Whored, Around the World

1) The Russian Tearoom

In the mindboggling dilemma of whether I should let the smelly redneck that was kind enough to pick me up fifteen miles earlier be the first to pop my sweet cherry, I actually lost my precious virginity inside of a truck stop bathroom barely thirty feet away from my driver as he refueled his independently owned eighteen-wheeler.

I had stumbled upon two stout comrades taking a long piss in the only two urinals in the place. The shorter of the two looked me dead in the eye, winked, and then left. The other one stayed behind. And when I took my place next to him, I couldn’t help but notice how mouthwatering thick his freakishly hairy dick looked hanging out of his open-wide zipper.

“Hold it. Shake it.” His balding head and bearded face asked in a heavy accent that could have easily been Russian or Ukrainian, Kazakhstani or Armenian.

Without another word, I held it and shook it. And without any previous experience, I leaned over and took a portly piece of Father Russia into my willing mouth. But unlike many of my fantasies where deepthroating was like breathing and my eagerness to please would turn me into a bona fide pro on my very first try, the Russki seemed frustrated that out of all the truck stops bathroom in all of the Greater Edmonton area he would get the only pair of lips that would absolutely not cooperate with his prick.

I tried my best to do better. And just when I thought I had mastered perfection with my mouth, the fat fucker slapped the ever-lovin’ shit out of me.

It was not good enough, he said.

 

Too much teeth, not enough mouth-in-cheek.

When I decided to leave, write off my first time as a horrible disaster, he grabbed me by the back of my clothes and tossed me in the vile stalls like I was one of his fucking whores back home.

Before I could even get my bearing together, my head was buried in the filthy toilet, only inches away from the water line. My jeans were pulled off my ass. My cheeks and legs were spread open, and a condom smeared in lube had invaded my pristine hole. So hard yet so soft—so much pain yet so much pleasure. That by the time the Russki was done, I had peed, came, and peed again some more on the floor.

Alone and oddly at awe about not being the glorified virgin I thought I was anymore I came out of the bathroom to find my assailant and his accomplice keeping my redneck driver company while I made “good use” of the lavatories.

Twelve hours later, after I had decided to let my redneck driver pop my “cherry” twice; he sat me out on an adjacent provincial highway. He could see the brutal pain and humiliation in my eyes every time that truck hit a little bump in the road. And although he seemed quite sad to see me go (being that we were both from the States and from the South), I felt his shit-eating grin burning on my backside as I tried not to walk away from his big rig like a former virgin that had recently gotten fucked three times in less than a day.

2) Guillaume at Gentil

A year and a half after my intimate defile, I felt I bit off a bit more than I could chew when my maiden voyage pulled into Port Gentil.

After spending three and a half weeks, day and night, servicing cabin and crew on our very small shipping fleet, I had honed my skills to be the best of the best in long and wide penises all over international waters. But once I saw the coast of Gabon from afar and the gorgeous men that shamelessly bathed naked in it, my puckered hole began to twitch in nervousness. Though, the naked specimens tried to show us the utmost courtesy by facing inland, many of their enormous pricks still popped between their closed thighs.

It was ashore I met Guillaume, whose African beauty was only limited to the benign scar under his right eye and the bribes he took from his post as a sergeant. He seemed intrigued that my dialect never ventured beyond my native tongue, or that I had never even heard of Gabon or its claim to the Equator until my inaugural passage across the Atlantic. He seemed even more hurt, though, that I had forgone the comfort of a wife and her bed for the comfort of the sea with a bunch of ruffian men. But when his beautiful wife and her home cooking could not convince me otherwise, he led me out into the sunset skies to watch the budding stars dot over my nomadic home over the ocean.

A fortnight later, Guillaume stopped by again—where only a week earlier he had been called to remove one of my many sexually frustrated cabin mates from my hut over a drunken scene. His conversation was brief but straight to the point. He wanted to nap in my bunk, away from his wife and her father and his vixen of a mother. I watched him from afar under mosquito net, as his sinewy frame rose and fell like empires through the calm of sleep, with the bulge in his pants slowly coming awake.

Once awake and refreshed, Guillaume thanked me by showing me the glorious penis that consistently lined the inseam of his uniformed pants. To suggest Guillaume had anything more than a stereotypical “big black dick” would have been an understatement. He had a lengthy penis covered in carbon black foreskin that was so thick and so wide around the shaft it had not even a hint of a streak of a lightning vein dancing across it. The freakiest thing of all, however, was it curved extremely low and extremely hard to the left like a signage for a steep off-ramp road.

Afraid he might want to fuck, I went down on him, with the naivety of my very first blowjob for something that huge, and I made him cum like an offshore tidal wave.

He left. I made a wet spot in my shorts.

Unfortunately, what became of us after that was one for the storybooks, because while I graciously took a reprieve in the cool ocean the next day, away from him and my shipmates, Guillaume graciously invited himself to join me, fearing it was not safe for me to swim alone seeing I didn’t know the lanes of rip tides.

His intent was as obvious and erect as the abandoned lighthouse in front of us, necking me like a lust-filled love up to our heads in water. And though I tried—and not tried—to break free of his vulgarly strong grip, I found myself being dry humped wet back towards the beach.

Like an outer body experience, I saw my body in the nude, laid out on the hot white sand, stomach side down. I saw him running to the other side of the dunes and come back with a small jar of some yellow-white glob he worked in his hands and fisted on his dick.

Loving this position and knowing what was to come, my backhole yawned open ready to receive him. But, as luck would have it, I grossly underestimated that with the help of the slick glob (unlike any other grease I had come across) thirteen and a quarter inch of pure black man could enjoy itself tickling the insides of my bellybutton.

One stroke after another, Guillaume plowed into me with sheer force, groaning obscenities at me in his native French tongue. I must’ve done a bit of cussing on my own, so loud in fact it brought out every strong black man in the vicinity to my aid, that by the time Guillaume flooded my guts, several of the male villagers had covered the white sand with their white spunk, too.

In a celebratory rest, the great calm before the storm, we made our way back to the ocean to bathe. However, what awaited Guillaume and I when we returned to the beach was his infuriated wife and his shrew of a mother, who brazenly cut me up under my left eye.

Last I heard, because of the public outcry against his promotion, Guillaume and his wife fled to Algiers. And with the help of the yellow-white glob, the scar under my left eye and in my brown eye healed up quite nicely.

3) Federal Prison

Coming home fresh out of the Marines, it wasn’t like Sherrod and I had a bevy of choices of where we could fuck freely.

I was sponging off an alcoholic graduate student barely getting by on grant money and Sherrod, the fairly good-looking bastard, was back at home trapped in the confines of his bigot father and rambunctious homophobic little brothers (who made a point to go to the fag clubs, get a fag to go down on them at gunpoint, and beat the shit out of them).

We made the best of our time out, secretly fucking on half-empty trains and stop-called elevators with surveillance cameras and on the rooftops of prominent downtown skyscrapers. We even got away with fucking in a thoroughfare on the side of a neighborhood police precinct inside of a very popular mall. That was until the fucking rent-a-cops discovered it was a great place to score some afternoon delight.

Our proudest accomplishment to date came the day after Sherrod swore on my bastard boyfriend’s cirrhotic liver he saw a cluster of empty houses along the way we possibly could sneak away into.

On the rare occasion that Sherrod was right, he was right on—on both sides of the street.

Of course, many of the houses on the street had fallen out of favor with the area when the Federal Prison bought and fenced in the row of seven or so houses adjacent to its properties to ease its overpopulation.

As for the other houses across the street, several of them were rundown crack houses, others were merely abandoned homes, and only one was just perfect for us.

Never thinking of ourselves as squatters or thieves, we fixed up the place with pick pocketed monies and legally turned on all the utilities, including the cable (in the days of the box), under the name of the old and deceased owners.

Much like fucking with the possibility of being caught, fucking indoors on a cheap second-hand motel mattress came with its own spontaneity. Our outlook however changed one afternoon when Sherrod and I peeked out of the window to find Carlos, the neighborhood weedhead (one of those all-man types), right there on the front porch sucking off one of the local drug dealers called Mack, for all of traffic to see.

Then, of course, most if not all of the thru-traffic on the backside were there to buy and sell drugs, and were probably used to this form of currency, anyway.

Later that night I thought I was doing something special by standing in the front yard with my pants hanging around my ankles for my chunk of a man Sherrod to suck me off like a lollipop with the extreme hopes of pissing in his mouth. Though, I soon found out I was being outdone by several of the prisoners in the houses across the street.

Even with the streetlights on, it was still kind of dark as shadow stopped short of the electric fence. In the day, where the shadows stop, there was a rickety-ass house behind them and a high-sitting stomp that was wide enough and low enough to be used as some sort of eclectic picnic table.

“Spread your shit!”

Apparently, there was a second use for it, I thought, watching four anonymous shadows carrying a fifth one by the limb and bending it over the stump.

“Yeah, spread that shit,” I heard in another stage whisper, from a man that was talking to the bent inmate like he was the house bitch. Something that was both arousing and slightly scary.

The next thing Sherrod and I heard were the grunts and groans of a man getting gangbang by fourteen other shadows for well over four hours, give or take the fuckee passing out from time to time when all his fight was gone.

This went on routinely for several nights before a new handsome by flagrantly feminine inmate were introduced to the back houses from the main prison.

He spent the gist of his first day outdoors, either locked out or by choice, striking conversations, in old southern dialect, with drug dealers and user alike, hoping somebody might be “ever so kind” to score him some weed.

Perhaps, he needed it because he knew exactly what was to come later that night.

Exactly how it started, neither Sherrod nor I were ever quite sure of. But, for us, it began when the bright lights from the guard tower stirred us from our sleep—or rather our fucking. We, just like the rest of our surrounding neighbors, were at awe at the sight of the lone man running and screaming hysterically with all his might between the houses and field between the houses and the prison, trying to get away from the growing mob of men chasing behind him.

Much like everyone else, I thought some of the guards would eventually come out and break up this hilariously long scene. Even if they were planning on it, it apparently was too late when the mob tackled their new victim to the ground.

Sweaty and exhausted, the pile laid on top of him like a military mountain hiding gold. When the mob slowly peeled off the poor fag, they grabbed him kicking and screaming, and pulled him over to the stump.

Instead of putting him over it like the other guy, several of the cons took turns holding him in midair while a stead stream of unsupervised federal inmates used both of his holes to satisfy their sadistic desires.

We watched helplessly as the fag had gotten so slick with cum he took almost everyone of them with the same ease that yellow-thick glob allowed Guillaume to slide into me, that when it was all said and done, every wild dollop could be seen dripping out of his asshole from our porch across the street.

The next day, Sherrod tossed him a gallon-size Ziploc bag full of weed over the electric fence as compensation for a job well done.

Little did I know, at the time, the son of a bitch had fallen head over heels in love with that cumslut. And after the little home wrecker was released from the big house, Sherrod left me and the police for him. And, as of late, Sherrod toured him around to bars and leather conventions to share his wonderful holes with the world.

4) For a Revolución

“Lay on your back,” I said, peeling off my sweaty shirt. “If we’re going to do this, we might as well make it good.”

In the enchanted land where Reinaldo Arena slept with over five thousand men and Assata Shakur received political asylum from the Cuban government, there I was, at the tender age of twenty-seven, minding my own business, translating the most obscene and most arousing poetry I had ever read on broken paint when I heard a car horn blow in front of my window below. Given the detailed description of the driver and his unique name, the car, and the exact numbers of passengers in the backseat, I honestly thought my ride from Havana to Camagüey had arrived. When I got in the front passenger’s seat, neither the driver nor I thought much of my presences speeding through town our way elsewhere.

Barely a mile after Emiliano had dropped off the last of his loud passengers, his calloused hand found itself on my knee, and roamed up my inner thigh.

My natural instinct was to let it be. Be aroused.

 

A sexy, shaven-headed slightly graying hairy-chest hard body Cuban was making a play for All-American me. Alright!

But then, reason kicked in, and I went with my first instinct of swatting his hand away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked in the butchest voice I could muster. (By nature, I am an alto boarding on tenor.)

“Letting you know I know you want to fuck.” He said in pure Cubano English.

Emiliano said it so smoothly and so calmly there was no doubt in my mind a fuck between us was inevitable—the way it looked, the way it felt. So much so I unzipped my pants and let him jack me off, as he sped down the scenic highway amongst truckers receiving blowjobs from homely-looking country boys to long-haired Latina Barbie dolls on the laps of raunchy truckers performing some of the freaky gyrations I had ever seen.

It seemed that Emiliano—after finding out I was no American whore and that his cousin of same name was the one that was supposed to have picked me up—was not satisfied with our little innocent tryst, extracting pre-cum from my throbbing pipe. He wanted my tender aroused groin to relish in it, smearing the dripping nutt from the tip of my penis down my stubby shaft, down my scrotum, across my perineum, and into my quivering hole.

“Lube with your own lube,” Emiliano smirked, breaking the long silence in the care, after witnessing a fifth trucker cruising down the highway with another black head between the driver and the steering wheel.

As quick as the silence broke, it glued itself back together again, passed the many forgotten townships and farms desperately in need of another radical revolución.

Our travels took us to a gas station in Camagüey, but a spark of fun and excitement whisked us further down the way, where we pulled off the paved road twice near Holguín to watch tents go up behind high grass in a once-burned out sugarcane field.

Emiliano and I waited until nightfall to roam around the grounds, when everyone was either way or asleep in a drunken stupor. There, he explained that the set up was illegal, and considered counterrevolutionary, and if the organizers were caught by the police they would be jailed. Though, he never explained why.

Later, he excused himself towards the mountains to take a leak.

When he came back around with his growing dick hanging out of his fly, he asked me to hold it and caress it while we sucked face amidst the moonlit trees and nocturnal sounds of animals going at it. His answer to that and to our lust was to throw me down on the ground, eat me out and fuck me ‘til the cows came home.

The next morning, we were awaked out of slumber in the high grass by men in a military convoy shouting loud nothings from their drunken night before. And before Emiliano could explain to me the caravan was on its way to Guantanamo, he took an extremely long hard look at my cock, jutting out of my open fly.

“Your cock…it’s—” Emiliano stuttered in astonishment.

“So much darker than the rest of me, I know. It’s the only tell I have that connects me to my black grandpa.” I said, confessing to only one of a handful of men that ever saw me more than a sweet piece of ass that I was the byproduct of a white woman and a mulatto father (who easily passed for white).

Instead of getting the usual look of ‘how dare you?’ Emiliano seemed more than a little turned on pushing me back on my back and taking me in his mouth.

He was like a kid in a free-sample candy store.

Sucking. Licking. Nibbling. Tickling. Again.

Unfortunately, in the rapture of it all, there was also much sorrow in the act. For it was not me he was pleasing with pleasure, but a black lover from a time gone by named Aldrico, that I quickly got the impression used to fuck him silly every time the two of them were left alone to do so.

“You should be good,” he said, popping my spit-drenched cock out of his mouth. “Now I sit on your cock.”

Letting out a deep spine-tingling groan, Emiliano slid down all seven inches of my stubby cock and began to bounce on it like a kid on a pogo stick. Although the days of “virgin tight” had long left his vocabulary (though nice and gripping seemed to be a good fill in), I got the mild impression my cock was the last “black” cock to invade his hold since his youthful days with Aldrico—or at least a distant third or fourth.

Making my own mark as a second runner-up, I flipped Emiliano on his back, speared him with my pole, and made the little hedgehog squeal like a pig in the heat of slaughter. With every wild and crazy little yelp, I couldn’t fight the urge to pump into his well-fucked hole like a cat getting his sea legs.

He came like a teenager while I came like an old man that still got it. Some of the promoters, on the other hand, thought their illegal circus came with a freak show, but we proved we truly were the freak show they could not call the police on.

5 & 6) Praha—Private and Public 

In the States, the mention of a sex club, a sex party, or even a full-fledge orgy is merely a turn off because hardly anyone delves in sex outside of giving and receiving head anymore. But in my two-year reprieve of a tumultuous three-year relationship with my Vietnamese ex-boyfriend Nguyen, I stumbled onto the sexual pulse of European soil.

The first thing to pop out at me was this long white brick wall that guarded this ghastly 19th Century villa outside of Prague. Next came the menservants in the buff, ranging from the pansiest of twink to the butchest of man, totting silver trays full of expensive liquors and imported hors d’oeuvres to guest that were equally unclothed. And while under normal circumstances the sight of vanilla sex against the side of a well-built armoire would’ve caught the attention of everyone in the room, the intertwining of two men engaged in a taunting sixty-nine while respectively getting fucked by two other men atop an antique billiards table didn’t seem to raise a single eyebrow.

There was group sex and daisy chains, muscle worship and pissing. Leather and fisting. Slings. Whites and fuck machines, candle wax and wrestling. Armpit licking. Ass eating. Debauchery and cum swallowing.

Then, as I made my way around four levels of Cirque du Sex, I found my private piece in the fog of a private room attached to a private sauna. There, I stumbled up on a set of two-toned legs spread wide to show off two bubble mounds that looked so fucking edible. As I got closer, I made out the flesh-like dildo and lube lying beside him. He reached over and grabbed it, raised his boney hips in the air, and muttered sweetly, “dildo fuck this.”

I grabbed the dildo and smeared it with the accompanied lube. I ran it up and down his hairless crack. And when he began to grovel for it inside of him minutes later, I inched it into his gaping hole.

It was like hand-in-glove, adding the insoluble groans of pure ecstasy as my strong arm got a tiresome workout stabbing the fake dick into his battered hole, making mush out of every tense ring along the way.

He took it like a fiendish amateur looking for porno star accolades. His asshole throbbed and twitched, ached, and begged for the enormous phallic to cum, working his hole to orgasm.

But out of all the ironies in the world, the dildo came. His own cock, however, never even—never even rose to the fucking occasion.

Mentioning the fact that I witnessed truckers getting head down Cuban highways inspired my new fucked friend to suck me off while driving and gave me specific directions to one of the most popular darkrooms in town.  Once there, he led me through a maze of sadistic quarters to the very back, where a stench of heavy cigar smoke lingered for us amongst a crowd of men in uniform surrounding this lone hairy guy on his back, naked (except of a leather harness) and hard.

This obviously was routine for them because my new buddy stripped off his clothes, and just as natural sat on the long fat dick like he was taking a seat at a restaurant.

My new friend rode his dick like a madman. And in keeping with tradition of a madman, he asked me to assist his friend in double-fucking him. I thought that meant letting him suck me off.

Boy was I wrong!

Several of the standees helped me to get into position as I squeezed my cock into my buddy’s already-stuffed hole. His hole was still slimy from the lube of the dildo fuck he got earlier and wet from his drenching sweat working its way down, which by the way nicely smoothened our pricks together.

Surprisingly, what got me and the hairy man off was not the silky-smooth grip of my buddy’s ass. Rather, it was the rubbing together of two foreskin meats inside of one that eventually had the two of us gushing on top of one another. Leaving our four-balled fucked friend to scoop fresh cum out of his ass and eat for his admirers.

Later—loving all things Czech now—I caught everything I thought I did in the privacy of Prague online. Apparently, my buddy was a budding internet star that dared bottomed for his Republic.

7) At World’s End—Tierra del Fuego

‘Rounding the Horn’ at the continental point closest to Antarctica, I awoke with a throbbing pain in my ass and a local fisherman on my back nudging me for seconds.

“You promised,” Ricardo said with the strongest innuendo of love in his voice.

This was not supposed to happen. I was only supposed to have a nice little fuck with him on this once-in-a-lifetime vacation, go back home to my “husband” at the end of the week, and grab a nice souvenir on my way out of the country. But no. Instead of letting this handsome pale-colored hunk think I was too easy, I had to play it off coy. Had him to take me out to the glaciers; out to see the penguins of South America. Introduce me to the townspeople. Had his mother cook me an authentic “End of the World” meal and had his father put me up in the spare room atop his mercantile store.

Being he was the only homosexual in town, I did not know the poor guy lived in the only town on the continent where everybody in the world was rooting for him to find his first mate, to have someone welcome him home on those cold blistering days. And before I could tell him not to give his hopes up on me, he gave me that smile in my small little room upstairs.

 

You’re sexy. I’m horny. I got a dick that will make you sing to the high heavens from the bottom of the world.

With a tender kiss and a tweak of the nipples, he found a lube to put on his hefty dick and roam my ass like a cell phone plan.

He was not bad for a first timer—must’ve read a lot of books and watched a lot of Brazilian porn (the world’s best) because he was killing my prostate like no other man had ever done before.

I was loving every minute of it, and I was hating him at the same time. Yet, at this same moment, I felt my climax starting out in my tight chute and gushing out of my twitching cock like a geyser.

And when it was all said and spent my hole was begging for his return like the Straight of Magellan was hankering for a ship after the Panama Canal opened.

As I lay entrapped in his bulging biceps, he told me his fantasy was to screw another man in front of the port.

So, in the early morning hours of December 31st, 1999, in declarations to his fantasy, I walked out onto the cold (warm by their standards) balcony butt naked and bent over the short wooden rail atop the mercantile store. As he got his dick into position, we look over at the port to see a PBS camera crew filming the preparations for the New Millennium celebration while we rang out the old one with a bang.