One of my most memorable Christmas’s was when my lover decided to fulfill one of my sexual fantasies to be with two men in an evening of sensual delight and adult sexual play. He made all the arrangements with someone he knew I would like – tall, lean and Italian, and told me where and when to show up. Let’s call my secret Santa, Sergio.
An Erotic Story by Raz.
My dalliance began during the training for what would be my second and last space flight. Courtney (not her real name either) flirted endlessly with the seven men in the team throughout our training. She touched us at every opportunity: on the arm when she talked to us; on the shoulder in the bar after work; always flaring her nostrils with eyes wide open, a sign we all recognized. The rest of the crew was married – I was the only single guy; we mostly managed to maintain our professional cool.
“California” Mike Smith, the mission commander, was a gifted pilot, calm under pressure, and a play-by-the-rules kind of guy. Cal walked and talked like a movie star and oozed sex appeal from every pore. Women fell at his feet all the time. If anybody was going to make it with Courtney, it would have to be Cal. Sure enough, after Courtney checked us all out, she chose Cal. She had decided to become famous for having sex in the Shuttle followed by a tell-all about it, leading to a life of comfortable wealth; celebratory has its appeal.
Courtney was a legend in the Navy after she landed a crippled F-18 on the tiny bobbing deck of the carrier Enterprise. Unable to eject, she put the 50 ton machine down on a pitching deck at night, disobeying direct orders (nobody wants a 50 ton, out-of-control, piece of scrap metal mussing up the deck of a $2 billion boat) – saving herself, her REO, and most of the airplane. The brass was not amused. So when she applied to NASA, the Navy gave her a glowing recommendation and got her out of their hair!
–an erotic dalliance by ‘B’ from Austria
Ever wonder what to so with nettles? One summer day I walked with my friends Patric and Sanna through the woods near the side arms of the river Danube. We were looking for a place to go swimming. It was very hot and moist, not easy to find the way through all the green plants. There were stinging nettles everywhere. They reminded me of a book I read many years before. “You know” I said “the ancient Greeks used nettles to increase men’s virility. They used to whip them on their penises.”
“Really”, Patric said smiling, “amazing.” We continued our walk through the woods and after a while Patric said “you know, this idea is in my mind now, I can’t stop thinking about nettles. It sounds rather interesting.” We walked for another Another 10 minutes until he said “Let’s try it. I really want to know if it works. But I want to whip you too.”
Click. Click. Three inch heels tap rhythm onto cobblestones, polished by millions of footfalls. Clickety. Red patent for glitz, open-toed for comfort, but on uncertain surfaces, an ankle might turn.
Click. “Senora. Canastas. Muy bonitas.”
He stands close, but tonight he does not whine, as he holds out a dozen baskets, bright as birds. Tonight, here on the Alcala, there is song in his voice, and his eyes are lighted.
“As beautiful as the senora,” he croons.
I turn him down, as I have every night save one. Tonight, I am not looking to buy baskets.
It’s Saturday evening, and I’m on the prowl, and not for the man selling baskets. All dressed up with no place to go and no one to go there with. Black crocheted skirt skims my calf; black silk blouse clings provocatively, cleavage now covered (but could easily, surreptitiously, be uncovered) by a red woven shawl bought only an hour before on the Zocalo.
Oaxaca swarms in the streets tonight. School girls in blue and white, newly-conscious of their charms, walk arm in arm, giggling at the boys who circle them, laugh too loud and smoke too fast. Matrons charge along in threes and fours, swaying in tight skirts and tighter blouses, blazings colors across the night.
I’m all dressed up and restless. Very restless. Click. Click.