Earl
Story Codes: MM, Consensual,  Exhibitionism,

Earl
By Mark Howard

Earl made love to me on Thursday, August 16, 1977. I remember the exact date because it was the day Elvis
Presley died. We found out watching TV in Earl’s bed, our arms entangled together with a pink rose colored bed
sheet draped over our sweaty and cum stained loins. Elvis was dead we were told. We stared in silence at the
screen filled with images of thinner rock idol in days gone by. I was no big Elvis fan, so his death seemed just
another passing event. What I always remember from this day was not a dead Elvis but what Earl and I did. It was
the first time a man made love to me. It was just a month after my wedding.

I had met Earl two years before in an acting class just after I graduated from college in California with no idea of
what do with myself. He was 32, I was 24. Earl had watery pale green eyes that always seemed to be on the verge
of tears.  With a bushy mustache and short cropped brown hair with strands that lapped over his right eye brow, I
couldn’t help but think that he looked like a distant cousin of Adolph Hitler. All he needed was a swastika armband
and brown shirt to complete the family resemblance.

Earl ran a dry cleaning story and said he had always wanted to act but wasn’t really good at it.  He said he took
acting classes to be creative.  I think he did it to pick up men.

I hooked up with my then wife around the same time in a similar way. She was the daughter of an acting teacher in
another class in Hollywood. Indifferent to being a star, Joan was burdened with a limelight of her own. She had dark
hair and a buxom figure that attracted the constant stares of men. She often talked about getting breast
reductions.  Earl knew about Joan. She did not know about him.

Up to this point, I was searching for an identity as well as a career. Both seemed to be vacant, empty lots. The idea
of being an actor was from my parents who tried and failed to have a showbiz life of their own. They kept their inept
dreams alive with local theatre productions.  My identity, sexual or otherwise, could only be listed as unknown.

“You’re like me,” Earl told me one day after class as we sat in my burnt orange Volkswagen beetle.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re sensitive. You’re kind and ….”

“And what?”

“You’re like me,” he said.

I would often follow Earl to his place in the Hollywood Hills, off Topanga Canyon Boulevard. It was a two bedroom
house with a row of windows in the front looking out over the downhill landscape of manicured brush and imported
Eucalyptus trees. We sat and talked and drank vodka tonics and sloe gin fizzes. We talked art and acting and life.  
I did feel I was with someone that was  ... like me.

I don’t know what I felt toward Earl.  It wasn’t love or lust even. I wasn’t even attracted to his body, a simple,
unadorned piece of muscle and bone that was thin and mostly shapeless. But just knowing someone wanted me
kept me going to his house.

“Come on. You like men don’t you? Admit it. You like men. Men can give you more than any woman,” Earl would
say.

I didn’t like certain men.  I didn’t like beer drinking males drowning in a sea of testosterone. I had nothing in
common with them. I didn’t call women pussy or cunts. I didn’t whistle or tell them to sit on my face. I didn’t count
aloud how many women I fucked. I hadn’t fucked that many, anyway.

I also didn’t like men who listened to Judy Garland records or drooled over Liza Minnelli or collected pictures of
Marilyn Monroe with her white dress air blown above a New York subway grail. I didn’t call another man ‘honey.’ I
didn’t like men who stared at me too long with soft blue eyes.

I never chased men. I chased women, and some of them chased me.  What I did know was that being hunted felt
better than hunting. If there was anything I wanted, it was to be among the hunted.

I knew Earl wanted me. I played with him like a coquettish tart plays with an incensed john. I egged him on with
each long look I gave. I promised him everything with those looks. I gave him nothing.

He wanted me to leave my wife.

“Come live here with me,” he said, even though we had never touched.

I was fucking my wife but it didn’t stop me from being with Earl. Each time I thought I would never go back to see
Earl, I did go back. My dick would get hard as I drove away from his house, thinking about what he would do to me.
What would he do to me? I didn’t really know.

On the day Elvis died, I went to Earl’s house. I called in sick to my job at a Hollywood book store, after my wife left
for her job as a movie production assistant. I got there around 9 am.

Early as it was, he fixed me a vodka tonic. I took a few sips and it wasn’t long before my head began to spin. My
blood felt hot, boiling. My arms felt heavy, immovable. My heart felt huge, ready to burst through my chest. I looked
down and saw my cock. It has huge and hard through my pea stained khaki slacks. I had pissed in my pants.

I often measured my dick when I was alone. It was always six inches; no matter how determined I was to make it
longer. I thought it seemed too short to make any woman happy. Now with Earl, it looked six feet long.

At some point, I could see myself from above the room. I looked down and saw that I was naked sitting on a bed.
Earl was naked.  His hands pushed me down on the mattress and his mouth was on my cock. Earl’s tongue was
licking my shaft like a child’s lollipop. Then he took my balls between his teeth. I stared at his head lost in pleasure.
I laid my head down and closed my eyes.

“Here lift up,” he said.  

Earl grabbed the back of my head with one hand and held a black little bottle of liquid up to my nose.

“Breathe deep.”

“Okay.”

“Breathe some more.”

The amyl nitrate rushed through my head. A resurrection of sin and lust took over inside and out. I grabbed Earl by
the head with my hands and pushed him on my cock, forcing my dick down his throat.  Earl sucked me harder and
harder. I was close to coming when Earl pulled up. He must have tasted my jizz and stopped sucking me. He didn’t
want my come yet.

He moved his mouth to mine. I wrapped my arms around him as he lay on top of me. I kissed him on his lips as my
arms around his neck pulled him toward me. My tongue flowed from my mouth to his. His tongue flowed from his
mouth to mine. He pressed me.  I pressed even harder against him. I felt his mustache rub against my nose and
mouth as he circled my face with his tongue.

With each kiss I tried to put my whole body into his.

Then, I felt a hard sensation at the front of my ass. Something was trying to make its way inside me.

“Breath this again,” Earl said. Somehow he kept the small brown bottle of amyl in his right hand and opened with
this left.

With each breath I took, Earl pushed his cock in my ass. I was tight and in some pain.

“I’m not sure I can take you,” I said. “It’s hurting me.”

“Easy,” Earl said.  “Breathe some more of this.”

Each push of his dick matched a breath of amyl. I nearly swallowed the bottle. I breathed more and more. The pain
went away and I was full of his cock. He went deeper and deeper until his whole dick was inside my ass. I didn’t
ever want it to stop. I didn’t ever to have him pull out. We rocked back and forth. My ass was his. His dick was mine.
I felt his cock push through my ass and into my soul.  He had breached my sexual being.  

A hot sensation followed.

“I’m coming! I’m coming,” he said

“Fuck me Earl. Fuck my pussy,” I said.

I had no idea where those words came from. All I knew was that I felt like a pussy.

The warm liquid inside me was mine. I wanted it to stay there.

Earl was on top of me. We breathed in and out together. He could call me his cunt. I was his cunt. He was my dick.
My cock.

“You liked it didn’t you?” he asked in a heavy breath.  

“You loved me fucking you. I know you did. You couldn’t let me fuck you like that if you didn’t like it.”

I didn’t answer. I took him inside like a woman. I wondered if I would this way forever. I didn’t have the post come
depression I had so many times before.

Was it the drugs and drink? Would I seek out other men? Would I suddenly put on a dress and bra? Would I wear
pantyhose and dream of rippled male chests? No. I was just stopping at this station for a while. My train ride would
keep going. So I thought.

“A woman can’t do that. It felt good having me inside you didn’t it?”

“Yes, I liked it.”

I laid there and he turned on the TV. Elvis was dead. I went home.

“What’s that on your neck,” Joan asked the next morning.

“On my neck?”

“Yes, there’s a red spot,” she said.

“That’s nothing,” I answered.

I looked in the bathroom mirror of our small Los Angeles apartment and saw a large bright red spot in the shape of
a spider that sat on the right side of my neck. I had missed it coming home last night. I should have looked. But
there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Two days of denials were not working.

“That’s a hickey,” Joan said.  “What have you been doing?”

“Okay. I went to this guy’s house after acting class and he attacked me. I think he gave me something in the drink. I
didn’t do anything with him. I got out of there before he could do anything.”

“He did something. He gave you that hickey,” she shouted back.

“Well, that’s all he did. Nothing else.”

My abilities to lie have always been questionable.  I’ve never been any good at it. Joan could tell I was lying but she
didn’t press the matter.

“What’s his name?”

“Earl,” I said.

That night I made love to Joan. I got hard easily enough before I put my mushroomed shaped member inside her.
She was always wet and easy to slip into. I pushed and pulled her large tits up and down and rocked back and
forth. She was moaning, I was moaning   She was yelling, I was yelling. She grabbed my head and put her lips on
my neck. She sucked the same spot as Earl.

I moved down to her lower parts, her pussy, her cunt and sucked her lips.

“Suck them harder,” she said. “Suck me.”

“I’m coming,” she said.

And with that I exploded and she exploded. All of this was done in a minute.  

We were all in a game of show and tell. Earl knew what he was doing when he sucked my neck. He wanted Joan to
find his mark on me. Joan knew I was lying about what he did or at least she was in denial. I was letting her know
something happened by not saying another woman did it.  Our love making was angrier than ever before.

“I’m going to write about what happened to you for a magazine,” Joan said a week later.

“I know someone here in L.A. that can help me get it in a woman’s magazine. I’ve always wanted to write and I can
talk about this. How my husband got attacked by another man.”

“Why would you want to do that,” I asked. “You can’t let this out. Have you told anybody about this?”

“Just my friend Miranda,” Joan said.  “She can get the piece published.”

“Please don’t do that,” I said.  “Please don’t.”

It went like this for days. Joan saying she wanted to write the story, me begging her not to. I felt embarrassed by it
all. I knew Joan wanted a way to get back at me. Exposing me with this story, and her as well, would do that. A
husband who liked men, after two months of marriage would prove grist for her writing mill.

Finally she agreed not to do it. I breathed a sigh of relief. My secret life would remain somewhat secret.

I would see Earl over the next two years. We would fuck and make love but the intensity wore off. At some point, I
stopped going to his place when it was clear I wasn’t going to move in with him.  Joan didn’t know I kept seeing Earl.
Or at least I thought she didn’t. I found out later she was seeing an old flame during our marriage at the same time
I was seeing Earl.

Where Earl ended up I do not know. I never saw him again after a final face to face about whether I loved him or
not. I did love him.  I loved Joan. I loved them all.

Over time, there would be more men as well as other marriages. There would be she males and massage parlor
girls.

I would still be searching for my identity.  



Discuss this story in our forum. Or comment directly to the author  CLICK HERE
Share |