I wondered why she called me over, to look at her car. Okay, it’s a 1992 Porsche 928 with a 5.4L V8 she bought for $20,000.00, which was a pretty damned good price, even considering what condition it was in.
She got the money from her grandfather’s will. He died, and left it for her, her parents were fairly cool with how she spent it. Especially her mom, because she knew her own father. He liked cars, and fixed up classics while her grandma collected dishes, and silverwear.
Kind of an Antiques Roadshow/Autotrader couple, so in their old age, they collected stuff. China cabinets to show off an amazing collection of dishes, and silverwear. A junk yard full of parts cars, and a garage with some project or other to restore, and sell. Mostly Saab 900s, he kept an SPG in perfect condition, but he even had a V4 96 he kept for himself.
He liked to drive them too, but she grew up going over there to read Auto-Trader, and help the old man out in the garage. Also, she was gay. I don’t know how much one had to do with the other, but to hear her tell it:
“I don’t care what the other girls think about me. The way I dress, or the grease stains I just can’t wash out.” She never dressed like a lesbian, nor a tomboy when we’re younger. “They have all these detergents, they say can get out the toughest grease stains, but that’s why these are dark blue.” She pulled out her shop cloth, which was also Navy blue. “It’s too dark to see the grease stains they leave behind.” Wiping the sweat off her face, or neck, then grabbing another clean one from the bag in the auto-shop on her way to the next class.
She dressed like a mechanic, kept her nails short so grease didn’t get stuck under them, and they’d just break off finger tightening a bolt anyway. Her hair’s short enough to keep it out of the serp belt, and she wore mechanics coveralls, because that’s who she was at heart. A mechanic. She started calling herself “Diesel Dyke,” because the other girls called her that behind her back, so she just owned it.
At some point, we just slowly became the unofficial LGB Table, in the lunch room. Officially, we’re teenagers, and abstinent at school. Unofficially, I got plenty of girls, and the guys. Well.
Darren was officially closeted. He didn’t say anything about my ass, but then neither did the dress code. I wore jeans, I guess the first time I wore tight jeans, I ran out of clean ones, and I had to grab something to get to school. It was either miss the bus, and get chewed out for making my dad late for work to drop me off, or fish some old jeans out of the bottom of my closet, but I’m bicertain.
Not curious, pretty fucking sure, and I knew what I wanted in a man. I even read up on it in the muscle magazines, but I didn’t lift weights, or nothing. I rode a bike, just for the chance to go out in spandex biker shorts, and see who checked me out, riding around the street.
I’m anal, okay? I guess you could call me a switch, I can top, or bottom, but I really like my ass. I put a lot of work into it, I like showing it off, and honestly before I even got the balls to talk to girls.
I guess you could say I let myself be molested, but come on. I rode my bike around just to wave my ass in the air, and it didn’t take long to see who noticed. He was an older man, married, and a father. Closeted, and he couldn’t help but take me up on it when I sat in his lap. In biker shorts, he got up when it was a little uncomfortable with me squirming around on his boner, but he took me inside.
He never fucked me, but he jerked me off with one hand, and felt me up pretty good with the other. Fairly often, until he lost interest, because I got a little too old, and a little too heavy to sit in his lap, but by then I’d been working on my best side. My back side, and the first day I showed up, in old jeans I outgrew.
I got so much attention, I felt so sexy all day, and it was all girls, but middle school girls, and Darren. He was the only one I caught looking, but I caught him looking, pretty much every chance he got.
I kinda like the reflection, of somebody behind me. So, I stood in front of the trophy case by the gym, or window shopped out on the street. The boy’s room, most of the mirrors in there were scratched up because they’re metal, which just made for a surface to carve [Fuck You Faggots] instead of smash them if they’re made of glass, but there were a few with enough of a reflection to see him checking me out while I washed my hands.
“Huh,” he sighed, and I thought he was gay, but it turns out he wasn’t. Even bisexual, he was straight, but he couldn’t talk to girls. (Except Parker, she was easy. Just ask her about her car, and let her do all the talking.) Butt, that did my heart proud, even more, when he told me I was the exception. I had an ass so perfect, in those lycra shorts, and jeans so tight I could barely get the button together. Even a straight guy couldn’t help but look at it, admire, and desire it.
I just figured, he’d make a move when he was ready, and until then, I enjoyed the attention. Then, Capital High, I guess I got distracted by girls. Fucking around, a lot, and enjoyed their hands gripping my ass to pull me in. Pumping them full of rubber.
Also, my dad was cool enough to buy me rubbers. “As long as you’re safe,” and straight. He didn’t add that part, because it was basically an unspoken agreement, he’s not really homophobic, but.
Okay, he’s the same way with my sisters. It’s okay that they’re straight, but that doesn’t mean he wants them bending over for any guy than can talk their panties off. Me talking girls out of their clothes, and fucking them was fine, as long as I didn’t get them pregnant.
“Not my daughter,” but my sisters. They weren’t supposed to have boys over for handjobs, fingerbangs, and oral sex, but that didn’t stop them. It just kept them from bringing them over, for dad to disapprove of, for being teenage boys.
“Boys will be boys, but not my daughters.” Have fun with the other father’s daughters, you need more rubbers? You’re really going through them fast lately, you’re not letting the girls take them?
Well, yeah. Girls talk, and I guess I got a reputation for helping them with their virginity, gently. The guys, they bragged about it. Lied about it, even when they did manage to get lucky, when I talked to their friends later.
It’s like they raped her. They didn’t, in fact they sometimes even said “It’s not like I raped her,” but in a way, yeah. It kinda is. I can’t even blame the boys unless they’re obviously sadists (And if you ever talk to a guy like that, they obviously get off on the pain of popping a cherry. Just from the way they say “You should have seen the look on her face!”)
Ugh, I know. Not very sexy (Unless you’re obviously sadistic.) But the operative word here is LIKE rape. He didn’t rape her, he didn’t want to hurt her, and she was willing, but then she talks to her friends later, and her side of the story is usually “I didn’t know it would hurt That much!”
So, it’s not rape, it’s just Like rape, in every way that matters. It hurts like rape, it makes them regret everything, and even blame themselves for being willing teenage girls. The guys even blame them for being so willing, just like the obvious sadists. I have to blame society, especially this new “Abstinence only” education, and we’re not even supposed to talk about premarital sex at school.
So guess what? We talked about sex a lot. At school, after school, in the boys, and girl’s rooms, and over at each other’s houses while we’re supposed to be doing our homework. looking it up on computers that don’t have the PG13 filters enabled.
It’s even the words they use: Popping her cherry, Breaking it or even Busting it. They don’t teach you that, they teach you to wait until you put a ring on her finger, and then pop her right open on your honeymoon.
Finally, I flunked out again, and I couldn’t take it any more, because honestly I had so many virgins that heard that I know how to do it right. If they can’t bring themselves to do it, because they’re scared, and it hurts. If they’re not bi-curious enough to go to Parker.
The only other student there, that anyone knew, how to take care of virginity, without hurting her. “Doctor Parker,” and she took them over to her dad’s old office. So, that became “The Doctor’s Office.” Where you go, to get your virginity removed. So you can have sex with teenage boys without worrying about them hurting you, because all they knew is it’s supposed to “Pop.”
Well, I was old enough to enroll in Community College, and get my G.E.D. So, I dropped out of high school, got a job, and eventually met a girl to move in with.
Suzanne, she’s a college girl, and she went to Capital before she graduated. our middle schools, and elementary schools a couple years ahead of us, but she never approached me when I was a sophomore, because she was a senior. Even though she saw me walking around the halls, shaking my ass, in skintight jeans.
It’s not the same for guys, and I’m not going to pretend that it is, but it’s kinda like she took my virginity. When she turned 18, she didn’t go out, and buy a pack of smokes legally. She didn’t get a tattoo, which is what I would have done, nor even go see Deadpool II in the dollar theater. She went out to the bookstore, and arcade, out by the airport.
Adult theater, they didn’t put “Novelties” on the sign out front, but basically specialized in selling smut to truckers. So, they could take the Missile bypass around instead of heading in town on their way bye. Sex toys to housewives that didn’t want to order them online so they’d have to explain it to their husbands. Or to surprise them.
“Happy International Women’s Day.” ~Vanessa. Okay, well she got dragged off to see Deadpool, at this guy’s house. They got horny during the year round sex montage, but other than Lent, the one thing he didn’t want to try was how they celebrated International Women’s Day.
He didn’t mind barebacking her, when they couldn’t get condoms, but she broke up with him before she turned 18. So, she could get a ride out to the airport, and stop by the Adult Bookstore, and Arcade for a Strapon.
She got the ass she always wanted, mine. Took me home, and surprised me. I fucked her, got up to flush the rubber, and take a piss, then she quoted Leonard Cohen from the bed.
“I love to see you naked over there, especially from the back.” Big Leonard Cohen fan, from way back. Instead of $20,000.00 to buy a classic car to fix up (Or just keep running) she got her grandad’s record collection, when he passed away. Including Leonard Cohen, and that song, Suzanne. She didn’t like that Oh Suzannah, don’t you cry for me song, coming from Alabama, with a banjo on his knee.
The song’s called “Take this Longing,” if you want to hear it. The important lyric, other than seeing me naked over there, especially from the back is in the chorus.
“Ah take this longing from my tongue.” She bent me over the bathroom sink, and ate me out, when I got out of the shower. Made sure I washed, and rinsed carefully. So, there wasn’t any soap residue, much less anything dirtier left before she stuck her tongue in there.
“All the useless things these hands have done.” Rubbing my hips, and spreading me open with the thumbs.
“Let me see your beauty broken down…
Like you would do, for the one you love.”
Then, she smacked my ass back together, and told me to “Get back on the bed.” Opened up the cabinet under the sink, and pulled open a cooler. It said (Igloo) on it, but relatively tiny over the words (Playmate) and (The Boss)
She didn’t collect old dishes, silverwear, classic cars to restore nor even more old albums for her grandad’s record player. She moved out to the airport, to shop at the Adult Bookstore, and Arcade. She had dildos, vibrators, butt-plugs, and of course, the strapon.
A quart tub of Boy Butter. Like Shedd’s Spread Country Crock, only it was more like greasy lotion, in a quart tub. With (Boy Butter) on the side. A box of small rubber gloves, and we played for hours with them. In every hole, I sucked the strapon like a dick, backed up ass to ass with the double header, double penetrated her with a buttplug sticking out just enough to spank it with my pubes, and bent over to take it from behind while she felt up my chest, and nibbled on my ear.
Finally, she took it off, and we collapsed on the bed. Exhausted, satisfied, and out of breath. We slept in the next morning, and then we changed our relationship statuses to [Living Together.]
I took a picture, to save the moment, and thought I hit Save, before I set the phone down. So she could pop a rubber in her mouth, and go down to roll it on with her teeth. She’s an ass girl, obviously. She can’t get off on nailing me, but nothing turns her on as much as that, or Latex. Not fetishwear, but medical latex, condoms, rubber gloves, dental dams, surgical tubing for when we get into bondage, or technically the thigh straps on the harness belt are stretchy surgical tubing for her, because they rub between her thighs, and her pussy.
I didn’t even upload it to MyFace. SpaceBook. I’m not going to say the actual company, but I will say it’s the one that still has a reputation to protect, money for corporate lawyers to sue you, and no sense of humor about certain things. Like 17 year olds proudly showing off that he moved in with his girlfriend, and her collection of sex toys.
Yeah, legally it’s childporn, but legally, I’m also old enough to consent to sex. It was safe sex all the way, I’m an adult in every way except for the arbitrary date they selected for sexually suggestive material, and the FBI had developed even less of a sense of humor about social media sharing sexually suggestive photos of minors with a tub of Boy Butter reflected in the mirror in the background.
She had a mirror, in her headboard, so I could look up at her behind me, while she fucked me.
My phone blew up, then they threatened to delete both of our accounts, but it took a couple days for somebody to report it. The damage was already done, we completely forgot about her taking off the harness, and leaving it on the bedside nightstand. I got outed, or technically I accidentally announced to my family, and all my friends that my girlfriend was nailing me with a strapon.
I’m not ashamed of it, but I lost some friends over that. Parker, when she called me (She doesn’t like texting, she can’t do it when she’d driving, so she calls hand’s free from her car.)
“Hey, can you stop by the school tomorrow? I want you to take a look at something.”
“Sure.” She didn’t mention the photo, being about as out as a lesbian can get, under the circumstances. I kinda expected non-interest out of her. She’s “A tool girl, not a toy girl, and I don’t need a toy, to satisfy girls.” She’s also kinda proud of that, to hear her brag about it. “I’m a little more hands on.”
If you know what she means. I’m anal, Suzanne’s into butts too, or she really got into mine the last few nights since I moved in with her, her toys, and rapidly depleting stores of Boy Butter. Latex disposables… “Besides, Derry misses you.”
She calls Darren “Derry,” and pretty much nobody else, ever called him that. Since like 7th grade, when he farted in class, and what I hear is, he really let one rip, but they called him “Derry Air” until he fucking hated it.
Parker could get away with it, because it’s Parker.
Yeah, all right, I’d kinda been avoiding him. Ever since that photo came out, because I didn’t know how to handle it. How he’d deal with it, my girlfriend, Suzanne. She knew all about him, and she brought it up, because she remembered how he followed me around school, because of my best side…
I’d been putting it off, for years, and now I wasn’t really in any hurry to complicate my life any more. I was happy, about as happy as I’d ever been. Out of the house, getting fucked all night, my girlfriend can fuck me all night, every night until we pass out exhausted, and honestly, I needed a break from that to process, but there was just this.
Flimsiest excuse I’ve ever fucking heard. From Parker, “You mind taking a look at my car?” Of course not, “I think the alignment’s a little off. If I let go of the steering wheel, it drifts a little over to the right.” She had the hood up, “You think the sway bar looks a little bent? Or maybe it’s something in the front suspension…”
Same old Parker, same old car, the only new parts are what she had to buy to get it running again. “It’s an adventure on wheels, and she could always use someone to help her push.” (~Jane Lane) So, I pretended to check it out for her, while she back off, and talked to Darren about me.
What am I looking at? The sway bar? Yeah, it’s bent so it can bolt across the underside of the hood. Between the top of the wheel wells, where the suspension. Things are bolted to these 2 bulges. I assume so the car doesn’t sway in a turn, because it’s called a sway bar, but I don’t know how it’s supposed to look like.
So, I got down, and looked behind the front tire, she had turned, so you could look at the. Stuff, holding the wheel on. So it can turn, and stuff. What’s the rack, and what’s the pinion? About all I know about the alignment on a German Muscle Car is that’s a sway bar, but only because she pointed right at it, when she told me she thought it was bent.
So, I figured she asked me to come out, because Derry missed me. Until I got up, dusted off my hands, and saw her, rubbing his back. With 1 hand, holding the butt of a Vagina Slime in the other, and then she put his arm around him, like some kind of girlfriend.
“Uh, yeah. I think the swaybar’s bent. I didn’t see anything,” I recognized, or could name “Under the wheel well.”
“Okay thanks, but I need to give Derry a ride home.” She winked, “See you later?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be a stranger!” They got in, and drove off.
“WTF?” Just happened? Have they been going out, or did she ask me over, just to ask for my approval? Like I’m his father, and he’s my teenage daughter, instead of my estranged best friend.
“Huh!” My gay friend, or so I thought. He never showed any interest in girls, and whenever we talked. I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I can tell when he’s avoiding the subject, and she’s.
Well, Parker. She’s like one of the guys, but not like you’d think I mean, when I say “Like one of the guys.” A tomboy, and a LES
B
AN.
Right? It just didn’t add up. Yeah, technically, they are both gay, but maybe she’s just man enough, and she needs a beard? For some reason. As if there’s a single person she knows, that isn’t well aware that she’s not all about boys, with dicks, dorks, wangs, or any of the other words she uses to sneer at the very idea of guys having junk in their underwear.
“Huh.” I just shook my head, and drove back out to our apartment, by the airport. Suzanne was at work, and I’m not sore. I sure as hell wasn’t horny enough to even think about breaking out a toy, and the boy butter from the fridge.
Just not going to bother to explain that, maybe later. Fortunately, they weren’t going at it for hours, and I kinda expected one of them to call me, text, or leave a message on my phone
Then Parker called. “Hey,” from the road, I could hear the V8 through the dashboard. “You still living out at Cedar Creek?”
“Yeah,”
“Well, we’re about halfway down Airport Road, by Autozone?”
“Yeah, Daren with you?” She said we.
“Yeah, uh.” He mumbled, “Some things we need to talk about.”
“See you in a few, the light’s changing, so I better let you go.”
“Huh.” She’s just not going to let me put it off, any more.
;
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