Her First Anal Sex

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They say a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. But I can't claim to be a gentleman. Besides, all bets are off when the woman -- But that comes later. And -- oh, yes -- this is a true story. Really happened. Only her name has been changed. Not to protect her -- she did not need protection -- but to keep my ass out of court. I met June (not her real name) in a Laundromat in the Village. I had seen her there a few times and couldn't help noticing. For one thing, she was female and most of the clientele was male and gay. I had outgrown my homophobia years before and on the rare occasions when one of the guys cruised me, I told him (truthfully) that I was flattered and declined. Hell, how could I not be flattered? There were a lot of devastatingly good-looking guys around who were obviously gay, and someone had found me attractive enough to make a pass; I had to be flattered.

The bedroom light comes on. There! On the far side of the bed. Is that a

faint indentation, as if perhaps a man had slept there? Possibly. Over

there, by the clothes closet, in front of the full-length mirror,

a woman is struggling to pull a pair of too-tight jeans over her ripe

posterior. She is crying softly and calling out a name.

Whose name? Yours.

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"Somewhere, somewhere out there, perhaps among the readers of this very story, there is someone who can fill your role, someone who can love me as I'm truly meant to be loved. Someone who believes that there is a big-assed Fiona out there waiting for him . . . somewhere. Someone whose belief is strong and unwavering and who will not despair and lose faith if at first he doesn't find his Fiona in Women's Wear. Someone who will continue searching -- searching until that day when he hears a voice ask whether the jeans make her ass look fat . . . "

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My name? What name? What *was* my name? Who was I? I couldn't seem to remember. My identity, my past existence prior to seeing her at the store . . . had flickered out, faded . . . didn't exist. In fact, I didn't exist . . . except as a figment of imagination, Fiona's imagination. As consciousness dimmed, the last thing I heard was: "Yes, yes! My most successful creation -- a highly detailed demon lover, a phantom conjured out of a dream. You! You are a creation of my imagination. You don't actually exist in the flesh . . . yet.

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There just happened to be a tube of "XE-41 Industrial Strength Recreational Lubricant" in the top drawer of her dresser. Just behind several stacks of panties. Very curious. Could be she had already rehearsed her little fantasy, possibly with the active participation of a silicone sex toy or two . . . She knew the moves all right. Her heavenly gate, the entrance to her ass, dimpled inward, then relaxed and dilated as I gently entered into her innermost mystery. She was hot and buttery-slick inside and I glided past her sphincter ring with no resistance. She groaned, then reached behind and pulled me farther into her. I began a slow pumping rhythm of long, deep strokes, and shortly afterwards felt the contractions rippling out from her depths that meant she was having her third orgasm of the night. She cried out softly and called my name.

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I hinted at my dark hunger to explore its hidden richness, to insert myself into its mysterious interior. Her body spasmed in my arms. For a moment I thought I had offended her, that she was shaken by disgust and outrage. But she was only laughing softly. She kissed me moistly on the lips, then made a mock farting sound. "My hot, passionate lover. I've opened my most private self, my private parts, my very *cunt* to you. Do you think I'd deny you my *ass*? As it happens, having it up the ass is one of my . . . my secret masturbation fantasies. It's just that I've never found a man I've wanted to realize it with. Until now."