More Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part III, FF
Here’s another excerpt from my memoirs, ”Furry Man’s Journal: Remembering Some of The Furry Men I’ve Known, Loved, and Even Slept With….” About a particularly kinky kind of m2m sex, fist fucking and the two lovers who were responsible for getting a cast of my hand in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame. I used them as inspiration for two of the secondary characters in my new novella to be published later this year, “Buy Guys,” about two Jersey drifters who go down to Lauderdale to make their living as male escorts but find their little plan explode in their faces.
The first time I fisted a guy was in the Clubhouse II baths in Lauderdale on one of my snowbird visits in the ‘90’s. The guy, a lean and mean, lightly furry, handsome fucker, all of 30, was obviously strung out on something when he gave me the eye as I passed his open room door. Even if I wasn’t quite as versed in the ins and outs of gay sex as I am today, I knew the can of Crisco on his bed stand wasn’t there for frying chicken.
That night I also learned I was a born fister. I had the strong but tightly built hand of a musician and, in fact, had been a concert pianist by the age of 8 but gave it all up when my piano teacher moved to another town.
I guess that’s why my new buddy smiled when he looked at my hand. It took very little effort for me to slide first two fingers, then three, then my tapered fist, and finally my whole hand half way to my elbow up his stretched hole. He was a clean machine – you know what I’m saying – and all I felt was wet, warm tissue enveloping my arm. Frankly,
I wasn’t sexually turned on by the experience, but neither was I turned off – just curious. My buddy, on the other hand, was in Fistee Heaven. I’m sure whatever he was on certainly helped the cause.
I thought guys who loved getting fisted may have gotten bored with conventional dick fucking or even super-sized dildos. I also knew from that first night that it had to be far more than massaging the guy’s prostate since the prostate is only a few inches up the rectum while your hand feels like you could grab the guy by the throat from inside. But as a seasoned fister buddy explained to me, the anal sphincter is another erogenous zone which becomes so sensitive after a fisting experience, just touching it continues to drive the guy wild and even more hungry for a hard cock to enter next.
OK, I’ll buy that, but I still think there’s also something of a mind game going on here, the fact the guys knows that once you’ve got half your arm up his butt, you have complete dominion over his life.
And his soul.
While I’m not a member of any fisting club, over the years I’ve had my fair share of asses, even a new neighbor’s a few blocks away once, discounting the old proverb you shouldn’t shit where you sleep. But increasingly I found the experience, well, a little boring. While I knew that the guy I was doing it to was obviously enjoying it – I could tell by the level of his grunts – my mind would often wander to my weekly food shopping list.
That is, until I met my fisting brothers from LA, Tim and Tom.
We connected on Manhunt; they were on vacation here in Lauderdale, staying at one of the overpriced guest houses by the beach, but they were willing to make it easy for me by coming to my place. Hairy, masculine, gym-built fuckers with thick uncut cocks, they looked like the types who would want to tie me up to a post and take turns fucking the shit out of my tight virgin butt. Tim, 44 had a shaved head, his younger brother, Tom, 40, sported a buzz. But no, instead it was I who took turns fisting them, or I should say their glorious furry butts, Tim’s first while Tom went down on my dick, then vs. versa, as they say. Reciprocation made all the difference for me, something that could only happen in a threesome arrangement. We took it slow but the more arm I gave them the more each of them wanted til I felt I could rip their hearts out if I willed it.
They were also neat freaks, the neatest FF pair I have ever met. You can understand how lube during fisting can get a little messy, but Tim and Tom approached their ff session with surgical precision. Tom placed the disposable mattress covers they use in nursing homes over my bed comforter, while Tim fitted me with the latex gloves (I’m a righty) and made sure their special brew of lube would stay put.
And when they had both gotten off, flaccid dicks spurting away, Tom twisted my nips while Tim went down on me and took my load like a pro. Then they packed up their stuff, in as organized a fashion as they had unpacked, slipped back into their jogging shorts and tight tanks, and thanked me for a good time. For once had by all.
A month or so later, a fuck buddy of mine and I were at Haulover, Miami’s nude beach, lying out there au naturale, when I spotted Tim and Tom, also sans their swim suits, their big dicks swaying in the breeze, walking towards our beach chairs. I got up and gestured to my bud to do the same and when I introduced my friend to the guys, Tom grabbed his hand, examined it intently, and gave me a quick smirk.
“You’ll do,” I quipped to my friend after they had strolled on, but my poor buddy, who began munching on his tuna fish sandwich, had no fucken idea what I was talking about, and he being a conventional fucker who didn’t even like his balls pulled on, I figured I’d leave sleeping dogs lie.
After all, why spoil his lunch?
Monday, Breath Control.