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WAR! dum-dum, dum-dum-dum! What is it good for? Absolutely NUTHIN’!

Just change “War” to “Fame,” and you’ve got the story of my life. Absolutely nuthin’.

Back in the day, I got endorsement money for saying, “I wear Gazackstahegen Gym Shoes” or “I always keep my jewels in a Bazonga Athletic Supporter!” Back then Schwarzenegger made his money and fame winning legit weightlifting and bodybuilding contests, but I took a slightly easier, sleazier path.

Thanks to good genes and some bodybuilding routines, I got myself cover shoots for men’s magazines, glistening in the floodlights from an all-over coating of mineral oil. I was buff enough–and good-looking enough–for the muscle mags. I showed up on Wrestle-Crazy covers posing in a jockstrap–even though I didn’t know shit about wrestling, and inside there was no story about me. I was just the horny, buff model.

One of the covers brought lawsuits that went on for years. The tiny white jockstrap they gave me was so tiny it barely covered my cockhead. Legal arguments flew and lawyers got in fistfights about the “outrage” of my balls showing in a publication sold in mom & pop grocery stores.

Those were the Good Old Days. Photographers shooting every part of me but my asshole. Anybody into bodybuilding, wrestling, or muscles knew my name. Paparazzi flashes blinded me every time I came out of a restaurant.

Skip ahead 20 years, two decades of me as a ball rolling through the pinball machine of life. Hitting this bumper-layoff, bouncing off that spring-cancel, getting a bump from a flipper-reassignment, and a long career of caroming from one trajectory to another, finally dropping into the black hole at the bottom: a job as manager for a tiny advertising company in Komananqua Falls, Ohio.

Fascinating place. The sign over the front door was a yelling, blazing, orange-yellow-red cartoon head bursting out of a television screen. Inside, the walls were painted putty-tan, and the employees were about as colorful.

Fascinating life. Wheedling, begging, and whining at shopkeepers to part with their hard-earned dough so they could hear themselves in cracking voices over WQUA either blustering or stuttering about how “Wonderful” and “Desirable” were their chimney brushes, handmade furniture, or rendered lard.

And I was doomed. Walking alone down a long, windowless hall. Twenty years back, in my days as a muscle-model, I lived a spoiled life. A man had spoiled me.

He was a trainer. Some movie production needed muscular sailors in the background while Roger or Walter or whatever his name was sang his song in the foreground. I always thought I was hunky enough, but the director wanted “big chests, really big chests.” So they assigned me a trainer. What the hell, it meant more money.

But the guy’s massages were stealthy, creeping stimulations. Slow, growing, unstoppable, his hands on my back and soothing my shoulders, kneading my buttocks–made me feel wonderful. Every time he finished with me, my ass was so hot, I could barely sit down. Like an itch. Like something wanted to happen.

After two weeks it was pleasure-torture, and one day as I lay purring on the table, planning to jack off the second he left, he moved up to stand beside me. “Mr. Iniardi,” he said. I turned my head.

And blinked.

He had pulled his shorts down over his ass, and his hard, throbbing cock was inches from my face. I gasped. The hot, red cockhead showed wetly through his foreskin, seductive, hungry, and beckoning. “Suck it,” he commanded.

To cut an uncircumcised story short, I gave in. Worse, as I sucked the big dong, his hand suddenly went from wide-focus stimulation of my butt to pointed attention, diddling around my asshole in slow, insufferable circles. When his finger–Oh, God!–pressed through, penetrating me, I catapulted into ecstasy, spurting astonished shots of semen onto the massage table beneath me.

And at that moment (what timing he had), the man’s sperm shot into my mouth, and I gulped it down–crossing the line.

He made me so horny with that finger, starting a fire back there, when he rolled me over and spread my legs, I knew right away what he was after. And I got a terrible urge to give it to him.

I loved everything he did to me! Never felt so fucking great.

He raised my legs, and It happened. His pink cockhead, already slick with spit and cum, nudged against my beef-hole, and–not without a couple of yipes from me–he made it. I winced and bit my lip in virginal pain as he got my cherry.

Like he married me. Nothing legal, of course, but as his legs flexed, screwing me in my inaugural fuck, my whole way of looking at things changed. Suddenly he was my partner. Higher in my esteem. Could never think of him in the same way again.

And as he stretched me to fit him, he made another big alteration–about who could do what to whom. Men can pleasure each other!

I couldn’t hold back a groan. He had fucked me skillfully past the pain, and with every casino şirketleri pump, my hips jolted, my balls shook, and a motherfucker of an orgasm grew in my guts. His thrusts raised the pleasure intensity until my ass felt like a pincushion–trembling with showers of red-hot sparks–and the earthquake started. “Oh, Jesus, yes! Fuck me! Harder! Do it! Ram it in!!”


The universe froze in mid-air, suspending me like the first atom at the instant of the Big Bang. I knew my whole life would change–and KA-WHAM! A tsunami of rapture so powerful I could drown in it rolled over me, blanking out all conscious thought, turning me into a glowing egg of ecstasy!

I don’t know how long it went on. Felt like days. But after the longest, most powerful orgasm of my life, I realized it came from both my cock and my asshole! Big Bang Boy had just taught me an atomic secret! A man can get the best of both worlds: an orgasm from both his cock and his man-cunt. Never forgot the smell. Mine and his. Somehow a combination of gut-level scents of our balls and the airy, oxygenated, stratospheric aromas of our brains. I smelled him. Somehow I knew all about him!

From then on, although I enjoyed dinner and a late-night tussle with a willing lady, sex with women was always minor-league. Full-on pleasure came only from another man. Wasn’t too hard to get my jollies back in the day, but willing man-pokers were hard to find in Komananqua Falls, Ohio.

I survived with hand-jobs. Kept me from blue-balls, but I’d changed calendars so many times since my last scream for mercy, I was constantly on the lookout for a horny man who would look at me with one raised eyebrow.

The problem was that I was over 50. Past the age of a peppery libido. No longer attractive. Not a serious contender even for Komananqua Falls’ gay crowd (both of ’em) whoever they were. Life was a walk in the desert.


One day the regional manager dropped in for a visit. I shook his hand. “Nice to see you, Mr. Axelrig.” I’m so good at fake, worshipful smiles, I should model for toothpaste ads.

Almost immediately, he declared, right out of the clear blue sky, that our office needed an assistant. And by coincidence (surprise, surprise) he happened to have one with him. “Let me introduce Herman. He’s been working with us in the home office, and he already knows all the ropes. Herman, this is Mr. Iniardi.”

People always wonder if I graduated from grade school, but I’m smart enough to recognize the boss’s relative when I see one. Herman was somebody’s kid, at best a lazy slug here for a free paycheck. Or maybe he was a plant, a spy, a mole.

He looked like a human scrapbook, a homeless bum cleaned up for the visit. Expensive clothes, but slept-in. Hard to tell his height–he slouched like needing something to lean on. Maybe 5’8″? (Later I heard one of the secretaries: “He was average barfly height.”)

Skinny. Weighed maybe 100 pounds. Round face, pink cheeks. Innocent-looking, childish in a way, but he had fiery red hair haystacked on his head like he combed it with an eggbeater. It gave him an out-of-work air.

Very thin lips. When he was born the obstetrician must’ve seen he didn’t have a mouth and cut him one with a quick flick of his scalpel. Nice teeth, though. Must get free shipments from our toothpaste account.

Dull eyes. Windows to the soul. Clearly “all the ropes” he knew were the ropes knitted into a hammock. No bright and eager intern, Herman was a plague waiting to happen. All the vibes told me, though, that if I stepped on this little roach, I would be out on my ass before he could hang up the telephone.

Shook my hand with a big grin, staring at me with a look that gave me goose-bumps. Shit, was I the kid’s target? That was all I needed, a corporate hit-man to get me filling out unemployment forms again.

Later I looked up his employee file. Herman was 22. Looked 16–wonderful how a good case of acne can make you look younger. I would paint on some fake pimples, myself, but at my age, it would look like smallpox. And more: his last name was Wawfens. Must be an in-law. Or a grandson.

When His Reverence Mr. Axelrig finally left, and I was alone with Herman, he stood grinning at me, giving me that weird look again. Like I was a cold beer. “I want to learn everything,” he said. “Hope to get an agency of my own one day.”

Ah, so. “All the ropes” just reduced to “a few threads.”

I showed him around the place, even the exercise equipment. Our company had taken over the site of a fitness center that went bankrupt (Komananqua Falls was also the TV Remote & Deep-fried Food Capital of Ohio). The treadmills and weight machines were still there. Even a shower room.

I saw Herman in the showers a couple of days later. Even skinnier than I thought. His back looked like an illustration from a medical book. No muscles. Clear bone definition. Pimples on his back.

Flat butt–a curved line at the top of each leg where casino firmalari a buttock should have been. Jeez. Never saw anybody before who didn’t have an ass. He wouldn’t be hard to draw. For each leg, just two straight lines.

I wished my waist were that slender, but his looked scary. Tubercular. And his dick? Grade school. Three inches. Maybe four while reading a Playboy.


As the days wore on, Herman hung around me so much, I grew even more nervous. I tried to shunt him off onto other members of the staff, but they ran him through a quick summary of what they did and turned him loose again to come slithering back to me.

His bladder and mine appeared to have the same schedule–every time I went to the men’s room, he walked in a second later. As days went by and our “coincidences” more frequent, his choice of urinal got closer and closer until finally we stood beside each other in there at least twice a day.

No temptation there: I had seen his future, and it was Economy Size. Couldn’t help myself–I was a size man–I liked some meat on the bone. Even as starved and aching as I was, Herman wasn’t my type.

As time went by, though, his attempts to see what I zipped up grew more and more overt until one day, rather than stand so close I splashed back on myself (and maybe a little hornier than usual), I casually took a step back and gave him a look.

Okay, although nobody ever begged me to star in a porn flick, I did have enough to turn a few heads. Since Herman was so hot to see it, I pulled back the foreskin and gave him a little glimpse of the ol’ Purple Beret. That action, of course, started the inflation process, and I heard Herman gasp. I zipped up as if my mind were elsewhere, maybe thinking about the day’s ad-shoot, and I walked out.

Not a long time later, Herman came into my office unannounced. Closed the door behind him. Walked up to my desk staring at me like trying to walk a straight line for a sobriety test. I got the goose-bumps again. “What can I do for you, Herman.”

“Just want to learn more about you. How you run the place.”

Damn. Is this where the interrogation begins? I lit a cigarette.

He went on, “How many accounts does this office have?”

Stupid question. He’d probably been told that in the car on the way here. I set the cigarette in an ashtray and reached for a ring-binder across my desk. I didn’t, though, raise my arm quite enough as I reached over the ashtray, and my cuff snagged the cigarette.

While I gave Herman the usual bla-bla, my wrist suddenly felt hot, and I looked down to see my damned sleeve was on fire!

I jumped up and slapped it out, then yanked the shirt open and pulled it off. Bad move. I was bare-chested for Herman.

He stood up, too. “Damn! You’re really built!”

Echoes of decades past. I smiled. I’m not so bad for 50. Still got the big frame. Muscles are a lot softer, but I’ve still got the outline.

Herman, though, was enchanted. “Look at you. Your daddy must’ve been a king to have a prince like you.” Ultra-corny, but his voice was soft. Respectful and awed. I smiled.

Nobody ever said anything like that to me. I looked over at myself in the full-length mirror we used to audition models. The years had trampled over me, but that wasn’t a bad chest, really. My tank-top undershirt fit me nice and tight.

Again the kid’s velvet voice: “You mind if I stare for a minute? I want to remember you for my dreams.” If he wrote that stuff in commercials, we were in trouble, but it made me all soft and squishy inside. Never been spoken to like that before.

Felt a little shy. Embarrassed. But flattered. And romantic.

Took me back to my glory days, back when I danced in a music video as a slave in a sheik’s tent, cavorting around the room in a pink silk jockstrap. But even in those days, people never told me they dreamed about me.

I looked back at the mirror and sucked in my gut. I remembered my waist back in those days. Slender. Even as I stood bared before Herman, I was better–not the same diameter all the way down, and I was hard. Still could crush a beer can on my belly.

Still, I wished I were in better shape for him.

What? No, I don’t! I don’t care about the little shit!

The mellow Voice again, from behind me. Lower, deeper: “I would crawl naked in the cold rain, I would crawl naked on broken glass–just to get naked with you.”

Jesus Christ! I turned my head to look at him and found my face an inch away from his. “Herman, I–“

–But his lips found mine. Warm. Inviting. Sweeping me away.

Damn, what the hell?

But it was too late. As his fingers wriggled through my hair, pulling my face closer, cutting off my escape, I suddenly began to enjoy it. And I kissed him back.

Can’t believe it! I’m getting turned on!

But with his tiny lips on mine and his tongue snaking into my mouth, I knew was kissing a weasely little mole. I had a choice: peel him loose or güvenilir casino let it roll.

My scrotum decided. When I stuck my tongue in his mouth, the order came from my balls. Nice kiss.

When we broke, both of us breathing a little harder, he caressed my cheek, murmuring slowly, nuzzling my ear. His voice was soft, lyrical, romantic, and in Italian: Posso comprarla una bevanda o fotteremo?

Just one little problema–my family’s from Naples. What he said was “Can I buy you a drink or shall we just fuck?”

Another major crossroads. And again my balls made the decision. I kissed him again, and as I did, his hands fumbled at my belt. In moments my pants fell to the floor.

Herman hit the floor a second or two later, yanking down my underwear, and he sighed. “Somebody should call the cops–it’s got to be illegal to look that good.”

I smiled. The little twerp could really sling the shit. While his hot breath warmed my cock, his hands groped my buttocks.

My ass was once so muscled I left two distinct, separate round marks when I sat on the sauna bench, but no more. Still, I had a good butt. Nice and rounded, and I loved his hands. “Mr. Universe,” he murmured.

Then his mouth electrocuted me as it slid over my cock!

My best part. I was still proud of it. Years ago the head shots I handed out at photo auditions were actually cockhead shots. Ol’ Trigger was my selling point, especially with a pullback to show the Purple Beret. And it still worked. Maybe not quite as impressive. Back in the day, Ol’ Trigger stood up from hard, flat plates of muscle.

In my office, Herman sucked on a hard dick based on a softer platform, but I loved it. Hadn’t been sucked in years, and I was in heaven. His fingers up my ass-crack made an even bigger thrill. The finger jabbing into my asshole, though, hit my Go-button, and I gasped.

He backed off. “God must have cried when you left heaven.” The voice was soft. Warm. Like a cat’s purr. Like gentle hands of a massage. I was putty in the hands of this little worm. Didn’t know what to do. Nothing to say.

The finger was still up my ass. Teasing me. Wriggling. Raising my temperature. Herman stood up with his finger still up me, delighting me, a tiny rabbit hopping back and forth inside me. I had gone so long, such a long time since any man-sex, the magic finger wound me tight.

“What a body,” he whispered in my ear. “Are you Greek? I thought all the gods were Greek.”

I couldn’t believe it. The little schmuck really knew how to lay it on thick. Worse, I loved it. Nobody ever tried romance on me. Never heard anything like it, and when he hissed, “Get down on your hands and knees,” I felt like a teenager asked to go to the prom. I took a deep breath and stooped.

Jesus Christ, am I going to let myself be fucked by the Pimple Kid?

Yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s been too long. Beggars aren’t choosers.

He knelt behind me, then mounted. “Well,” he said softly, “looks like I just hit a home run with you.” By then I was so fuck-crazy, all I could think of was to get the little jerk’s cock rammed inside me! I hadn’t been stretched around a big, hard cock in so long!

Whereas I hoped for a crowbar up my ass, Herman’s cock touched my pucker only gently, like a flower petal landing on the grass. Damn the little bastard! “Come on, Herman! Come on, do it!”

“Don’t want to get my pants dirty.”

God, oh God! “Then take ’em off, man! I’m on fire back there! You gotta fuck me!” I crouched there like an idling, overheating 18-wheeler while Mr. Maladroit shucked off his pants.

Black wingtip oxfords and white socks. What a nerd.

When he mounted again, I gritted my teeth: the sexual low point of my life. But I was so fucking horny I would’ve bent over for a Doberman.

One thing about getting shanked by Herman, there was no pain. Like getting a pipecleaner up my ass.

No stretch. No stress. And that drove me crazy. Never thought I’d miss the pain! “Harder, goddammit! Fuck me harder!!”

I was a pool of heated gasoline, and his goddamned fuse wasn’t long enough to give me an explosion! What a fucking irony! Rapunzel’s hair couldn’t reach the prince.

Once he started fucking, his hips slammed against my pelvis nicely, giving me good, bone-jarring jolts, but rather than the growing forest fire of a hot cock ramming up my ass, it tickled!

I was going insane! Raging mad! Panting like running a goddamned marathon. I crouched there, lurching my hips back at him, sweat dripping from me! “Please! Goddamnit, PLEASE!!”

Nothing! Nothing in my whole, goddamned life got me so fiery, insanely hot as fucking with that skinny little shrimp! I was so horny, so close, so begging for it, I was strangled, as if I hung from the ceiling by a rope knotted around my cock! Nothing I could do would make the little bastard treat me rougher!

Finally, so desperate I was on the edge of a fucking heart attack, I dropped away from him, rolled over on my back, and frantic–my hands grappling clumsily at my sweat-slick legs–I pulled my knees back by my face, spreading my ass and my aching, eager asshole to him. I was on fire. “Here, Herman! Ram it in! Take me from the front! Do whatever you want with me! FUCK ME!!”

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