always time for a quickie.

Lunchtime is sometimes the perfect time for a bawdy break. Because of their nature, all nooners are quickies, though not all quickies are nooners. When I’m in the mood for something more filling than yet another salad with low fat dressing, I’ll call my lover and ask: “Shall we do lunch?”

Usually, he can tell what I have in mind from my teasing tone of voice. Still, his reply is always the same: “Are you talking lunch or lunch lunch?”

“Lunch” is a quickie, and means “Let’s meet at my place in 20 minutes.” “Lunch lunch” translates thusly: “Let’s meet at the new bagel place about 11:45.”

And yes, there have been those days when we arrived at the bagel place or the seafood place or even our favorite Italian place, and decided at the door to make a run by my place after all.

A random survey of female friends and co workers revealed that a little midday delight generally makes the afternoon go more smoothly for everyone concerned. In spite of that common goal, couples use their time in myriad ways.

Some women reported that neither partner fully undresses for quickies. They unzip what needs to be unzipped, shift what needs to be shifted, push aside what needs to be pushed aside, and then go at it on the butcher block in the kitchen or over the arm of the couch or on the love seat in the den.

Some disrobe fully, crawl into bed and shift into high gear, making the most of this chance to mess up the covers. One woman said she and her lover take off everything but their watches, to remind them that they must keep track of the time.

Still others said that on the rare occasions when they sneak off for a nooner, they meet at a hotel in town, to make the entire event somehow more deliciously licentious. Some even signed leases on pieds a terre, small furnished rooms on back streets close to their respective offices but far from their home or homes. And some reported cutting deals with another couple, exchanging apartments just for the occasional quickie.

One woman with a waterbed bragged about renting out her bed one afternoon to friends eager to try love among the waves.

“This might even be profitable,” she said, “but it’s too soon to quit my day job.”

No matter how you play it, nooners are exhilarating. They do carry this built in challenge: Afterward, you must compose yourself quickly. If you’re returning to work, you must look exactly as you did when you left. Once a woman came back to the office with her dress on backwards. A kindhearted soul told her, and she scurried off to the rest room to make amends.

Also, in most cases, you must overcome the habit of working through lunch.

I say in most cases, because once, just once, a man in my bed over the noon hour did conduct an important business conversation from the phone next to the bed. I did everything I could to help: I crawled between his legs and took him in my mouth.

As my lover talked business with his boss, I quickly found the right rhythm, running my wet little mouth up and down the length of his shaft. I paused only now and then, to nuzzle his soft, tangled hair at the base. When he lifted his hips just slightly, I grabbed what I call The Hard Part with my hand long enough to taste what hung just below, swirling my tongue around and around, and then I returned to my task.

His responses to the boss’s questions became more and more terse, but his voice on the phone faltered just once when he erupted in my mouth. I swallowed every drop.

Feeling deliciously wicked, I then leaned back in full view and began to stroke my own magic button. His eyes locked with mine, and within seconds, a wave of volcanic shudders rippled through me. I crawled into his arms just as he ended the call.

What a lunch that turned out to be and the term “phone sex” will never mean the same thing to me again.

Of course, not everybody plays “Beat the Clock” at noon.

Probably you’ve heard about the members of the Mile High Club, those contortionists who claim they’ve done it in the lavatory of an airborne plane after dinner and before the movie. I know a couple who enjoyed a quickie on top of a washing machine it was running at the time in the laundry room during a party at a private home. A friend swears she and her lover played on his desk the Saturday afternoon he moved into a new office.

Married people with kids are more than familiar with quickies, as they customarily grab any free moment and each other when they happen to be together and the kids aren’t home. People who like to make love in public places tell me those encounters invariably are quickies, as they never know when they might be discovered there in the bushes, across from the fountain in the park.

Sometimes, the best quickies are those that are completely spontaneous. Say you’re driving across the state together one Saturday morning, heading for a weekend in the country. Say the talk suddenly turns hot, and soon you’re both squirming in your respective bucket seats. You could wait the three hours it will take to reach the bed and breakfast but why should you? The schedule of events, the agenda for the day, will not collapse if you pull off the highway at the next exit, check into a slightly seedy motel and have at each other before serenely continuing your journey.

No question quickies are different from other lovemaking sessions. One woman confided that though she’s usually conservative in her language in bed, she let loose during the one quickie she’s had to date. Her lover was amazed and delighted, and she said she was sure they would make time for a quickie again soon.

“I started saying all sorts of things I’ve never said before, things like ‘Stick it in me now.’ I think it was just the pressure, knowing we had only a little time,” she said.

She’s right.

When you don’t have a lot of time, you don’t take a lot of time. With quickies, somehow you start out hotter than usual, get more excited more quickly than when you have an entire Sunday afternoon to roll around in bed together. And, if all goes well, after a quickie you end up satisfied for the moment, as with a truly tasty hors d’oeuvre.

There’s just no time, you say? Sure there is. Stop at the dry cleaner and the grocery Thursday on your way home from work, instead of tonight. Or excuse yourself from the office this afternoon just long enough to do “an important errand.” Consider practicing aerobics for 45 minutes Saturday morning in bed, instead of at the gym. Promise your friends you’ll meet them at the movie Friday night, but skip the pizza beforehand. Duck out for “lunch” any day this week you don’t have a business lunch… er, lunch lunch. Just think how flattered your lover will be, and how eager he will be to please you when you explain you can’t wait until tonight or until Friday or until two weeks from tomorrow.

Hey if you have time to read about quickies, you have time to enjoy one. Make that call!