And She’s Back…
It’s been quite a while since I’ve
posted a blog, but I’m back. Four, five, nine months or so ago, I became
succumbed to my experiences in this crazy city that I now call home. This is not
to say I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been at an impasse with this blog specifically,
unsure of how I could get back into the swing of things. It’s not exactly like
riding a bike, because it’s been hard to get back on. To say it’s like riding a
man, well, it’s not that easy either. My predilection for
abnormally over-sized tree trunks for sexual partners should paint a picture
of the difficulty it is getting back into the sex swing for me, so to speak. As an
aside, swings aren’t really my thing, but props have never been much excitement for me. Pull at
my hair and spit on me and maybe we’re talking, but I digress. The last series
of months have really been a whirlwind for me in a million different ways. Writing
always seems to calm my nerves; writing, cigarettes, and marijuana, that is.
Three things that haven’t hit much of an impasse in the past series of months; but
again, I digress. Although I’ve been writing away, editing my first book –
which never seems to be finished, I haven’t felt comfortable getting back into
the blog. However, I’m here now, and I’m making a promise to post at least a
blog a week for the next few months. Given how long winded I am, prepare for a
book’s worth within this time.
Moving on to this first blog in a
while, I feel a resurgence for sharing my chaotic experiences with the masses. Since
moving to San Francisco, or the ‘Windy City’ of Chicago, Illinois as I like to
call this horribly cold climate change from Southern California, this life has
shifted into much of an anomaly for me. I have been homeless for the better
part of a year, by all things on paper. The best part of this, is that it’s
been by my own sadistic choice. I’ve never done anything like this; I’ve never
been so spontaneous in my life choices. Over the course of the last year, I’ve lived
in a trailer park, fell in love a number of times, and have experienced a level
of crazy that puts Los Angeles to shame. Who would have known that this place I
now call home would present West Hollywood as a town filled with Stepford
Wives?! This is the town for your freak flag and I live for it. I have found a
community of family and friends here to rival the last thirty years of my life.
Living outside the box and experiencing crazy at every turn, this last year has
changed my perspective in every way possible. For someone that shies away from
very little – outside of watersports (never say never…) – this has been the
journey made for me. But, first things first: Let’s backtrack almost a year
ago…
While many of you may have read ‘AHoarder’s Paradise’ (link here….), that was just Night #1 for me. (If youhaven’t read it, take a gander) By night #2, I was shacked up in a hostel in
downtown San Francisco’s financial district. Europeans surrounded me along with
visiting travelers, while I was fresh to a city I intended to make my new home.
This wasn’t exactly a vacation for me, yet it was a departure from my normal
routine. Knowing no one in this city and having less than a week or two’s stay
filling my wallet, I wasn’t sure what the next step would be. I needed an
apartment, a job, and desperately needed money. Trolling around on ‘Grindr’ –
my favorite gay networking application for anal connections – I began chatting
with as many locals as possible. I had specific goals and expectations for
anyone I would chat with. Either they should have a job opportunity, living
accommodations, or be someone with whom I could tango in the bedroom. Due to my
insatiable need for monster-sized cock, this goal sat highest on my priorities
list to start. I make priority lists and I know my essentials.
Among my Northern California Grindr
conversations, I was finding dicks of all shapes, colors, and sizes. While this should have been great, two days in, there seemed little in the way of job opportunities or
a place to rest my head. The peen is great and all, but I didn’t feel homeless
really suited me. I’m sure
there are people out there who look great in “homeless”, but it’s not really my
color. More often than not, my placement as an uptight East Coast little Jewish
queen seems to seethe through the atmosphere. People sense it. Despite all of
the joyous cocks in the land, I needed to figure out some long-term scenarios.
My priorities seemed to change within 48 hours. As my best friends will tell
you, I have more moods than Rosie O’Donnell, so a 48-hour shift is nothing new.
Scouring my social app – Grindr – for
everything, I found Magenta: the magic unicorn. Jose was his name, but
he went by Magenta. It was a childhood nickname that stuck. While I found it an
odd name to have, my name isn’t your run-of-the-mill ‘Joe’ or ‘Larry’, so it didn't make me ponder much. Magenta
was visibly not my type. He posted his height as 5’7” on his Grindr profile,
which most often insinuates 5’5” or 5’6”. I’m a giant chaser with body issues, so
anyone smaller than me is enough for a Tracey Gold Lifetime Movie special. The
second he contacted me via the social application, I knew this was going to
fall under the job opportunities/living arrangement side of my networking
attempts on Grindr, assuming he had something to offer. Magenta was twenty-five
years old and short, like I mentioned above. I prefer six-foot-one or above.
Similar to Disneyland, I too have height requirements. Especially if I’m going to ride your
ride… I am attracted to certain aspects of a man that relate to masculinity for
me. This may be critical and ridiculous, but short men do not fly my boat.
Anyone my height (five-foot-eleven) or shorter deserves a lollipop and a
feature on a TLC network program, but rarely a place in my pants (not to say there are never exceptions). I find tall men to
be the epitome of attraction and masculinity to me, so go figure. We all have
our kinks, but I’m pretty vanilla. All I ask for is a tall man with a big uncut
cock and maybe the slightest choke hold. Nothing too crazy, but if you slap my
ass while we’re at it, I probably won’t complain. And that’s about where it
ends. The rest should be boring with lots of kissing like we’re in the sixth
grade and I’m set. Pass me a note at study hall. Five foot six Magenta could not deliver such things.
As our conversation began, Magenta
was friendly and sweet, but I wasn’t looking at him in anything but a platonic
way. My Grindr profile specifically stated my intentions in finding a place to
live and leads towards a sufficient form of income (sex work excluded). For
anyone outside my sphere of interest, this made for the perfect alibi to qualify
my disinterest in sex. Magenta only received friendly and non-sexual conversation
talking points from me. We discussed my move to the Chicago of the West Coast,
my need to find a job, and my housing predicament. Magenta told me he was an
optometrist and lived in Concord, deep in the East Bay. Seeing as I knew close
to nothing about the Bay Area prior to moving, I just assumed that was another
neighborhood in the city of San Francisco. I was familiar with the Castro, the
luxurious Tenderloin district, Union Square, and now Concord? As I was chatting
with people while located in the city, I just assumed that anyone I spoke to
occupied residence in town. Today, the East Bay is still a confusing
cluster-fuck for me (and I lived here for almost a year), but at that time I
knew even less about it then. I thought the Bay Area referred to San Francisco
and different parts of the city. Berkeley was just a neighborhood in SF, right?
Clearly I couldn’t pass a first-grade geography test, but how many people
really can? (Outside of first-graders, that is…)
So, as the story went, we discussed
his occupation and living arrangement. As he presented it, Magenta was a
certified eye-doctor with a lavish pad. He explained how he understood my
predicament and that several friends had stayed with him, a few weeks at a
time, upon moving to the area. I began to wonder if I had found the jackpot.
Would this be a friend who could help get me on my feet? Could it be so?! He
seemed like a giving heart, given the short-lived online conversation, but I
couldn’t help but get excited. To clarify: excited by the potential of a place
to stay, not excited in the pants. My erection turned inward at the sight of
Magenta. Not to be a bitch, although I fear it may be far too late for that, but he
was not my hot and spicy cup of tea. Magenta was five-foot-too short and just didn’t have
the look I normally go for. He was half-Mexican, half-Filipino, and while there
is nothing wrong with that (it can often be a very sexy mix), the combination on him wasn’t to my taste buds. As
the online conversation continued, Magenta suggested he might have a few
friends that could help me find employment. I felt indebted to this kid and I
hadn’t even met him yet.
Then, without warning, the
conversation flipped. All of a sudden, Magenta started talking about sex. He
just jumped right into it, asking me what I liked and what I didn’t. I hadn’t
the heart to tell him “Anything but you”, so instead I used my alibi. “Sorry,
but I’m new to the city and looking for a job and a place to live. Sex isn’t
really on the table.” To which he responded: “What if I can help you get a
place and find a job, then you’ll have no reason but to have sex with me,
right?” I couldn’t be direct and honest because if I were, I’d have shied away
from a potential opportunity. At times, I try to keep my bitchiness to a
minimum; just sometimes. While I couldn’t flat out tell this kid that he wasn’t
my type due to genetic cruelty, I decided to throw out some discerning
objections to his courting me. The first being: “You’re cute and all, Magenta, but I only go for
guys with big uncut cocks. Sorry." I thought this would end the
conversation altogether. I hadn't even planned my second objection. For the record – however – I am not completely opposed
to a circumcised dick, but I am opposed to a man that rests his face in my
crotch. Not that that’s a bad place for a man to rest his head, but I’d rather
him have to bend down versus getting on a step stool to do the deed.
As
quickly as I sent my obvious objection, Magenta responded with a picture. From
the look of it, I had been proven wrong by my assumptions. The “dick pic” – as
Elliot Spitzer made famous – I had received had shown a rather large penis with
a handful of foreskin wrapped around the head. My objections weren’t going to
save me from this. Additionally, I had the potential promise of a place to stay
and work opportunities. I began to entertain the idea of letting Magenta put it
in me. After all, I’m nothing if not a gracious person. Pity fucks are not
outside my realm of possibilities. Following the explicit photograph I received,
an extensive assortment of pictures rolled in. The remnants of many photo
shoots all came in at once and I couldn’t help but change my demeanor. Maybe it
was time for me to date a shortie. Who knows?! Your taste buds change every
seven years or so, perhaps this could be part of my evolution…
Entertaining
the possibility of this vertically challenged man getting a piece of me, we
made plans to hang out the following night. It would be my third night in San
Francisco and the city was still new to me in every possible way. Throughout
the day, Magenta sent me multiple shots of his dick all taken for my viewing
pleasure. I appreciated the persistence and began to look forward to hanging out. We
made plans to grab a drink or two. Magenta offered to introduce me to a few of
his friends that may have employment opportunities for me. In my mind, we would
be grabbing a drink close to my hostel, just Magenta and I. Should his friends
show up, I didn’t think they would have any part in the evening. I thought this
would be a one-on-one encounter, given it would be our first time meeting.
Additionally, he hadn’t introduced his friends as anything more than people we just
may see out. I can be very pragmatic at times and that was certainly the case
here. Every element of the night was planned out in my head. I was very clear
with Magenta that I had morning plans on Saturday and an interview that
afternoon. There were no plans for a crazy night. I relayed the need for an
early morning and my intentions for a calm evening. Magenta agreed and I took
that as firm. He offered to pick me up in one of his cars (yes, he relayed his
possession of multiple cars.), we would then go out for a drink or two, and he
would take me back to Concord to spend the night. After all, when two gays
discuss their sexual quirks, exchange pictures, and make plans, something’s
bound to go down. To piggyback that, I had newly curbed intentions of “going
down” on that big uncut cock.
Magenta
had voiced his concerns with my smoking cigarettes, something I was open and
honest about early, mostly in an effort to repel him. This did not make him any
less aggressive, but he did tell me it wasn’t his favorite. “Just don’t blow
smoke in my face” was his main sentiment. I agreed to oblige, but knew if
things went sour, he was getting a mouthful of my tobacco.
We made
plans for that evening when Magenta finished work. I spent some time getting
pretty at the hostel all afternoon, ready to meet my SF “Daddy”. By the time
Magenta was nearby, I had over exhausted myself with the day’s stress and
started contemplating cancelling my evening. It had been a depleting week
already, managing my lack of planning for this six hour move to Northern
California. The idea of a drunken shit-show at a bar was not sounding very fun.
One cocktail sounded like too much. I was tired. Messaging Magenta, I asked to
rain check for later in the weekend. As quickly as I sent the message, my phone
began to ring. It was Magenta, giving me an estimated time of arrival landing
at less than sixty seconds. Reluctantly, I agreed to one drink, reiterating my
early day over the phone. “Of course! I want to introduce you to some of my
friends who will be out tonight. They’re really connected in this city. And I
want to meet you! One to two drinks, tops.” How could I say no?
I
waited on the dirty street corner filled with drug addicts inserting needles
and Europeans smoking marijuana freely. Then an over-sized Chevy Suburban with
an array of dents and chipped paint pulled over next to me. “Magenta can’t be
in that car.” Considering the guy bragged about an extensive car collection, he wouldn’t be showing up in this. If anything, when he told me he’d be in a 4x4,
I assumed he would drive up in a sexy Jeep or Range Rover. Listen, I didn’t
have two pennies to rub together, but this kid had me under some major
misapprehensions. As I peered away from this now parked jalopy, I received a
call. “Look to your left. It’s me!” I didn’t want to – I SO didn't want to – but I did. There he was
and there I got in. Opening the passenger’s side door, I stepped up into the
seat and discovered my driver. Magenta sat behind the over-sized wheel amidst
the ripped upholstery fabric donning the seats. He looked like a ten year old
practicing driving his father’s truck on a Sunday after choir practice. I
couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Although he was not my obvious type,
the pictures I received on Grindr presented a macho Latino thug type that
happened to be very short. Instead, I was looking at a little boy that could
barely reach his foot to the pedal. Not to mention his choice of wardrobe...
Seated behind the giant wheel, Magenta was wearing a stark white pair of booty
shorts (well past Labor Day) with a short-sleeved neon lime green button up
dress shirt two sizes too small, with a bright white clip-on bow tie. My first
reaction, outside of “Does your mommy know you took her keys?”, was “This boy’s
a bottom”. What other conclusions could I have arrived at?
Sitting
in the passenger’s seat, I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t jumped out the
window yet. This was a prime example of misrepresentation via the internet.
Grindr had failed me. What an epic fail. Had I been catfished? No. This was all my own fault. I was so
desperate to find what I felt that I needed. Trying too hard can bring unlikely
results. From where I was sitting, I didn’t want to spend another minute, but I had to see if there was any truth to his proposed offers. “Could Magenta
assist in finding me a new job?” "Did he have a place for me to stay?" After all, I only knew virtually one person in
this city – and not all that well, so what could one drink hurt? Maybe two. So, with that, I stayed
seated making small talk with this little person behind the wheel. Knowing very
little about this city I had just moved up to, I let him take the lead with
where we were going. While Magenta drove around town in this oversized jalopy,
we discussed the neighborhoods we were passing through. There wasn’t much else
to discuss. Words were disappearing into the air as we had no common topics to
speak of. It became pretty obvious that we were not the same kind of people.
Passing neighborhoods was the only thing that seemed to interest us both.
Despite the disconnect, Magenta kept squealing with excitement, remarking on
the opportunity for us to be spending time together. He kept declaring how
attractive he found me, stumbling on his words in excitement. I sat there
silent, dissecting my complete lack of attraction for him. He couldn’t be
further off base. The further we drove, the more confused I became. I thought
we had planned to have a drink or two, he knew I had morning plans, and he knew
where he had picked me up. Something nearby seemed like the obvious
destination. A dive bar could have been easy. We had been driving for over
fifteen minutes at this point and I couldn’t help but wonder where he was
taking me.
After a
few more minutes of driving geography, I asked Magenta where we were going. He
explained that we were attending a friend’s birthday party at ‘El Rio’ in the
Mission. I didn’t know where or what the Mission was. Outside of the Castro, I
had never been anywhere in SF for a drink. ‘El Rio’ seemed forever and a day
away, but living here now, I know that anything in the Outer Mission is always
further than it sounds. I didn’t understand why we were going to a friend’s
birthday. We had agreed to a drink or two and possibly a sleepover. His friends
showing up to the bar was discussed, but under the rouse that “they may be
out”. Going to a birthday party for a friend is not something I would attend
with a Grindr date, but what do I know? I was trying to ride with the flow as
my new journey in San Francisco was set to explore outside conventionality.
This was definitely not a conventional beaux for me, nor the norm of
circumstances. I’ve had my own place in some fashion for the last ten years of
my life. This was all new to me. After all, my belongings were waiting for me
back at a hostel where I was designated a mattress on a bunk bed.
Driving
to ‘El Rio’, we began discussing the potential scene for the evening. Rather
quickly, the topic of drugs came up. While I am no prude to the nightlife scene
and a predominance of drug use in the gay community, I’ve been there and done
that. I enjoy the occasional drink and a daily puff of the medicinal herb, but
hard drugs aren’t really a part of my life any longer. The excitement some may
find snorting a line of coke up their noses is the same glee I find in going to
bed early with an episode of ‘Golden Girls’ playing in the background as I
close my eyes. I was not looking for a messy night. Sometimes we don’t get what
we want. This has been a weird learning lesson for me. As Magenta and I
discussed our past and how drugs played a part, I explained that I had zero
interest being around such things for the night. Magenta concurred, explaining
that some of his friends might be high (on a variety of substances), but that
he had no intention of leaving me on my own. This eased my anxiety a bit;
enough to keep the evening going. I kept telling myself: “You know no one in
this city and you need a lot: a job, a place to live, and some friends. So….
Get the fuck with it.”
We
finally arrived at ‘El Rio’ around 10 PM. Along the trip, we drove through the
entire city, got on and off the highway a few times, and finally made our
destination. I know now that Magenta probably had no idea where he was going,
because ‘El Rio’ is far, but not that far away. Then again, I knew very little
at the time.
We parked a few blocks away, in a spot that seemed adequate for
Magenta’s oversized beaten down Chevy. As quickly as we were parked, I jumped
out of the passenger’s side without once asking to help Magenta get down the
big leap. Perhaps he brought a foot ladder with him for such circumstances. I couldn’t
imagine him getting in or out on his own, but that wasn’t my responsibility.
The moment I hit the pavement, I lit a cigarette. He had expressed his dislike
of smoking when we first chatted on Grindr, but at this point, I could care
less. I had no one to impress, from an attraction stand point. Lighting up my
Marlboro Light, I felt my first real ease of the evening. At least there would
be one person I liked with me for the evening: my cigarette.
Arriving
at the door, I threw my cigarette to the curb and followed Magenta in the
entrance. The person working the door was asking for a ten dollar fee to enter
the club. I really didn’t want to part with what little money I had, but
Magenta quickly paid for both our entries. Arriving at what looked like any
other bar, Magenta and I sought out a bartender. He ordered me a Jameson, while
he got some pink froo-froo drink with cherries. If there had been a lime green
cocktail to match his shirt, I’m sure he would have ordered that. Making a
joke, I presented that option and Magenta proceeded with Midori Sours for the
remainder of the evening. We were definitely not on the same page.
Following
our first round of drinks, two girls approached us by the bar, where we still
stood. They were friends of Magenta’s and came over with warm introductions. He
introduced us, chit-chatted for a moment, and then we proceeded to the back.
Everything seemed harmless, despite my lack of interest. Approaching the back
of the bar, I was led into something of a magical forest. While the bar seemed
somewhat typical, in every sense, there was an outdoor patio that rivalled many
of the spaces I had become accustomed to in Los Angeles. This was a big
sweeping space, all outside, with picnic tables, strung lights, and a party
atmosphere. Magenta led me to a corner collective of multiple picnic tables and
a group of about twenty five people or so. He pointed to the group, explaining
that this was the birthday group we were meeting. Walking over, I was already overwhelmed
by the group. As soon as we arrived, Magenta left me to my own. He didn’t
introduce me to a soul. Walking a few feet ahead of me, he took that lead and
wandered around with pleasantries. I stood there, knowing no one, and
completely out of my element. Magenta was already off in a corner, ten to
fifteen feet away from me, showing off his “fancy” outfit. I had a drink in my
hand and didn’t know a soul, so I pounded that whiskey. Feeling a little
friendlier after some libations, I proceeded to introduce myself to a few of
the party-goers. I met the birthday boy, offering my well wishes. Then I made my
way to a group of four guys that seemed to be having the best time. Attracted
to their giggles and energy, I thought this may be who would entertain my evening.
These four guys were laughing hysterically, animated in their seats,
getting up to hop around every few seconds. From where I was standing, they
were the fun. I introduced myself and I immediately met Sheila, Cruz, David,
and Terry. Sheila and Cruz both had very eccentric looks to themselves. Their
names seemed to be given titles, versus birth names. Sheila and Cruz were part
of a polyamorous relationship, with multiple other counterparts, and I learned
this almost immediately upon greeting them. Cruz was sitting atop Terry’s lap,
groping his groin as he reached out a hand for introductions. Terry was a
British guy who resembled a favorite porn star of mine (Peto Coast) and that
may have been where my initial attraction to this group began. Their friend,
David, was stoically silent, but earned his place at the table by his killer
good looks. He stood well above six feet and had a very classically attractive
face. Think of that rugged all-American sportswear runway model straight from a
Michael Kors or Tommy Hilfiger show. I made eyes with him the moment I arrived
at their group, but felt it was inappropriate, given the way I arrived to their
party, not to mention the fact that I felt he was way out of my league.
Cozying up to this newly delegated
group for the night, I looked around and Magenta was nowhere to be found.
Perhaps he had left. I didn’t know, but I had to make something of my night. At
this point, my glass was empty, but this group had a pitcher of beer and
offered to pour me a pint. I agreed and began carrying a conversation with this
strange group. Sharing my story of newness to the city, I tried to network
right off the bat. Within a few minutes, I realized these people had zero
connections to getting me a job. If they had any, they weren’t offering them to
me. Struggling to find a place within this new group of Northern Cali people, I
proceeded to drink my beer at a steady sip without taking a breath. Then came
the obvious reason for their excitement. Cruz relieved Terry’s lap for a moment
to pull a small white baggie from his back pocket. As quickly as the bag
appeared, the entire group was overcome with excitement. They began taking
bumps off Cruz’s knuckle in the great wide open that was this outdoor bar
patio. I was taken aback for a moment. While I don’t subscribe to the drug
culture these days, I’m not unfamiliar with drug etiquette within the bar
environment. In Los Angeles, there’s always a line for the bathroom at any
given bar on a busy night, and most of them don’t have to use the facilities.
That’s just the way you do drugs at a bar – in the bathroom. My new
acquaintances had zero interest in walking fifty feet to the restroom. They
were just taking bumps of cocaine in the wide open. I couldn’t believe this.
Never had I been in quite such a public place with drugs running rampant like
this. I asked, “Aren’t you worried, doing this out here, in front of
everyone?!” “This is Northern California. Things are different here. Get with
it.” So, I did.
Then came their offer of invite.
“Want a bump, new friend?” Normally, I would say no, but here I was in this new
place with no idea where my ride had disappeared off to. “Why not?!” I said and
proceeded to snort a bump off Cruz’s knuckle. This was followed by three more.
When in Rome… All of a sudden, I was feeling better. I was engaging more with
this group and starting to have a fun time. David, the attractive Adonis who
said very little, began giving me bedroom eyes. He couldn’t take his eyes off
of me. I was both turned on and flattered by his subtle advances. Still, I had
arrived with Magenta and needed to have some closure on that scenario before
jumping onto David’s lap.
High and a little drunk, I sat
back, basking in the random nature of this night. Then came Magenta, out of
nowhere. He showed up by my side with a drink in hand. As I accepted another
free Jameson, I realized that all of Magenta’s attention had been reverted back
to me. Meanwhile, as he stared longingly into my eyes, I caught David giving me
a nice long stare, jealously. I was redirecting my attraction for David towards
Magenta, allowing this exchange to occur. With no warning, Magenta rose from
his heels, stepping on the tops of his toes and shoved his tongue down my
throat. Perhaps up my throat, but the logistics don’t matter. I kept looking
back at David as Magenta raped my throat, playing games with both men. Then
Magenta grabbed my hand and placed it on his erect package over those tiny
little booty shorts. It looked big enough to me. Within a moment of this,
Magenta loosened his belt and began unzipping his shorts, pulling my hand
beneath the seams. I pulled back for a moment, reminding him that we were in
public. “Everyone’s drunk or high around us and no one cares.” That was
Magenta’s response. With that, I took this as a pass and allowed my hand down
his pants.
Continuing to mash faces and grope
Magenta’s dick, I became lost in the moment. He suggested we go for a walk to
his car. I had no reservations or prior plans. Agreeing to his offer, we walked
off holding hands. Magenta took the lead and dragged me a few blocks to his
car. I smoked another cigarette as I had been chain-smoking at the bar patio,
now coked out of my mind. We approached his Chevy and I was led into the back
seat. Making out for a few minutes, Magenta was then quick to rip his cock out.
I proceeded to perform fellatio for a few brief moments, but upon further
inspection, it was nowhere as big as he had suggested or I had hoped. Giving up
on this, I suggested we head back inside. Instead, Magenta ripped my pants off
and proceeded to turn the tables. He buried his face in my ass for a steady ten
minutes, before turning me over and swallowing my package. While these weren’t
optimal circumstances, I was drunk and high in a new city getting my dick
sucked by someone that seemed like they had studied their entire life for this
moment. I allowed it. Within about fifteen minutes, I tapped him on the head,
letting him know that I was about to squirt. Magenta kept his jaw locked in
place and swallowed my entire load, alleviating the possibility of a mess. As
quickly as it finished, Magenta rose to my face to plant a kiss, just after
exclaiming “YUM!”
We zipped back up and put ourselves
together, quickly heading back inside. This was only the beginning of an epic
night to follow, as the remnants of my orgasm dripped within my pants… Part 2
to follow…
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