Straight as a question mark : From Naked in Paradise

Excerpt from the just published novel,
"Naked in Paradise" (Sybaritic Press) Available now on Amazon

Alone on New Year's Day, I scan through a list on a long yellow legal pad. It carefully notes the names, ages, and sexual fantasies of all the men that left me L.A. Weekly voice mails.
The thirteenth on my list claims he's "very curious, very hot, and very handsome". A straight young actor who's interested in acting out his "bottom fantasies" with another man.
My nervous new "bottom" shows up an hour late for our date (not unusual). He says his name is Jeff, but I doubt it. On the list of 44 names there are five "Jeffs", eight "Ricks", twelve "Johns", and thirteen "Marks". Simple names, I suppose, so they can remember their aliases.

Jeff is so scared, he keeps staring down at his hands (or is it his crotch?) as we sit on the couch. Whenever we do have fleeting eye contact, he giggles nervously. As he peels off the label on his second bottle of beer, strip by strip, the metaphor of his movements are becoming abundantly clear. Without saying it he's shouting, "My sexuality's all bottled up and I can't wait to peel my clothes off!"
He's awful cute. Six foot two and eyes of blue. Muscular body and a sweet shy intelligence. I put him out of his misery (or more likely into it) after thirty minutes of strained conversation.
"You wanna play?" I say in the sexy deep voice I use for such occasions.

He looks up at me with his baby blues, pauses, puts down his ragged beer bottle, and nods. I leave to get the bedroom ready. Pull the drapes, put on the music, get out the poppers, and strategically place the condoms, latex gloves, and germicidal lubricant within easy reach. When I return, he's gulping down his third beer from the six-pack he brought with him, looking slightly panic-stricken.
I know by now that the only way to deal with straight men's inhibitions is to take charge right away. They need direction and don't really want to be given a choice.
"Come here," I demand in my deeper Daddy voice.
He gets up and I lead him by the hand into the semi-darkened bedroom.
"Stand here. Put your arms up," I bark like a drill instructor.

I make him face the wall and blindfold him. I reach under his clothes and slowly tease his body with my fingertips. When I get down to his cock, it's erect and strangely shaped. Long and large but twisting violently to the left.

I pull down his Calvin Kleins and feel his small ass, then slap it a couple times. He submits immediately. He likes being blindfolded. It's less embarrassing than having eye contact.
I order him to, "Lie down on the bed on your stomach!"
He reaches out blindly, finds the bed, and fumbles into position.

The rules have already been discussed and understood. He's my sex object, my slave boy, my compliant plaything for the next half hour or so.
I tie his hands and feet to the four corners of my bed with leather restraints from the Pleasure Chest. I'd never let anyone tie me up on a first date, but this is the fantasy he had asked for when we talked before hitting the bedroom. He wanted a big, dominating daddy, and I've always had those tendencies-even as a kid.
"I remember having dominant fantasies when I was as young as eight or nine," I said earlier, as we sat on the couch. "I had a blond, freckled, school friend that I thought was cute. I didn't think about having sex with him, but I had a daydream of holding him in a cabin in the woods as my prisoner. Sex never crossed my mind, but I thought it would be exciting to go to my cabin whenever I felt like it, and my captive would be there waiting for me."

"That's interesting," he replied, "cuz when I was about the same age, eight, I had this fantasy about being tied down, naked, on this table, and then people would come in and look at me. Not have sex with me, just look at me naked: and there was nothing I could do about it."
"So are you married? You have a girlfriend?" I asked.
He immediately tensed up. "I really don't want to talk about my personal life. Okay?"
"Okay. Have you ever done this before?"
"No, I never even told anyone about my fantasy of being tied down naked and looked at until now. I had forgotten it until you told me about yours."

When he cums, he cums softly-so softly that I'm not sure it's happened. Such control these straight men have.
As soon as I untie him, he pulls off the blindfold, and heads straight for the front door.
"You want coffee?" I ask. "You wanna sober up a bit before you drive?"
He doesn't. But he says, "Thank you" repeatedly like he really means it-like I've done him a huge favor and he's deeply grateful.
"See you later," I say.
"Thank you!"

And with that he's out the door, rushing down the stairs so fast you'd think he was trying to outrun his subconscious-but disturbing thoughts are still snapping at his heels, like a pack of wolves with erections.

Straight men always freak out after coming in contact with the dick-hungry slut inside them. Their masculine clock just can't calculate who or what they are anymore. They get that tone in their voice that says, "Hey dude, I'm heterosexual. It never happened, and please don't call me again."
They lock their asshole up tight and throw away the key-until the next time they secretly desire dick, which in my experience is usually 3-6 months later. Don't ask me why. They need pussy daily, but cock can come once a mating season.

It's strange that I don't have a burning desire for a vagina two or three times a year. And if I did answer a straight sex ad and meet up with a married woman in the middle of the day and she fucked my brains out, I wouldn't be in deep denial, pretending it never happened. I'd be bragging to all my lesbian friends about how many orgasms she had.
*
I think I'll try a "Rick" this time.
This Rick turns out to be a telephone installer, and like most of the other "Ricks", "Jeffs", and "Johns", he can only get together in the afternoon when he's working, so his girlfriend doesn't get suspicious.
He's been with guys before and knows he likes getting fucked. This time, Rick says, he wouldn't mind a little rape fantasy. Hey, I'm happy to make him my prison punk.
Still, when Rick says, "I want to stop", I do-for a moment. My cock is inside him, and so I'm in a predicament. I'm really turned on and don't know what to do next.
When Rick first walked through the door, wearing his GTE uniform, my heart skipped a beat. A beautiful boy of 28, with rosy cheeks, an impish smile, and dark blue eyes. Tattooed all over; a flaming heart on his arm, a weeping willow running down his back and spilling onto the top of his ass. Hairless. Muscular. Horny.
He immediately wanted to get it on. The sooner the better-he was on company time.
"You wanna smoke some dope?" I asked.
"Okay," he answered after a moment's hesitation.
"I won't give you my real strong stuff."
"Okay, yeah, I'm kind of a lightweight."
"You wanna watch some porn?" was my next question.
"Sure," he said without hesitation.
"Gay or straight?"
"It doesn't matter."
Even though I only offered him my everyday stash, he smoked it eagerly, and got far too fucked up.
So when he says, "Stop!" I do, but then wonder is this a test? Does he really want me to go on, but as the rape fantasy he asked for? Suddenly, I'm a gay man caught in a straight man's dilemma-does no really mean no? Stop mean go?
I decide to carry on, just a little, to see where it takes us. If he really wants me to stop, I will. But he never says another word, and soon I'm fucking him really hard-bouncing him on the bed like a rag doll.
I think he loves it. He says, "ooh" a lot when he comes, and then trails off into a land of "aahs".
As soon as I dislodge my dick, Rick jumps off the bed, then grabs the wall to steady his spinning head.
"I'm gonna have to go," he gasps while trying to catch his breath.
"Why don't you let me sober you up? How about some coffee?"
"I don't have time."
He looks ill-pale and shaken. The Jewish mother in me comes out. He shouldn't drive in his condition.
"A shower would help clear your head," I tell him. "How 'bout a quick one?"

He nods. Then while we're in the shower together, he throws-up his entire lunch-pasta with tomato sauce. It's floating right at my feet. If I didn't already have OCD I'd have it now. I get out of the shower and spray my feet with Lysol.
Rick quickly dries off and starts dressing.
"I got to get back to work. I'm late," he says, still shaking.

But then suddenly he runs back into the bathroom to throw-up again. He's in bad shape.
Is this my fault? Should I have stopped? I'm feeling guilty. Was I fucking him really hard just to get back at my ex-boyfriend?
At the door, when Rick's ready to go, I look into his bloodshot eyes. He looks into mine and laughs.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"I'm still feeling:shaky."
"What are you shook up by?"
"The whole thing. Everything. All of it."
Concerned, I ring him on his cell phone the next day.
"I wanted to make sure you got home okay," I say.
"Yeah I did, thanks."
"Are you installing a phone in someone's house right now?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'll let you go. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Fifteen minutes later my phone rings. It's Rick, calling me from his GTE van.
"I really liked that," he says. "Do you want to get together again?"
"Sure."
"That was just the kind of sex I like. To get really high and get the daylights fucked out of me. Sorry if I freaked you out. I hope you won't hold it against me."

I tell him I'll call him soon, but I'm not sure I will. Because the truth is, hot as it is fucking bisexual telephone installers in the middle of the afternoon, I want a relationship with someone who doesn't throw up afterwards.