The real, penetrating story of my sexual diversity.

At first I was really quite pleased with myself, I’d managed to just lie there like a princess and have thunderous sex, on ten or eleven occasions with a very attractive young gay guy and still convince myself that it was a mere extension of my unconventional hyper-heterosexuality. But every time this 17 year old Adonis, plunged his perfect eight inches into me it was a little more difficult than the last to keep my tattered masculine self image intact.
I’d been so internally homophobic that I left it to Oliver to do all the seducing, all the hard work to get me to agree to lie face down over over the back of his huge art deco leather lounge with my jeans down around my ankles, while he’d fingered lube into me, and then made me realise what I’d been missing out on.

After that it was just too easy to simply lie there and believe that because I was letting him use my body, that was collaboration enough, but I didn’t feel really good about it. Although he never said anything, and in a way liked me acting hard to get, I had the nagging feeling that I was being a lot like the kind of girls who really piss me off, the ones who think they’re doing you a big favour when they spreads their legs, and that you should be grateful for that honour.

I realised that I would soon have come to grips with my confusing and contradictory sexuality and start reciprocating. To do to him all the wonderful things he did to me.

But first I had to confront the substantial emotional trauma of admitting to myself, that despite having always been obsessed with girls the fabled euphoria other men apparently experienced when fucking their pussies was never going to happen for me.

Whenever I had sex with a girl, it would provide a brief intense pleasure but ten minutes later I would invariably be filled with a debilitating sense of foreboding and dissatisfaction. I came to realise that whenever I looked down on a girl with her legs open, that was where I wanted to be, not on the top but on the bottom. My days being exclusively straight were over.

Although I have never been judgemental towards others and have close gay friends, I also remained internally at least, chronically homophobic, the “bi-product”I think of a very bigoted and violent family.

So I didn’t know which way to turn.

Whenever I tried to visualise rimming Oliver, giving him oral and then swallowing his load as he often did with me, just the thought of it made me nauseous, there was so much internal resistance to crossing this line I couldn’t even contemplate it. Surprisingly I think I probably could have done so if I thought I was gay because that would have been my undeniable reality and I would have had to just get on with my life as a normal homosexual and accept it.

But I knew I wasn’t gay, my primary orientation had always been girls and the only kind of men I had ever been attracted to weren’t men, they were teen boys 16 to 18 and always very feminine looking, which I felt was probably more a case of “the exception proving the rule” than evidence I might be gay.

I couldn’t do it under the guise of being a bi-sexual either. Because I didn’t accept there was any such thing as a man who is “neither one thing nor the other – but at the same time both”

This was probably because my gay friends had always maintained that Bi’s were simply gays in denial, and as I wasn’t gay I found myself trapped in a sexual no man’s land, yearning for both sexualities but belonging to neither.

Oliver would prove to hold the key for me. He had an exceptionally beautiful dancers body. He was athletically male, strong and well hung, but at the same time waxed all over and lightly curvaceous, he accommodated beautifully my need for sexual ambiguity.

And he possessed probably the most important attribute any lover can offer me; a raging desire for my body, and in particular my bottom which was rapidly establishing itself over my penis as the main focus of my sexuality.

And so one night, incapable of any more self criticism and guilt, I said to myself “that’s it, I can’t stand living in this limbo, I am going to go over and see him and force myself to suck him off, and to hell with my paranoia, revulsion, shame, self loathing” (and so on.)

It started as usual with lots of touching and him kissing me on the neck as he slowly stripped me, but this time under my T-shirt and jeans I’d decided to explore another one of my secret contradictions and wear beautiful transparent black silk lace knickers, a camisole and black lace stay-up stockings. I thought they might help me across the line, to make me more adventurous and really accept, that as I always felt so intensely girly when I was with Oliver, then perhaps it was time I started behaving like one.

I was instantly delighted and relieved that instead of laughing at me or seeming shocked, Oliver became even more flattering than usual about my body and more aroused, and soon I found myself being forced back onto the bed with the camisole pushed up above my breasts and knickers around my ankles, He pulled them off and lifted my legs back, opening them wide, that magic moment when I always begin to tremble uncontrollably and my breathing starts going ballistic in anticipation of the standard gay prelude to penetration.

I pulled them back even further so my waxed boy-pussy was lifted up for his mouth but then it hit me, my dressing as a girl had completely changed my attitude to gratifying a man, as I writhed and moaned with his tongue probing deeper and deeper into me I grabbed his head and suddenly pulled him up to me. For the first time in my life, I began to passionately kiss another man.

My ultra-femininity seemed to create in him a corresponding ultra-masculinity and I found myself lifted clean off the bed as I wrapped my legs around him to hold on. He carried me over to the wall, held me with one powerful hand under my bottom and with the other spread my cheeks and guided his hardness into me. I knew with perfect clarity in that moment something which I would never have believed possible just an hour ago. As he held me up against the wall and started thumping in and out of me I realised that my sexual destiny was to be a woman-with-a-cock and to service men.

I whispered for him to let me go and I slid down his body and onto my knees.

I knew instinctively what do, it was as if I’d been sucking cock every day my life, he moaned and gasped so loudly I started to wonder how I would ever be able to sneak out from his apartment later, under the hostile glare of a dozen disgusted neighbours. But for now I didn’t care, I loved feeling a man’s cock in my mouth. I started to pinch his foreskin, pulling it away from his shaft and rubbing it quickly in little circles between my finger tips, at the same time slipping my lips back and forth over the purple tinged, satin smoothness of his beautifully sculptured knob.

Now I decided to would go where I’d never even imagined I could. I held his long thick organ out straight and let it press deep into the back of my throat, coughing and spluttering as globs of saliva dribbled down my chest but I wouldn’t give up, I was determined to give him everything, and I soon had all of his 8 inches in so deep I felt his moist stomach pressed into my face

I felt powerful, in control, blissfully happy and finally totally comfortable in my skin. Even my always-desperate need to be fucked had receeded into the background and just didn’t see all that important anymore.

I guided him down onto the bed and began to masturbate him quickly as my tongue and lips slid across his glistening knob. The first little gushes of pre-cum tasted mild and inoffensive, in fact I mused happily to myself, even delicious in a weird neutral kind of a way. I smiled and now rubbed my pursed lips back and forth across his tip at neck-breaking speed, pinching and rubbing his foreskin as my other hand stroked him up and down also at a furious rate.

And then suddenly in just a few seconds and an explosion of creamy opalescence, ten years of utter confusion and crippling fear was resolved.

The greatest ordeal in my life was extinguished in a pulsing fountain of semen shooting into my mouth and across my face. As thin streaks of his watery cream landed in the back of my throat and I struggled not to cough, I found that I swallowed the spurts of Oliver’s mildly astringent love juice without even thinking about it.

I put my hand under his smooth, heavy balls and stretched a finger right back to just penetrate his anus and help along the last of his spasms. I felt a little sad that it hadn’t been deposited in my pussy, where I could pretend it might fertilise me. Now I let the frothy cocktail of semen and saliva in my mouth spill onto my cock and began to to masturbate. Oliver gallantly rose up on one arm and summonsed the energy to finger me, but I didn’t need it, ejaculating was just for closure, my real climax had been continuous and unrelenting. It had been curling around inside me when I’d first cast adrift a lifetime of fear and licked the sublime smoothness of his manhood; when I’d realised how female that made me feel; when he’d entered me and rammed me up against the wall; when Id felt like I was being lifted up by a huge meat hook, speared between my legs.

My cum spilling lazily over my stomach was just to give me closure.

Later Oliver told me I’d given him the best blow job of his life and considering what a revolving door stud he was, I felt incredibly fulfilled. I finally I knew that I was neither straight nor gay, male nor female, but all four in one.