Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Gay Hudson Erotic Fiction



Disclaimer: (where's my lawyers?)

This is erotic fiction, folks....'fiction' meaning any relation to real people living, dead, or inbetween, is purely coincidental. As with many of these blog entries, I make this shit up....AND 'erotic' meaning dick-sucking, fucking, cum-swapping, etc.

So, don't get your panties in a bunch.

If you can't deal, then don't read it!

****************************************************************

I'm out with friends for dinner last night. One friend turned to me and said,

"I have an entry for you blog....so-and-so (we'll call him "Fred") got fired this week. "

I looked at him and said, "...and?"

"And he wasn't getting along with his boss."

Again, I said "...and?"

"And I told him to leave months ago..."

"...and?"

He looked at me, incredulous, and said,

"AND, you should blog about it. It's Hudson NEWS."

I said, "No, that's not news. That's gossip. And boring gossip. I'm not using it. On second thought, maybe I will use it, as an EXAMPLE of what's NOT going into my Gay Hudson blog!"

I told him "THIS is what I'm thinking...."

*************************************************************************

Fred's 24, a banged-up upstate boy. Cute, 6 feet tall, skinny, almost entirely hairless, except a small, thick, bush of pubes and hairy legs. No real formal education, no oppurtunity, with a wife and a three year-old kid.

His wife works in the Wal Mart in Greenport. The Wal Mart health insurance package costs too much, so they do without.

Fred's a good kid, but he's battling an addiction to crystal meth. He still does it every now and then, when feeling depressed. He knows he can't support his family, he tries, but what's he going to do? With the drug problem, he could never pass a drug test for a government job. The hospital and prison in town won't hire him.

He applies for a job in Hudson, at an antique shop on Warren Street, run by an alcoholic, bitter, old queen.

The antique dealer takes one look at him and hires him on the spot. No application.

Fred's job is to sand down furniture - shirtless, even though it's February in upstate New York.

Late one evening, after the first two weeks, the owner holds the check out for Fred. He reaches for it, but the owner stops, puts his appletini on a mod 1950's coaster and says,

"I forgot to mention...I have another job for you. I'll double this paycheck if you let me blow you."

Fred's eyes widen. Golly gee, he thinks, the baby will be able to go to the doctor and maybe they can pay for the meds to stop the coughing...

"OK" says Fred.

They go into the back room - Queen Anne furniture EVERYWHERE!

The owner powders his nose in the vanity, watching Fred undress through the mirror.



Fred's slightly erect. Does he like this? What's going on?

The old queen gets on his knees and starts.

It's amazing. Fred is overcome with emotions. He's enjoying it. But how could he, he's "straight"? Oh, what does "straight" even mean anymore?

The blow job gets harder and more intense. This old queen is good. He can take all ten inches down his throat, no gagging. He's a pro.

Fred thinks of his wife, the baby, the money. Tears are in his eyes. Thoughts go through his mind. Why does he have to do this? Why couldn't he have gone to school and gotten a better job? Why did his father leave when he was so young? Why doesn't Wal Mart, the richest company in the world, give better health insurance to it's employees? Fuck the Democrats and their failed promises for the working class!!

With a vision of John Kerry in his head, Fred comes.

Fred is the first man to EVER come with an image of John Kerry in his head.

The old bitter queen spits into an seventeenth-century French chamber pot. Some princess of Monoco supposedly shit in it. At least that's what he tells the doyennes from the Upper East Side.

Two more weeks pass. Another check, another request.

This time, the antique dealer wants to eat him out.

Fred doesn't understand. What does that mean? You want to put your tongue where? The owner puts Fred in a Victorian wing-back chair (with original upholstery) and tells him to hold his feet up to his head, and hold onto his ankles.

Fred thinks...oh my god...THIS is amazing....his wife NEVER did this to him. Who knew?

Fred's immediately arrosed. After fifteen minutes of tongue action, one touch to his dick and he comes BUCKETS! Long, gushing sheets of semen, one after the other. Semen spurting everywhere, all over the furniture!

Thank God for slip covers!

[Now, reader, if the first thought that came to your mind was, 'what about the upholstery?' then you are SO gay...]

Fred's wife loves the paychecks. The baby's well. The car has gas in it.

The third paycheck...

This time, the antique dealer already has a bulge in his pants from a little blue pill he took earlier.

Fred looks at it suspiciously.

"This time," says the old drunk queen, "I'm going to fuck you."

"Golly." was all Fred could say.

"Don't worry, I'll be (BURP!) gentle." says the gassy queen. "Drop 'em and bend over."

Fred slowly undoes his pants and leans over the bed.

Fred, for some reason, is less scared....the rim job was actually kinda nice...maybe this won't be that bad either...

The antique dealer puts lube on Fred's asshole.

His asshole quivers with the cold sticky gel. The doctor had done this to him before but...

WHOA - slip - one finger goes right in!

Easily.

With one finger in Fred's ass, the antique dealer unrolls the condom on his hard dick, down to the gray pubes.

Oh. My. Gawd. Ouch!! He's being ripped open! Such pain! The antique dealer shows no mercy, plows straight in. At this moment, Fred realizes that he'll NEVER ask his wife for any anal backdoor action again.

Now, he knows.

The antique dealer pulls out.

The pain stops.

The old queen lays back on the divan, and removes the condom.

"Fred," he says, without making eye contact, "you're fired."

Fred turns around, his asshole still filled with lube, his lower jaw quivering.

"Why? I don't understand...I've done everything you ever wanted. I even let you stick it in my behind." (He says it as "bee-hind")

Jaded, cynical, exhausted, the antique dealer, still looking at the floor, says,

"Fred, the fantasy's over.....I thought you were a TOP."

**************************************************************************

I looked at my friend over dinner, he was rolling his eyes...

He said to me "THAT'S what you're going to blog about? You're going to take my story about 'so-and-so' getting fired and you're going to turn it into some lame-o, sick-o, SMUT story?!"

"MUCH more intersting, don't you think?" I said, "Babydoll, give people want they want! Give them a good story! Hudson may be small, but no one said it has to be boring!"

;)

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is definitely fiction. I've never met a married 24-year-old upstate guy with only ONE kid.