My Beer Buddy

by Louis Friend (Prurient Interests)

Despite us calling it "boys night out," most of the time Tony and I would hang out in his finished basement on our occasional evenings. Basketball season was our favorite. Tony’s wife, Marsha, would order us up a couple pizzas, stock the basement fridge with beer, and let boys be boys.

And that’s how it’s been since. On occasion he’ll want things outside of our nights together. When he was going through a rough patch with his Marsha, I would meet him in the parking garage after work and suck him off before we both went home to our wives. I’m still all man to my Missus but when Tony and I get together, I’m his bitch, completely.

***

Interestingly enough, I recently created a fantasy very close to Mr. Friend’s scenario.  In fact — with a certain few twists here and there — I’ve conjured two entirely unique quasi-versions.Great minds think alike?  Or maybe it’s just that we — Mr. Friend, myself and , of course, my kinkster callers — are just intrepid gutter rats at heart.  Either way, fun was had by all and, if I do say so myself (and, believe me, I certainly do) two very kinky callers just love me to pieces.  Of course, the feeling is reciprocated.

You might wonder, considering their shared interests why I wouldn’t introduce one to the other.  But Angela, you may be asking, wouldn’t that be a Queer Boy’s dream-come-true?  Nah, not really.  Because, you see, neither want to be Tony.  They want to be the submissive friend who takes it up the ass. 

And did you notice the narrator-sub did not get to have an orgasm?  It’s what I call The Paradox of Submissive Phone Sex.  It goes something like this:  In REAL LIFE when a man is submitting, he might very well serve as a footstool, administer foot worship and be fucked by the Dominant.  And, as the story illustrates, the Dominant usually at some point uses the slave to sate their own sexual desire, culminating in the Dominant’s orgasm, while the submissive does not get relief.  His role is very much objectified; he is a means to an end, and it’s all about the Dominant’s satisfaction. 

BUT …

In a Phone Sex Fantasy it is exactly this fact that the Dominant is using the submissive for his own selfish needs, without any regard for slave’s sexual fulfillment, that cause the Phone Sex Submissive to have an orgasm.  

Which I guess could lead to the conclusion that, if you want to orgasm when serving a Master, it’s better to do it as a fantasy.  Lucky for me, eh?

xo, Angela

So apparently there really is an event called the Festival of the Steel Phallus.   Now your quite apt reaction might be:  Only in America!  While mine would run along the lines of:  The last thing we need in this world is a Pecker Party. 

And we’d both be wrong.  

Because first off, this particular celebration takes place in Kawasaki, Japan.  Secondly, it’s proceeds go towards HIV research.   

But I am thinking about a select group of closet cocksuckers who would be in absolute heaven if I sent them to party it up at the festival.   You know who you are; don’t try to hide behind that monitor.  We see you. 

xo, Angela

Pricks, Dicks and Cocks.  Oh my!

Friday’s YouTube post, "Dick in a Box" (for which Justin Timberlake won an Emmy) got me to thinking about the very real and totally unsolicited dick gifts that I (and many other women) unexpectedly receive via email every so often.  Which begs the question, "Just what in the hell is a guy thinking when he sends a girl (he’s never met, instant messaged with, or spoken to) this perversely quixotic self-effigy?  

Jeeze Louise, Mr. Man, what in the heck is going on here?  Is this your fucked-up version of the quintessential Kodak moment? Where is your sense of propriety?   Because, between you and me, it’s not only inappropriate, it’s downright icky!  And I mean icky as in  "making the female-collective skin crawl" icky.  For Chrizt Sakes! Do you keep these pictures in your wallet and show them at dinner parties?   Although our distinguished Pervert Savant knew a guy who kinda-sort did just that, it’s not common nor acceptable behavior.  Yes, even on the Internet, you don’t get to be an asshole. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against a pretty enuff penis now and then.  But it’s certainly not true that I’ve never met a penis I didn’t like, occasions of Sprick-Mail (spam prick mail) being a prime example.  This is, after all, stuff of sex and intimacy, not of candygram-esque surprises from strangers.  Once you know me, I might even ask to see a picture.  

But if you want me to respect you in the morning, you better have to take that picture especially for me.  Because a guy who keeps pictures of his weenie on his hard drive, even if he swears he isn’t sending them out helter-skelter, everywhither way, definitely has some deranged, unhealthy fascination with his own prick that begs another question as in "What the Fuck?"   And which prompts the follow-up obloquy, "Get lost and get a life."

Then again, maybe it’s just a phenomena with Phone Sex Operators?

BUT …

After the above short-but-sassy quasi-philippic, I must confess I once played shutterbug and took some cock photos of a certain penis I was in possession of at the time.  And no — I don’t have them on my hard drive, so don’t ask to see them. I’m not even sure I still posses them.  Although they should be tucked somewhere amongst the nooks and crannies of my photo albums. If so, I pray they never fall out when my sister or brother or a friend is flipping through them.  Because one one of those little suckers did get loose once, much to my embarrassment.

It all started because I was naked in bed with a certain someone, while my camera and sunglasses lie beside me on the bedside table.  And put one, two and three together:  penis + sunglasses + camera = Angela making naked boy do stupid thing.  And he did.  I propped those sunglasses right at the base of his dick, with it hanging down like a long nose, and snapped away.  I took them to a Wallgreens for developement and they went right through — no questions asks — along with the picnic and Trivial Pursuit party pictures which made up the rest of the roll.

A few weeks later, there was another picnic and I wanted to show everybody the pictures.  So I went ruffled through the prints, pulling out the dick-pics.  Or so I thought.  The first person I showed them to happened to be a man "of a certain age," who was kinda-sorta a surrogate father to me.  We are smiling and talking and basking in the sun as he goes through the pictures, stopping here and there to make a comment or ask who someone was.  Then it happened.  All of a sudden he got stone quiet.  When I looked to see why, I saw that his face and neck had turned a deep crimson. 

And I knew. 

I felt the heat of my matching blush crawling up my throat and across my face.  Somehow, someway, I’d overlooked one of the tell-tale pictures and my sometimes Daddy Dearest was looking right at the evidence of his sweet, little girl’s brazen debauchery.  Oh the shame.  Oh the humiliation.  Oh the embarrassment.

Of course, the picnic went on and and life went on.  And although we never, ever spoke of the incident, Mr. Daddy Man did forgive me. 

But I don’t think he ever forgot.  I sure didn’t.

xo, Angela

(if — after all of that — you still wanna see dick pictures:  CLICK HERE)