Biographer's note: Each portion of this story comes with an audio version done via "From Text to Speech" (http://www.fromtexttospeech.com/) for those who would prefer to listen to their books. Click the title just below the gif and enjoy!
I had a fetish for black cock. I call it a fetish because of all the politically incorrect connotations associated nowadays with having a preference for people of color. I can see how folk can be offended by my first statement, particularly since it is coming out of the mouth of a White Jewish Welshman . . . or is that cumming in my mouth? But if I preferred dogs over cats, does that mean I’m fetishizing my animals as well?
I was still in London, not finished with Uni, in the mist of the bad ol’ days of heavy drinking and fulfilling every negative stereotype I could of bisexuals – thus ‘fucking-anything-that-moved’. And tonight, I was taking on a bet that I could pick up a man and a woman (strangers to me and one another), have them buy my drinks, and show them all a good time. Rory, one of my few friends at school was with me, playing the instigator who thought he’d up the stakes. “Oi, Deetz! Let’s make this interesting.” Rory was a nob - minor Saudi Arabian royalty – and an architect major with daddy’s neglected American Express card. Rory casually misplaced it so often I’m certain several poor families on the East End were surviving off it. He had been saying this was his last semester for the better part of two years. He declared himself to be a devout Muslim, particularly when he was drunk and buzzed on cocaine. He also claimed he ‘didn’t understand the homosexual’ but always was going to gay clubs with me then picking out my fuck buddies. Now he was moving it to the next level. “Mate! I wanna watch this time. I want to see you suck cock, the biggest cock possible. Your mouth is so small but you say you can do Black cock,” he slurred. He took a swig from his double scotch and ordered the second round. “I need to see it fit in your mouth then I need to see if you can get him off better than a woman.”
“€1500 and you have a deal!” I said, smugly toasting his offer. I was broke, with a father back in Wales who was ready to see my backside and two months’ rent due. In those days and for that kind of money, I was willing to play whore, particularly after a few good shots of Glenfiddich. Looked around the bar for some easy marks. The Whiskey Sour attracted a slightly older gay crowd along with their fag hags because of its distance from the white-collar jobs of its patrons. Gay marriage aside, well-heeled wannabes in the 21st century looking for trade still had reason to be afraid. But these blokes were trying so hard to hide their inner-fairy, even in this safe space, that the typical ‘white boy shuffle’ was the only stiffy for blocks. To me, this was the sign that one needed to take in more self-acceptance than warm English pints. Physically, the female distractions were in my taste range – more hippy than lippy with round mounds in all the right places. These gals were less needy than their counterparts in the States who were stuck hanging with their ‘gay husbands’ not because they weren’t pretty but because American society deemed their proportions less than desirable – we Europeans are much more enlightened in that respect. And many a Betty in an ostensibly gay club were the wives of shy bi-boys, looking for something cheeky for their sweet dish.
Rory was impatient, however. “What do you see?”
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