Compulsive Promiscuity

"I ain't cum yet," he says.

Now he's got his wet dick between my ass cheeks trying to jam this rigid pecker up my ass hole.

"No, no, no, that hurts."

Grigo forced his dick three or four inches inside me. My rectum fought further entry. Thank God, in that instant, he lost control. His dick came just inside my ass. Grigo gave a few more unneeded thrusts causing his cum juice to leak all over my ass cheeks. He just lay there half-dead, like a log. There was one last weak pulsation from his prick, and then he was motionless, breathing hard.

"Ok, ok, get off. You're heavy."

He rolled away, his big wet prick pointing at the ceiling like a sundial. The guys watching helped lift me.

Some guy I'd never seen before put his arms around me, and he started to pull down his shorts.

"How about a blow job, mama?"

"No, I can't. I'm exhausted."

"Let her go," said the crew cut gang banger," busy untying Manny.

Long story short, Grigo handed Manny a hundred dollar bag. Rebar gave me my clothes while grabbing at my tit for one last time.

Grigo looked at me and grinned. I could see one of his front teeth was gold,

"Nobody ever gonna fuck you good like that, Mama. You come back whenever you want. I'm your man."

Grigo was still nude, nothing shy about him. Proudly he stood there,his tattooed chest covered with sweat, his big cock hanging between his thighs like a dark crucifix, soft but still large, a drop of cum dripped out of his pee hole.I almost ran forward to suck him dry, but the "I'm your man," got me.

"Yes, you fucked me real good," hoping Manny didn't hear me, "You're a regular Lenard Cohen, but uncircumcised." I smiled at him.

"Who da fuck is dat?"

"A great fucker. It's a compliment," I lied.

"You come back babe. I be waiting for you."

Manny took the cocaine and nodded his head. He put the coke bag in his pocket and kept rubbing his arms where they tied him. We heard a click, and the door bolt slid. Manny pushed the door open. I was having difficulty walking, so Manny put his arm under my arm. We headed out the door. I could hear peels of laughter from inside. Someone said,

"We got it all on camera," and then the door slammed shut."

I pulled my tee-shirt over my head, and Manny pulled it over my tits. I stepped into my shorts and shoved the soft bra into my pocket. Manny helped me get down the stairs. We were finally out into the sunshine.

Story 4 MAKE ME LAUGH

I was sitting on the toilet when the phone rang. A call from Lex Hogarth, an agent, who said Sunset Casting had referred him to me. I was afraid it was an invitation to do another Porno. No, it was a job offer to be an assistant to a well-known comedian going on tour and working out the kinks of his act in New York. The job offer was for six weeks in NYC. Hotel and living expenses paid and $125 a day. Not a bad payday, like the candy bar by the same name, not 1st class but satisfying. I figured. It wasn't top of the line cash or a fancy hotel, but what the fuck, like Woody G, I needed the "do- re- mi."

I said, "let me check my schedule. Ok, yes, only six weeks, it's a go. I have to be in Berlin the week after."

I peed quietly. Of course, my story was BS, but that's the way we play the game.

I met Remo Lopaz at the Los Angeles (LAX) airport. I knew who Remo was, an up and coming Latino comedian. I wondered, where the fuck did he get that name? Did his Mom find it on a crackerjack box?

Remo had decent parts in two recent feature films. When I met him at the airport, he seemed all business. He gave me a credit card saying,

"Go get us something to eat. The food on the plane is shit."

I got us some burgers and a chicken sandwich and got back to the boarding area just as the flight attendant was calling for boarding to begin. I hardly recognized Lopaz with his cane and dark glasses.

"What up, Dude?"

"Here, take my phone. Photograph what I'm going to do."

I took the i-phone and taped the photo ap and hit video.

"I want to get on early so I'll pass as a blind man, just take my arm when they call for cripples and disabled."

"Ok, you're the boss."

We boarded right near the head of the line behind a fat gal in a wheelchair holding a chihuahua.

"Lady," said Lopaz, "You are not bringing that dog on board. I'm allergic."

"How do you know there is a dog here if you are blind."

"I can smell it."

"The dog doesn't smell."

"Then maybe it's your fat ass, ever try bathing?"

Oh, we were we off to a good start, and then Lopaz puts on his MAGA hat. (Make America Great Again)

Trump, not being the favorite son of California, earned Lopaz a round of boos. At that point, he turned the hat inside out. Now the cap said, "Elect Hillary." That earned him a round of applause while he was apologizing to the lady with the dog. When he leaned in to kiss the dog, it bit him on the lip. He bled for the next hour.

"You little fucker, I could sue you down to your last dog biscuit."

Once we were on the plane, he pulled out two mini bottles of vodka from out of his travel bag and downed then in rapid succession, then fell asleep.

I was wondering what I'd gotten myself into with this job? Lopaz was a nutcase. I took a few photos of him snoring, with a mound of tissues stemming the blood flow.

We arrived in NY at JFK 5 about hours later, grabbed our two roller bags, and got in line to exit. Lopaz helped the fat lady get her items off the upper luggage rack while she would wait for someone to wheel her off the plane. No dog kissing took place, although Lopaz did try to pet Chico, who bit his hand.

"Chihuahua non perdona," responded Lopaz flashing his Spanish.

Once we got down the gangplank, he took off his dark glasses and stuck his cane in his travel bag.

We hailed a yellow cab captained by a Russian lunatic, that Lopaz quickly dubbed as "Putin." All the time he navigated out of the airport and onto the crowded highway, past miles of an ancient cemetery alongside the highway, Putin was arguing in Russian with some woman on the phone. Very relaxing!

The cabbie dropped us off at the Paramount Hotel on 49th. Lopaz kept trying to pay with a credit card. Putin kept saying he only took cash. Finally, Lopez got the cab pay-machine to work.

"You can tell your girlfriend to kiss my ass," shouted Lopaz.

With a string of Russian curses thrown at us, we rushed into the hotel.

The agent had booked Lopaz to perform at the Clapper Comedy Club, just a few blocks away, to perfect his new act and timing. Timing is everything in comedy, as in life. If all went well, an HBO Special was in the offing. I kept a clipboard and reviewed his routine every night after his performance. I made changes to the comedy script based on the jokes that got the best laughs—the weak stuff we eliminated. Of course, I had suggestions that he often liked, but he was doing pretty well.

One thing that made the trip pleasant, Lopaz never made passes at me. He kept his preferences hidden. He was a very masculine guy, but I learned that Lopaz was as gay as the day is long. Pussy repelled him. I didn't have to worry about him hitting on me, even if I was in the nude.

When we finished the set, around eleven pm, he'd take off to some gay bar or bathhouse. I imagine he spent late nights getting fucked and sucking cock. Sometimes the next day, he'd be walking wide-legged after what I assumed he'd experienced a real hard-ass workout. We never talked about his sex life unless he had too much to drink. I'd signed a non-disclosure agreement, and he knew my personal thoughts precluded homophobic shit. If he drank too much or popped some pills, I'd hear his knock on my door after two in the morning. He'd come in, plop on my bed and spill the beans. I would pull a t-shirt on over my tits as I sleep nude, but it wouldn't have made any difference to Lopaz unless I grew a cock. Then he'd find me of interest and probably would have been sucking it.

On those occasions, I'd have to listen to his stories about the vast variety of cocks, dicks, and cum loads he'd experienced that evening night, or he'd repeat his all-time favorites, the time he thinks he sucked Rob Lowe's cock. This guy knew more about dick anatomy than a urologist, and his knowledge of ass' wasn't far behind a proctologist. I think he'd see more penis in a week that I'd see in a year. Then he'd lay back and fall asleep. I'd wake him and send him off to his room. Being we had a suite that connected, it was an easy maneuver.

Being up half the night, Lopaz would sleep late. I'd get up early and take a walk around Hell's Kitchen. (the NYC neighborhood that abutted the hotel on the west side) There were plenty of bars and restaurants everywhere you looked. On forty-fourth street, near 10th Avenue, there was a bicycle repair shop that fascinated me. There was an old guy who worked on pedal cabs that the tourists ride for some profane price. There were also storage garages for the horse-drawn carriages that ride around Central Park. I spotted an odd store that never seemed to open. It piqued my interest. The front sign said, "Pussy Power." The window covered with reflective mirror paper did not permit me to see inside.

I'd grab a coffee and a Danish at a luncheonette on Tenth Avenue and a newspaper. It's not easy to find newspapers these days as the old-time newsstands have closed down. If they are open, they sell water, sodas, and candy, little else.

One Saturday afternoon, I wandered down to tenth Avenue to get my paper and a few beers for the room's tiny fridge. I passed the strange storefront Pussy Power store. To my surprise, the place was open. Out of curiosity, hearing loud voices like a church service, I opened the door and saw a tall exotic black woman pacing back and forth while lecturing or instructing her listeners. She saw me peeking in and said, in a voice that sounded like music,

"Come in, Sister, we need you in here with us."

The Paster's, Luella Parsons, described in a folder I found on the empty chair, based her teachings on the concept of "Pussy Power." The idea that a woman's unique sexual organ, her ability to reproduce, made women superior to men and deserving special status. Power to the Pussy was a concept that mixed biology with religious reverence. I was curious enough to return several times to attend her lectures. In the discussion hour, that followed I was able to speak to her in a one on one situation.which I found most interesting.

She claimed, and I had no reason not to believe her bio, that she descended from a pregnant slave that Harriet Tubman refused to take on the underground railroad. Luella was the granddaughter of that abandoned slave from an Alabama cotton farm. Luella was light-skinned due to the seed of the plantation owner and his three sons who shared her grandmother's womb to produce 11 other light-skinned slave children. When the civil war ended in 1865, the black slave families stayed on to work the fields for an additional three years, hearing only rumors of the anti-slavery proclamation. Some eventually qualified for 20 acres and a mule. In one form or another, the Knights lived on the small spread for the next hundred years, marrying other ex-slaves or their progeny. Luella was a bright child. She finished first in her class and won a scholarship to study at Howard University where she received a double degree, one in Psychology and one in Divinity.

I enjoyed Luella's lectures. They were a variation on take-back America. She said,

"Women, take back the power that you have in your pussy, PUSSY POWER! And conquer. Do not let the white man or the black man put you in chains. Bond with the white women, take control. Together we will conquer."

Luella believed the Pussy was the site of a magical power source that could free women from men's dominion. By using their Pussies, women could easily control men. If only women would harness their inner Pussy Power, they could control the world. Luella believed in bi-racial marriages as long as the women had the power, which resided in the pussy.

"A woman must control man through sex. If every black would marry a white, in one generation we'd have racial harmony."

I had to miss a few lectures when Lopaz mouthed off to some homophobic thugs outside a gay bathhouse. They beat him up pretty badly. I had to use theatrical make-up to make him presentable for the remaining shows. Lopaz had been kicked in the balls more than once. I had to apply ice to those tiny blue nuggets until the swelling and redness went down. Fortunately, he wasn't performing in a nudist colony, although he would have made a colorful entrance.

As a result of this intimate nursing, I got an up-close look at the Lopaz's cock and balls. Nothing grandiose. No wonder he had to use his cute shapely Latin ass to get attention. His privates were very unimpressive. His dick curled up so small that it looked like a clit. I didn't say anything. I know he was embarrassed by the diminutive stature of his crotch. Still, he was appreciative and didn't make any wisecracks.

"I swear by this song

And by all that I have done wrong

I will make it all up to thee"

(Leonard Cohen,"Bird on the Wire." 1968)

That was the favorite song of Marianne, his Norwegian lover listened to recently when she died, like Remo, Cohen never fulfilled his promises to her.

I had no illusions. I knew Remo would never make it up to me. He was a typical male, albeit gay, who, when wounded, seeks refuge. When recovered and fit, he would fuck you in the ass, if I were a boy that is. I doubted if I'd ever see Lopaz again. I've been right. That's Hollywood, never trust a cocksucker!

Once the six weeks passed, Lopez returned to Los Angeles. Before he left, Lopaz handed me a thank you card with an autographed picture of his cock and balls. Anything for a laugh. The joke was, it wasn't his dick and family jewels. The photo's subject matter was much larger.

STORY 5 - WHO DO I HAVE TO FUCK?

I figured I'd stay a few more weeks in New York. I had gotten friendly with Luella. She offered me a place to stay, a townhouse in Harlem near our ex-president's Clinton's office. I was looking forward to seeing Clinton's digs. I knew he was always randy, famous for fucking young chicks. No doubt, if I'd met him, something notable would have risen. When I googled the office address, I found the Dude had moved downtown in 2011.

I was disappointed, but still took a C Subway up to 125th St. and walked east, made a turn at the first block, and ended up at Luella's place. An older black woman, Auntie Sally, answered the door and welcomed me with a strong southern drawl, embracing me like a lost relative. She took me to a well-furnished room on the second floor and gave me a room key and a front door key. She told me that the staff met each day at 12:30 for the midday meal and that I was welcome. Fried chicken, ham hocks, roast pork, chitlins, buttermilk biscuits, and sweet potato pie or peach cobbler were frequently on the menu.

I began my training with a month-long indoctrination into all the secret contents of the Pussy Power Bible. I became a fervent believer in its doctrine and could quote chapter and verse. The time passed quickly. I was exhausted from the rigamarole I put up with the comic. There was a small garden behind the townhouse. I'd sit out there on the wooden bench and smell the cannabis growing there in the middle of the flower patch. I asked Willie, the Gardner, who had planted it?

"I'm not sure," he said, "but you know all ya gotta do is buy a bag a' birdseed, there is always a bunch of hemp seeds in dere. Ain't no nevermind to pick 'em out, and in a few months, you got a farm grow'en."

Obviously, Willie had planted the cannabis. I'd watch him working in the garden. He was a fat man. When he'd bend over, his pants would slip a notch, and his big round ass exposed. As he worked, the pants kept going lower and lower until I caught sight of his dick stretched below his underwear. He didn't seem to realize it, so I said nothing. Eventually, he unhitched his belt, unbutton the pants, and pulled up his jeans. Once he fixed his clothing, Willie reached into his pocket, took out a tin box, opened it, and pulled out a joint. He lit it, took a few puffs, and handed it to me.

"Here, Honeysuckle, enjoy."

I smoked it. It was potent shit. I kind of drifted off as the sun broke through the clouds and caught me in its headlight.

If I were the old Lizzie, I probably would have ended up sucking his cock. It did look inviting, like a nice fat cigar. But no, I was the new Lizzie, and men disgusted me. It was "Pussy Power" all the way. If this was a test, I passed. Luella seemed pleased that I was serious in my studies. I'd passed the test on each chapter with flying colors.

After my thirty days of instruction passed, Luella asked me if I wanted to worship at the Pussy Altar. I agreed. What an honor! I was ready for pussy, sick of dicks, and was prepared to wallow in cunt. I'd sucked enough cocks in my short life, and most of them were not lacking. A change was long overdue.

Luella gave me a large key and told me to go to the third floor's devotional room. I climbed the mahogany staircase and headed for the room with a large cross on the door. At the center where the cross pieces intersect is an oval. I could imagine what that signified. When I entered, I could see an altar in the center of the room. Graphic artwork hung on the walls, all illustrating vaginas; all colors, textures, hirsute, bald, shaved, thick-lipped, thin-lipped, tiny and large clitoris'. As I approached the altar, I saw Luella lying there.

Luella Knight was wearing a white gown, open to reveal her two perfect large round full breasts, and large long nipples that seemed to grow out of the dark corona surrounding them. A thin veil covered her magnificent vagina. The fabric was transparent. I could see it was intrepid, more arousing than any artwork in the room. Her vagina was large, her labia like a sculpture, two rings of flesh surrounding a three-dimensional flower of flesh that would open to reveal her center of gravity--the clitoris. Luella spoke. It was music to my ears,

"Come and worship my pussy, I am your Queen, your Priestess, your conscience. Take off your clothes and lie naked upon me. I must feel your breasts pressed against my thighs as you worship my pussy."

I took off my garments and approached the Queen.

As I bent forward, Luella reached out with both hands and grasped my head and gently guided my mouth towards what she called "her fountain of truth."

"This is where you kiss me."

"Meld with me, and our pleasure will soar through the heavens."

I was only inches away when she removed the veil that hardly covered her vagina. I was in awe, that cunt was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and as if the full oval labia wasn't enough, a large ruby piercing accented it.

How magnificent was her vagina? Her mons venus was like a pillow to rest your head on, slightly swollen and gently sloped. Her sex organ was large, laid out in three dimensions like a tropical flower plucked from the stalk laid between her thighs. Her outer vaginal lips outlined the organ as mascara outlines the eye. Immediately against the exterior were the inner lips, reminding me of the clam's mantle, so neat and perfect.

The interior, filled with delicate flesh, resembled a flower's petals. The labia skin gently wrinkled, revealed a sizable swollen presence in the upper quadrant. The Queen's clitoris lay beneath the oval skin cushion that my tongue dallied on for most of that hour. Below lay the entrance to her sacred vagina bursting forward, open, revealing no presence of a hymen. Her deflowering, whenever it had taken place, was complete. I continued, but I retained this kernel of confusion. Was a perfect vagina one necessarily deflowered?