Nothing can be more frustrating than a badly remembered night. I celebrated the birth of the new year at the Rum Bar on 47th Street, right off Broadway (Edison Hotel lobby). I don't have a good voice, but I can carry a tune and can fake my way through some romantic songs. Of course, Karen--"Perfect Pitch Karen"--the piano player should take all the credit because she can accompany almost anyone--maybe even a stutterer.

Anyway, Sonicka, a young Austrian tourist liked my singing so much that she  carried me to her room so that we could make music together--musick machen.

It turned out that she was engaged and soon to be married, and that it was her wish to remain a virgin. I vaguely remember her asking me to eat her pussy "ein bischen" or a sound that I understood to mean: eat "fine biscuit" only.

She told me that Austrian fellows eat Vienner schnitzel but not pussy, and since I was a master at it she rewarded me by letting me fuck her in the ass. My problem is that I am still carrying a load of frustration at not having banged that virginal Austrian pussy.

My name is Charlotte, a widow, and own my own business. Today I stayed home because the Cable guy was coming to upgrade my service. Oh boy, did he give me service!

When I climbed on the step ladder to show him the splicing, he promptly held me up by placing his huge paw on the small of my back. "Careful, don't fall," he said. Then I felt he slid down his hand, applying a slight pressure on my ass.

By the time I got down, I was hot and horny, and so was he; we were like two cats rubbing each other. So I sat on the sofa and let him see a bit of my crotch (I learned this trick from Britney Spears), and that's all it took.

Sooner than you can say "I'mwetinsideandoutside," we were rolling on the carpet.  Lucky me! He is only the second man I've ever been with, and the first one to have fucked me in the ass. My poor departed husband could never get himself to do it: "too degrading," he would always say. I didn't find anything degrading but upgrading and the cable guy did it!

Being alone in the Big Apple and a lone wolf by nature, I was having a sad and melancholy new year's celebration by myself. Mostly I was in my room studying English. But I decided to have a few beers and went to the Blue Room (at 59th and 2nd Ave), where the girl-bar tenders are not only good looking but also quite polite. I like that. In other bars barkeeps have the tendency to mistreat me.

The atmosphere was nice. Lovely. I sat next to a gorgeous Anglo lady. A book was sticking out of her bag and I asked her if it was a good book. She looked at me as if I was an extra-terrestial who had just blurted out the oldest pick-up line in the book. But then she mellowed and said, "Terrific book, I will finish it soon--a great read...a business mystery."

"Oh, like Enron?"

"Yeah," she warmed up to me. I gathered she thought that a guy who knows about Enron couldn't be such a loser.

"Buy it if you can," she said, "The Poison Pill--it is by a hispanic writer, too. My sister gave it to me for Christmas; she said people all over the world are reading. . . and if I don't read it I would feel out of the loop."

"Hispanic? And he writes in English? Oh, man. I will buy it for sure!"

Virginia happens to be a college professor. She doesn't drink or smoke--she loves chicken wings with guacamole and tortilla chips! Well, I do too (the hottest the better). So we became friends and had a great time.

Not to milk the story (I just learned this expression), I asked her to come up to my room. Much to my surprise she agreed and...oh boy, oh boy! I was the happiest illegal alien that ever cross (or is it crosse?) the Rio Grande.

I was a little drunk but Virginia was sober and hunger (or is it hungry?) for love. Being a college professor she asked me if I had ever heard of Plato's Cave. But because I am an ignorant boy I replied with full honesty, "No, of course not...I only went to the third grade."

Lovely Virginia smiled with the sweetest and loveliest smile and turned over. Glimpsing over her shoulder and spreading her pink buttocks she said, "I bet you know this cave!"

It only took a fraction of a second for me to connect and understand that Plato was gay and that he liked it in the cave. So--thanks be to the Virgencita of Guadeloupe who has blessed me with a 9-inch corn-cob--I went into the cave with all my nine-inches.

Ah, lovely Virginia! Thanks, too, for teaching me about Plato's Greek love.

Now let me go on line and order that blessed book she recommended, and which let me start the year with such a great bang. . . or is it Big Bang?

Which would you prefer?

You decide!

After thirty years of marriage and two grown children, my wife shocked me with a most bizarre request last night.

She and her little clique of opera buffs went to see The Magic flute at the Metropolitan Opera, and after dinner at Fiorello's on Broadway she returned home with new ideas. "The girls talked about fantasies," she said with a languid chi chi voice (a mannerism I dislike). "One talked about sitting on her husband's face, another about rectal insertion, and Betsy--of all things--talked about the 'facials' her husband treats her to."

I must confess I was interested in her conversation because Dee--a nickname my wife goes by--is what you might say a "cold fish." Not only is she a prude but also a whiner of sorts when it comes to sex. Her perennial complaint against sex has always been that it takes her a week to clean the sperm out of her vagina. "You are a walking gland," she'd admonish me. "How can you manufacture so much of it!"

But not last night. Just as I was making love to her in my usual subdue manner, she slurred..."Make me feel like a beast, ring my magic bells..." Overcoming my initial surprise and aiming to please her I said, "Here's your magic flute, sweeheart...blow it!" It was the first time in her life, and all I could see was lust in her fact. Uncontrollable lust.

"Paint my face white like the Queen's!" she then exclaimed short of breath after her blowjob effort, her chi chi Park Avenue accent also gone.

At that moment her fantasy became a reality when I gave her a most thorough facial, leaving her face as if it was a white pancake  mask. 

Today she called me at the office to tell me I was the best husband in the world, and though she loved Mozart she loved my squirting magic flute the best. "I feel like a new woman!" she confided.

"Anal insertion is next," I thought with a smile in my heart.

I cannot tell you his real name, so I will call him Patel. I met Patel at a classy restaurant where he works as a busboy. I got very chatty with him (right in front of my date, who being a jerk, was much offended that I should talk to "the help," and let the busboy know by my flirting that he could get lucky soon. The front of his pants were about to burst, and it wasn't my imagination, nor did he have a bottle of Perrier hidden there. The poor man was so shy, and he couldn't hide his shyness--it was huge!As I returned from the ladies room I slipped him a $20 and my business card with a very very direct note, "Come see me when you get off, I live in the next block."

Let me tell you, this man--though a foreigner--knew how to handle a woman. He was gentle and yet firm. After a couple of glasses of an expensive wine (which he had swiped from his restaurant's cellar) we got down to business.

Having gone through the seduction routine many times, I was a little blase and I thought, "He'll come and I'll howl and scream pretending I did, too." When he started going 90 miles and hour and panting, I started to howl. But he put his hand on my mouth and said gently, "Shhhh...Turn over, we'll do it doggie style."

From behind he felt like he was stuffin a small ham inside me. "All that for nothing," I said to myself resigned to my insipid life. "No orgasm tonight either." When I glimpsed over my shoulder I saw him peel a tiny yellowish, square stick, and didn't think much of it. "Lozenges, or medication of some sort," I thought. He slipped his pinky into my anus ever so smoothly and gently and I loved it. Really did. Again he went in, but this time with his index I thought, though he went in and out so fast I wasn't sure. I pouted feeling so cheated.

Anyway, my vagina was getting sore and bruised, because he had a ten-inch log down there. Lo and behold! I felt his thick middle finger go deep inside my rectum. It felt so great that I gave a little yelp and smiled from one side of my mouth to the other.

I was ready for the humble man. He went inside me deep with all his ten inches, reaching in a split second way into the second sphincter of my ass. This is the ring that keeps us tight so that the rectum is always clean, preventing fecal matter from accumulating there. That is the magic spot.

When he overcame the resistance of that protecting and valiant rear guard...I reached heaven! The Big Sunami hit. Patel withdrew gently and without problems because the son of a bitch had thoroughly greased my ass with that stick of butter he had somehow concealed from me. When he was out and rimming me, my pussy started twitching first, then convulsing...I got a little scared. The spasms lasted about 2 or 3 minutes. When he pumped in again, I moaned and howled but with truthful pleasure--no more faking! I must have passed out for a few seconds because the next thing I saw was Patel pouring water down my throat . Oh, Heaven!

Never in my entire life had I felt a most exquisite pleasure. An oceanic orgasm! A sunami! It was okay waiting till my thirties. Now I am a complete woman. Thanks Patel--mucho macho, my incho-macho. My ass throbbed for two or three days, and to feel the afterquakes even more I didn't wear panties during those days.

Being bed-ridden with a nasty cold, I couldn't go with my wife to her annual Christmas sing-along at the Junior League. Somehow I had misplaced my reading glasses and couldn't find them to save my soul. Then I remembered I had left them in the upstairs bathroom.

The thick carpeting muffled my steps because Matilda didn't hear me at all as she continued scrubbing the tub. She was perched on the edged of the tub wearing nothing but a tiny thong. I guess she didn't want to wet her uniform.

I withdrew quietly, went back to my bed, rang her and asked her to bring me some tea. 

Matilda's been with us for two years, and never had I ever had any sexual desire for her till now. Seeing her naked rump awakened this latent desire that was now more than desire but plain lust!

When she came in with the tea tray I asked her to take my temperature and I pretended I was shivering with cold. I asked her to climb into the bed and keep me warm. She must be the horniest maid in Manhattan because in no time she was giving me the biggest blowjob I've ever had. Then she surprised me with her blunt talk:

"Missy says you always want backdoor, but she'll never let you because she is catholic."

"Did she say that to you?"

"Hmm huh. You can go backdoor with me if you want to," she said as she turned on her belly to let me see her puckered up anus.

Being a liberal democrat who loves minorities, I went in through the back door and back out until I left my white sap in there.

That night, after she returned from her singalong, my wife was much excited because she had met a retired opera tenor. A star of sorts. She kissed me good night whispering in my ear that when I got well she'd let me fuck her in the ass! 

Last week the WRC (Wharton Republican Club) had its Christmas Carol singalong; an annual event that my husband and I have attended since we've been married (10 years). Tons of fun! And I almost didn't go since my husband was bedridden with a bad case of the flu. To be brief, that night I met Leonardo, a very famous Opera tenor, but now semi-retired. Being an Opera lover and having admired him for years, meeting him in person was like meeting a demigod. You can now guess: he asked for my telephone number and I gave it to him--my cell, of course.

Well last night I had the most wonderful experience of my life. To begin with, my Episcopalian husband is a prude; for him even straight sex is a chore. In contrast, sex for Leonardo means wild sex--especially anal sex. Yet, anal sex was alien territory for me since my pious husband would never ever go there (sigh!), willing, desirous, and curious though I was. 

So, Leonardo put me on my elbows and knees and started pumping doggy-style. I loved that. It would have been insane to let him get on top of me since he weighs about 400 lbs. Anyway, he plunged into my ass with all of his maleness and touched a pleasure nerve hitherto unknown to me. I yipped and yelped with unbeliavable joy. His penis wasn't that thick, but it was long. So I adjusted and readjusted myself wagging my rump so as to enhance that incredible penetration. Oh, lordy-lord! My rectum pulsed and quaked making me rear up and neigh like a mare in heat. That would have been the apex of my sexual existence, except that I wanted more. So, I mumbled to him, "Sock it to me, big boy! When you're coming ... please sing me Pagliaccio!" Which he did:

Ridi, Pagliaccio,

sul tuo amore infranto!

Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor

(Laugh, Clown,

about your broken love!

Laugh of the pain, that poisons your heart! )