Sleep Over

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A Little Lift

It might be time for some fun.

Something to give us a little lift, as it were.

Thanks to Faithful Readers Bruce and Bryn for sending memes!

Weird Situation

 

"I've read your blog for a couple of years now and have never seen this addressed. Weird situation and I'm confused. Our sex life is great but I found out that my husband masturbates to m-m porn. He and our oldest son who is gay will sometimes watch together. Does this mean my husband is actually bi?"

Here's the short answer: No.

The vast majority of pornography is produced for men. It's all about transference. Guys will watch and can imagine or fantasize themselves into the situation. Straight porn videos pretty much always concentrate the camera on the man. Especially for the cum shot. It's always been dubbed "the money shot" because it's what sells the most.

It's not a weird situation at all. If you think about it, with M-M they get that money shot doubled.

Or tripled.

Or more.

What do you think, Readers?

End of Chapter Two

 

I'm feeling very lazy today. Partly cloudy with more thick, black ones rolling in, and the winds are kicking up again. It always makes me want to curl up and hibernate.

But I do need to finish Book 4 of my smut series.

The word from the publisher --- through my writer friend: Sent back to the author for revisions and resubmission. The problem is, I haven't received anything from them. I can't do changes if I don't know what they are suggesting. So, my friend is inquiring as to what happened. In the meantime, work continues on Book 4.

Since many Faithful Readers have asked for more.... Here's a continuation. Blue to remind where we left off.

I had to admit he had gorgeous legs, like a dancer’s; long, and well-toned, well defined muscles. His ass flexing with every step he took I really didn’t want to catch up to walk alongside him. I also didn’t want him to notice the chub developing. But I didn’t want to creep him out, either, and did my best to act as if my cock was always like that, even though he probably knew better.

The closer we got to the lake the more voices carried on the slight breeze riding in from the west. The second Deven cleared the tree line he let out a whoop and ran to the crowd. Cheers erupted amid shouts of his name and hugs all around. Close hugs. So, he didn’t fear catching cooties from other men’s junk. So much for social distancing, for the second time since we’d arrived. He sure was popular. I hoped by the end of our week I would know why. Nice guy? Yes. But there must’ve been more to it than that.

I stood feeling out of my element. Truth. I’d been naked around plenty of men—in locker rooms where no one paid much obvious attention. This whole nudism thing put a little pit in the middle of my stomach. I scratched the side of my head. The focus turned to me.

Low whistles accompanied, “Who’s the hunk?”

Deven answered as if he knew who they asked about. “Everyone, this is Connor, my neighbor.”

Deven pointed as he named each guy. Not that any stuck. My brain was too busy trying to take it all in. A couple were big, burly types: one with a full beard, the other so furry that only the absence of tits clued to gender. One obvious body-builder: muscles bulging with every move. Three smooth and slender: Micheal Phelps swimmer-type bodies. Every one of them handsome in their own way. I deliberately avoided looking at crotches, though I couldn’t help but notice a jeweled cock ring glittering in the sun. Not that they afforded me the same consideration.

“Oh, baby. Damn, he’s hung.”

I was? I never thought so.

Deven laughed. “That’s nothing compared to when he’s hard.”

The expression on my face must’ve spoken the question. Deven said, “You think I haven’t watched you jerking off in your back yard, your dick lubed up with tanning oil?”

My face went hot with embarrassment. A couple of the guys made moves to approach me.

“Hands off, boys,” Deven said. “He’s mine.”

I was? When did that happen?

“You are. This entire week. Don’t forget it.”

What the hell? He sure didn’t need to bring me all this way to fuck me. All he had to do was ask. I mean, I heard plenty of straight men would slip a dick like that. A colleague once joked, “Shit, turn out the lights, lather up the lube, and it’s just a really tight pussy.”

“Oh, my. Connor, you are a lucky, lucky man,” one of the Phelps images said. “I think I’m jealous.”

I was? Why?

Obviously, they all knew something about my neighbor that had them frothing at the loins. Maybe it was that old gay myth, the fantasy of turning the straight dude to the dark side. That thought made me chuckle. Only if Deven’s a strict top.

A poke to the shoulder by Detective Blue Jeans brought me back to reality. “You ever been inside his house?”

I had to really think about that. “Sure, I guess. Maybe.”

“Either yes or no, it’s not that tough a question.”

“Probably, but it would’ve been before this whole virus thing hit. Why?”

“If we find your prints, I’d hate to think you lied.”

“Oh.” I suddenly found myself doing a calendar check in my head. I took a few things to him over the years, and in the weeks leading up to the trip; desserts I’d made mostly. Baking gave me something to occupy my time. What better way to avoid packing on the pounds than sharing with a neighbor? Though I didn’t remember going any farther than the front doorstep. I felt a tickle of sweat run down the back of my neck, hoping they wouldn’t decide to inspect my house where Deven had spent time inside.

“If I have any more questions—you don’t mind answering questions, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Good. I like it when people cooperate with an investigation. If I need anything, I can knock on your door?”

I nodded.

He dug into the chest pocket of his blazer and pulled out a card. He inspected it, pulled out a pen and scratched a line through something. As he wrote, he said in explanation, “The department gave us new cell phones but no new cards. Go figure. Budgets or some bullshit.”

He handed me the card. Randall Flagg. Detective, Homicide Division. Really? Randall Flagg? I laughed. Couldn’t help myself. When I opened my mouth to speak, he held up a hand.

“Can it. I’ve heard every Stephen King joke there is.” He spun on his heels and headed up toward the house. He stopped short. “Are you married Mr….?”

“Bradshaw. Connor Bradshaw. Nope.”

“Smart man. Relationships can get messy. Divorces get messier.”

My head tilted with, I hoped, complete innocence. Innocence of heavy relationships. Innocence of marital strife. But mostly, innocence of murder.

“See ya.” He tossed a wave then hesitated. “Your neighbor, was he married? Maybe an angry ex floating around somewhere?”

This guy played a good imitation of that one bumbling TV detective. A real investigator wouldn’t be this addled, would they? “Uh, no. Not that I’m aware of.”

Deven married? I couldn’t fathom that. He liked playing the field as it were. I suppose there may have been an ex-girlfriend. But how many one-nighters ago would that have been? Certainly before he moved in there, or I would’ve noticed. I think.

But his behavior at the Woods that first night might be an indication someone discovered a side of Deven she didn’t like.

That's the end of Chapter Two.