Revenge Fuck

Revenge Fuck

For info on my gay erotic fiction, visit on your laptop or for a mobile-friendly format.

Being human, we all lie a little on our cyber-profiles, be they friend-seeking Facebook or guy-seeking Bear411. Like quoting our dick size in Manhunt inches (as one of my buddies put it, “Where do some guys measure from, their ass crack?”) or shaving a few years off our age. (Notice how everybody’s 49?)

But one thing I don’t do is post pics that were taken when Clinton I was still President. With me, what you see is what you get. Most of my profile pics are a few months old, and I make it a habit to update them regularly with some porny pose. So I expect the guys I contact to do the same. Hey, a tinge more gray or a few extra pounds around the waistline are tolerable, but not a shot of you smiling like you did at your first communion while the guy who shows up at the door looks like a poster boy for Depends.

Understood, there are guys who create delectable virtual personas from their scrapbooks of yesteryear for whatever reason – age, illness – who know damn well they will never meet you in the flesh as much as they cocktease you into thinking they will. And there are a number of guys on Facebook who think they’re fooling me with a twenty-seven syllable name and a shot of Tom Selleck when he was a hottie as their profile picture.

But if we’re gonna screw, I expect a facsimile of what I saw on the phone app.

Which gets me around to the story of my quintessent revenge fuck.

I was visiting family on winter vacation in Tampa – a four hour drive from my home in Lauderdale – and decided to stay in a gay guesthouse in nearby St. Petersburg where hopefully I could play between my G-rated social commitments. A guy with a gymnast body who looked in his late thirties, early forties at the most, wooed me on Growl’r and a we set a date for him to come visit that evening. He didn’t list his age in his profile and my mistake was not asking him. After, his pics said hottie, right?

Well, what greeted me at the door of my room was a skinny, stoop-shouldered fifty- something, balding pale-faced man with a brazen “gotcha” grin. I know, anyone else would have told him to get the fuck out, but he figured that now that he was here and I was all horned up, I’d give him a pity fuck. But there was a method to my madness as I showed no reaction, smiled, and invited him in.

He was a bottom, and after a few licks of my dick, he assumed the position, back on the bed, his boney legs apart and up in the air, his tired, loose pussy staring me in the face. He was looking for a good fuck and I happily obliged for about five minutes. He kept groaning and I kept pounding, but just as it looked like he was ready to pop, I whipped my tool out so fast he winched, and asked him in a low, measured monotone, “Just how old are your pictures?”

“A – a couple of years.”

“Well, if they’re just a few years old, you’ve obviously lived life in the fast lane.” With that, I pulled up my drawers, and handed him his. It took him literally ninety seconds to get his shit together and reach for the door knob. In fact, he was so quick, he inadvertently left me his bottle of fresh poppers as a peace offering.

As Shakespeare said, “to thine own self be true…’

My old secretary Liz from my days in public relations put it better:

“Don’t bullshit a bullshit artist.”

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