My Big Fat Gay Life (45 page)

“Fuck me,” he demanded, once his arse was lubed and ready.

“Where’s the condoms?” I asked, looking around.

“There aren’t any,” Tom replied. “It didn’t bother you last night.”

I shrugged, grabbed Tom by the shoulders, turned him around and threw him face down onto the bed. Then I lubed up my cock and rammed it into his loose hole, roughly and deeply. He moaned his approval.

* * *

I woke mid-afternoon, and Tom was gone. Through the foggy haze in my head, I glanced around my room. My mobile was there, as were my keys and wallet. Nothing appeared to be missing.

I picked up my wallet and glanced inside. It was devoid of cash, but that wasn’t necessarily Tom’s doing: I’d probably spent all my cash last night.

A long hot shower helped clear my head, although my cock complained when the hot water hit it. Checking my cock, it was red raw and sore from sex.

I couldn’t bring myself to eat; my stomach was threatening to rebel. I made coffee and lit a cigarette, wondering if smoking at home by myself had pushed me over the edge from social smoker to just plain smoker. Minor detail: it tasted great and gave me a mild rush.

Deciding I needed some fresh air, I dressed and went for a walk. After half an hour I found myself outside the hospital where Matt was recovering, so I decided to pay him a visit.

“Hi!” he said, surprisingly chirpy as I entered his room. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“You’re quite chipper,” I observed. “Did you manage to work out a way to swat flies?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” he said. “Check this out!”

His eyes moved down to his right hand. A few seconds passed where I debated internally the wisdom of coming here with such a foggy head. I needed to be alert with Matt, at all times. Suddenly, his index finger twitched.

“Did you see that?” he exclaimed. “I can do it again if you missed it.”

“What…? How…?” I began.

“My Doctor is thrilled,” Matt said. “He thinks that eventually I’ll make a full recovery. It’ll take years, but I’ll get there!”

“I thought you were going to be a quadriplegic forever,” I said.

“So did I. They never gave me any hope, but apparently there’s new treatments being developed all the time, plus the nerve damage wasn’t as extensive as they thought.”

“That’s great news,” I said, but totally lacklustre. Then I rushed to his private bathroom and vomited.

“Is Patricia the first cougar you’ve fallen for?” I asked Ryan after Patricia had left the room.

“No, not at all,” Ryan answered. “I tend to prefer more, let’s just say, mature people in general.”

“People. What an interesting choice of word. I had assumed that you were strictly straight and just do gay for pay as an escort.”

“Not at all. I think on the scale of heterosexual to homosexual, I’m smack bang in the middle. Have no preference either way.”

For the next hour I questioned Ryan, in the probing and incisive manner that only a well-trained psychologist can manage. To his credit, he took it all in his stride. He didn’t even seem to notice how much information he actually gave away about himself with my seemingly innocuous questions.

I learned about his background: uneducated, poor family, and no real prospects. But he knew what his gifts were (he’d been exploited for his cock and body enough as a youth in the projects), and he realised he had a way to make something of himself. He worked hard to perfect his body, and as soon as he was given the opportunity by a reputable studio, he left the estate and started in porn.

I learned his ambitions in life. He was surprisingly intelligent, and he knew that a giant cock and a toned body weren’t going to last forever. He was studying design, and his whole being craved to become a fashion designer. He had goals, he was driven, and he looked to the future. I was impressed.

Eventually I grew tired. My mind couldn’t keep up the pace of the subtle questioning, so I asked Ryan to get some beers so we could watch some football. When he returned, I was mesmerised by his cock flopping about in his tracksuit pants.

“Do you want to see it?” he asked, handing me a beer.

“Sure,” I replied.

Without any hesitation, he stripped off all his clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. His cock was the most magnificent specimen I’d ever seen. It’s so magnificent that it totally draws all the attention away from his body, which was also a magnificent specimen in its own right.

“Oh my,” I said. “I remembered from the hospital that it was big and beautiful, but I had no idea.”

Ryan laughed and collapsed on the couch next to me. “Does it only please you aesthetically, or does it turn you on?” he asked me. “I know you’re having problems with your plumbing. That’s part of the reason why Patricia sees me, I think.”

“Just because I can’t achieve an erection doesn’t mean I’m not a sexual being,” I replied. “I’m still able to be sexually stimulated. So the answer to your question is, both!”

“How do you know you can’t get hard?” Ryan asked. “When’s the last time you tried?”

“I guess... umm...” I said, fumbling around for an answer. Ryan took my hand in his and placed it on his cock. I felt the blood start to flow into it like a tide, and it grew firmer. While his heart worked hard at filling that enormous piece of meat, he fumbled with the buttons of my shirt and unzipped my pants.

“You’re in great shape,” he said sincerely.

“Not bad for an old guy,” I responded.

“Not bad for any guy,” he countered. He stood up and helped me to stand, and then he undressed me. He helped me lay down on the sofa, and slowly ran his hands over my entire body, feeling and palpating my muscles, examining my muscle tone. I felt quite self-conscious and aware of the failings of my treacherous body.

“I can see where the stroke has left you with some mild muscle atrophy, but you’re still a real hottie,” he said. He took my flaccid cock in his mouth and tongued it gently for a while. “You have a great cock.”

“It’s just average,” I stated. “Nothing special.”

“It may be average size, but it’s beautiful,” he said, holding it in his hand and admiring it. “If you can get it hard, I’d love you to fuck me.”

I gasped with surprise.

“I don’t mean right now,” he said, “but one day. There’s no rush. I need to psyche up for that: I rarely bottom. But your cock is one that I’d love to feel inside me.”

If ever I needed inspiration to tolerate the pain of physical therapy, there it was. Ryan licked my stomach and trailed his tongue up over my nipples, eventually reaching my mouth. He kissed me, and I felt like a giddy schoolboy. Suddenly he stood up.

“Look at the effect you have on me,” he said. His cock was fully hard: if it were chrome it could be one of the bars that had been installed in the bathroom so I could get out of the bath. “Do you want to suck it?”

Not trusting my words, I just nodded. He gently lowered himself onto the sofa, making sure his cock was within easy reach of my mouth. I opened my mouth, but then I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny? I don’t normally have people laugh at it,” he sulked playfully.

“I can’t open my mouth wide enough,” I chuckled. “I guess I need more physical therapy for my jaws.”

He joined in the laughter, and as he laughed he gently lifted my head and eased himself onto the sofa. Then he placed my head on his abdomen and started stroking my hair.

“We’re supposed to be talking about the situation with Patricia,” I told him. “I don’t mind that she’s fucking you. In fact, I can totally understand it. What concerns me are her feelings for you.”

Ryan was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “I really like Patricia, and I think I could grow to really like you too. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially not me, but I’ll walk away if you want me to.”

I pondered this, impressed by his honesty and graciousness.

“I think we can work out something to make us all happy,” I said.

Just then I was overwhelmed by tiredness. I rolled onto my side and nestled my head on Ryan’s torso. I handed him the remote control for the TV, wrapped my hand tenderly around his semi-flaccid cock, and fell asleep.

I spotted the most darling pair of shoes in a window and uttered a quiet squeal of excitement. I rushed inside the store and picked up one of the shoes and turned it over in my hand, admiring the colour and design.

“Can I help you?” asked a sales assistant, and I jumped a little. She’d snuck on me and scared me.

“Do you have these in a thirteen?” I asked her, holding out the shoe.

“I’m sorry,” she responded with a big false smile, glancing down at my feet. “The largest we go up to in this store is nine. For larger sizes you’ll need to order on our website.”

“It’s OK,” I told her, “I get that a lot. Do you know anywhere I can buy shoes in bigger sizes?”

“There’s a store near Piccadilly Station that caters to drag queens,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “I know they do wigs, so I assume they’d do shoes as well.”

“I know the place,” I said, feeling my teeth clench and forcing them not to. “Their shoes are cheap and tacky, kind of like costume jewellery. I’m not a transvestite; I’m a transsexual. I’m a transgender person, transitioning from male to female. This isn’t just a phase. I need quality products that will last!”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the saleslady said. “I didn’t mean to cause any offence. Would you like to come to the counter with me and we’ll see if we can order those shoes in a thirteen?”

“Lovely!” I exclaimed.

* * *

Shopping on High Street always gives me a thrill. I’m totally into all the girly stuff, like shoes, handbags, and dresses. Of course, depilation takes up a large chunk of my time too; at least until the hormones kick in.

I’d been wandering around High Street and Arndale most of the day, and decided to work my way home. I blushed when I got a wolf whistle from some men on a construction site, and I caught an older guy perving at my tits on the train. I smiled sweetly at him, and he quickly turned away: if only he knew they were falsies.

I walked home slowly from the train station, meandering through the park and totally lost in thought. Suddenly I heard a wolf whistle and noticed a group of four guys on the path in front of me. They were young, and obviously drunk.

“’ello Sweetheart,” the one in front said loudly, obviously the leader. Then he nudged the guy standing next to him with his elbow. “Hey Ant, it’s your girlfriend!”

I squinted in the twilight, trying to make out their faces. Then I gasped: The one called Ant was Anthony; the hot guy from the pub that’d groped my dick and puked.

Three of the guys moved quickly and circled around me, but I noticed that Anthony stood back. The three guys circled me menacingly, slowly, and I began to feel genuinely scared.

“My boy Ant here tells me you’re a dude,” the ringleader said. “Why don’t you show us your cock?”

“You’re scaring me,” I said, my voice quavering. “Please let me pass so I can go home.”

“Aww, he wants to go home,” the ringleader said to the other two guys circling me, throwing his arms out. “Do you think we should let him, boys?”

“Maybe after he gives us a kiss. Or a blowjob. Whatever he prefers,” one responded.

My heart was racing and I was highly alert. I saw an opening and, as they cajoled and menaced me, I discretely took off my heels. When I was barefoot and ready, I bolted through the gap. Arms reached out for me, but I brushed them aside and fled.

“Where do you think you’re going Sweetheart?” the ringleader called after me.

I fled across the grass towards the bright lights of the road: towards people. I was panicking, looking back over my shoulder constantly. They were chasing me, but not sprinting: it was more of a loping gait, like gorillas.

The distance between us increased, and the road drew closer. Just as I was starting to feel more safe and secure, a tree root tripped me up and I collapsed to the ground in a heap. The three of them caught up with me within seconds.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the ringleader said. “We just wanted to play.”

“Look out man,” another warned his friend. “He’s bleeding. The faggot probably has AIDS or something.”