Better Late Than Never Ch. 03


Up to this point, the incidents described have been autobiographical with some literary embellishments. While that’s true of “action” parts of this chapter, Marley is a character whom I imagined and couldn’t resist developing. While I did have a female friend who was a good listener with whom I shared my journey, she doesn’t have Marley’s flair. There is no podcast or thesis.


When I closed the door as Tom left, I decided to leave the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door for a while longer.

I had to smile at the how our goodbye scene would have looked in a film. He was dressed and ready for work, and I had dropped my towel and I was naked with wet hair plastered to my head. Our kisses were a mix of tender and hungered. I loved that he couldn’t leave without stroking my cock one last time.

I laughed out loud, realizing that I’d probably left a wet precum spot on his pants. I imagined him first discovering it when he got to his car and wondering how many people he had passed had noticed. Well, I thought, I had marked him as mine.

I walked over to the bed and flopped down on my back with my feet on the floor. I spread my legs and began to slowly stroke my semi-hard cock while my left hand fingered my balls. Well, despite my worries, my equipment had been up to the task.

I wished we had had a little more time. I would have liked to share with him some of the thoughts and images that passed through my brain as I was letting the hot shower restore my muscles. He was right that we seemed to take to all this naturally, and we had certainly checked more boxes than I thought were possible for first-timers. Still I had been flooded with images of things I could do with my mouth, tongue and hands to better pleasure both of us.

I’d thought of other positions that hadn’t occurred to us. I pictured again the two of us lying on our sides. He would be behind me with his cock gliding in and out of my ass. He would be resting up on his left elbow, so he could look over my body and watch me stroking my hard-on. He would reach over and tease my glistening cock head and ridge. We would go slow like that for many many minutes. I’d let out a gasp when I felt him gradually increasing the speed and force of his strokes. I’d tighten my grip on my shaft and try to match his pace. His four fingers and thumb would massage my cock’s precum slick head more firmly.

And if we timed it just right, we would cum hard together. I’d be rocked by his spasms deep in my well-stuffed rectum as the beautiful sensations of orgasm tore through my cock and I’d blast my cum to his waiting hand. I imagined it would be like having two orgasms at once, the pleasure exponentially increased, not doubled.

As these images flooded my consciousness, my hand was feverishly gliding up and down my shaft and mimicking the massage of my cock head with my other hand. I lifted my ass off the bed and my moans were close to a scream. The pleasure in my throbbing cock was off the charts.

It had been a long time since I’d had such an intense orgasm fueled only by imagination and not porn. I dropped my ass back to the bed exhausted and looked at the meager load of cum coating my hand. My reserves were pretty much drained. Still enough to coat the fingers that I slipped into my mouth.

That’s mine, I thought, not Tom’s. I loved that now that I had tasted someone else’s cum and could distinguish it from my own.

Well, maybe the reality of that position couldn’t match the intensity of what I’d just imagined, but I was eager to find out.

Time to brush my hair and teeth. Time to get moving.

But as often happened after I masturbated, my thinking self reasserted itself and posed a host of questions. The time with Tom certainly confirmed what I had hoped to discover, that indeed I did love sucking cock and being sucked by a person who had a penis. Anal sex as both the penetrator and the penetrated brought me to heights of pleasure that I have never experienced before. I was now certain that my sole sexual interest going forward was to be with individuals whose genitalia was the same as mine.

I’d spent a good amount of time researching gender vs. sexual orientation. I’d found the distinctions people made between gay and queer to be mind-boggling. Which was I or was I neither?

I was still bothered by the characterization of bi-curious or bisexual individuals as “greedy sluts” just interested in getting off and not in forming relationships. I could see how the sexual frenzy shared by Tom and me could get us labeled as “slut guilty.”

And it was true that our messages to each other and naked Zoom chats were fantasy laden and not about creating a relationship. Still though, it had been more than his penis (which, of course, did entrance me) that attracted me. I sensed an intelligence and creativity in him that were huge parts of what turned me on about him. Our sex may have been wild (though the more experienced might question that description), but we were both attuned istanbul travesti to pleasing the other. Why should I feel guilty about having amazing sex?

It seemed to me that I had been more gay-curious (I’d never seen the term used, but I hadn’t looked everywhere) than bi-curious. I wasn’t looking to have the best of both worlds. I was ready to take the same sex road if it turned out to be what I expected and not just a lonely person’s submission to long suppressed desires that maybe provided a shortcut to a renewed spark in life.

These thoughts rolled through my brain as I got dressed, packed up the few things I’d unpacked, and got ready to leave the room. Little did I know that being an individual beset with conundrums made me just the fish Marley was hoping to catch.

As I pulled my carry-on bag down the hallway to the elevator, I realized that the hot shower hadn’t worked the miracle that I thought it had on my sore muscles.

“Hey, Tenderfoot,” she greeted me later, “you’re moving like you just came back from your first extended horse ride at the dude ranch.”

Although it pissed me off at the time, I just had to chuckle every time I thought back on it. It was definitely vintage Marley–blunt, direct, and right on target.

After I checked out, I turned to leave and spotted her sitting in a leather chair. I didn’t recognize her at first. The blonde hair from yesterday had been a wig. This young woman had a nearly shaved head on the left side and hair on the right that the curved down from the part to about an inch or two below her jaw line. I confess, describing hair styles isn’t in my wheelhouse, so I hope you can get the basic idea. It was the purple stripe at the front that caught my attention. She was wearing an orange dress that looked more like a long tank top. It was so short that with her legs crossed, I caught a glimpse of the lace at the top of thigh-high black stockings incongruously tucked into rather grubby hightop once white Converse sneakers.

She got up, slung a backpack over one shoulder and marched straight for me. When she hit me with the Tenderfoot line, all I could manage to get out was, “Excuse me?”

“Hey,” she replied, “Tom gave me a huge smile and a vigorous thumbs up when I asked how it went down.”

Oh, shit, I thought. She’s the cross-dresser from yesterday.

She grabbed my arm like we were a couple. “You’re going to take me to brunch because you’re going to want to hear about who he met on the way out and what transpired. I’ll spill the beans in exchange for your story.”

Flabbergasted, I let her lead me to what she later told me was the restaurant with the best all-you-can-eat brunch. She also gave me an elaborate rundown of places not to go.

Elaboration should have been her middle name.

“Table for two,” she said. As we followed the hostess, she squeezed my arm tighter. “You’re paying, of course.”

Even before we were seated, she told the hostess that we wanted the buffet, and she motioned for me to follow her to the serve-yourself line. Grabbing a plate, she gave me reviews of each item as she scooped up enormous portions.

“So you’re the crossdresser Tom met yesterday,” I blunderingly began.

She snapped me a scornful look. Maybe Tom had pegged her as a cross-dresser, but Marley assured me she was no such thing. If she needed a label it was “trans,” but she insisted that she didn’t need any label. The term “shemale” was a definite no-no because Marley assured me that she was 100% female; she just happened to have a clit that could grow to seven inches and had multiple uses and abilities, and she could crap out her vagina.

“You’ll see,” Marley assured me, “Well, maybe the former and not the latter. That would be be gross. Of course, I can’t rule out cunt farts.”

I definitely had no intention of witnessing what she referred to as her anatomical superpowers. I would have bolted out of there if I didn’t want to hear about what she had to say about Tom, supposing she ever got around to it. However, as frequently turned out to be the case, Marley’s words usually zeroed in on the truth and could be prophetic at times. I did, in fact, end up seeing. And in the time I spent with her, she did, in fact, rip off a few rather impressive farts. Not surprising, granted how she could pack away the food.

Marley certainly came with a bundle of unique perspectives. She was like no one I’d ever met, and even though her incessant talking did get on my nerves at times, I found her intelligent, funny, and refreshing. I’d certainly lived a sheltered life, so I found her to be as exotic as LeeLoo in The Fifth Element.

Though she seldom shut-up, I later discovered that she had a special talent as a listener. People opened up to her. Her encounter with Tom was longer than he let on, and he had talked. And though I rarely open up, it wasn’t long before she had me talking too.

Marley didn’t just listen. She provided advice, which unlike her usual rambling, istanbul travestileri was succinct and actually helpful. Of course, some of it seemed wacky, but I found that generous helpings of wackiness were just what I needed.

“I assume the cocksucking must have been good,” Marley said through a mouthful of scrambled eggs and at least one sausage.

“Fabulous,” I found myself answering. Why was I answering? Fortunately no one was seated near us.

“Equal giving and receiving?”


“Share a lot of cum?”

“Yes, lots,” I replied when I wanted to say none of your fucking business. Had she cast some sort of spell on me?

“So there was a lot of hot kissing and tongue play.” She nibbled on bacon, demonstrably enjoying each morsel. “Get butt-fucked?” She’d moved on to scoop up cantaloupe.

“Twice. Butt-fucked him twice, too.” I figured adding details might speed up the interrogation.

“I get the picture. Both are into anal, very into anal. I’ll want more details later. You two probably belong in First-Timers Hall of Fame. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what you should know about Tom after I deal with this stack of pancakes.

It was a stack of three big ones. She had to ask the waitress for more butter and when she brought it, Marley demanded more syrup. Another delay. Of course, she lingered over each bite.

My patience was wearing thin. I reached over and snatched half a pancake.

“Hey,” she snapped, snatching it back. “Okay, I can eat and talk.”

Unfortunately, Marley was not going to pass on the all-you-can eat feature of the buffet and headed back to fill another plate. Therefore, what she had to tell me was doled out in small bits, much smaller than the bits she was chomping down. I won’t torture you by trying to recreate our dialogue. I’ll give you the summary.

First of all, she made it clear that she didn’t hang around in bars to hookup with anyone. The rainbow stripes outside the bar where I met Tom obviously attached a high percentage of LGBTQ patrons. Marley was on the lookout for the curious, either with an arranged hookup or looking for one. She was doing research for the podcast she was working on that would chronicle research for the thesis that she was also crafting. She hoped it would led to a career as a sex therapist. The podcast was a way of adding some fun as a counterweight to the tedium of thesis writing.

If flirting got her a few free drinks that was a bonus. She also enjoyed shocking any straight guys who wandered in and let a hand stray up her thigh.

She claimed to be an astute observer of people, and over time I came to see that she wasn’t exaggerating. She was confident that Tom was a first timer when she approached him. Since we were older guys, she was delighted that we might fill an important niche in her study.

She wasn’t surprised by his fears of messing up, and she told him frankly that was a possibility statistically speaking, but what he shared about his desires led her to bolster his confidence. She gave him her card so that they could discuss how it went afterward.

What did surprise her was what she’d witnessed after their brief encounter this morning. She’d tried to snag him for a free breakfast, but he insisted that he was in a hurry and headed down the stairs to the casino floor. Curiosity sent her to the railing to watch him depart.

“What I saw happen next really piqued my interest,” Marley began. “I couldn’t keep myself from saying, ‘No fucking way,’ out loud, getting me a dirty look from two old ladies probably heading down to the penny slot machines.”

I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table. She’d certainly piqued my interest.

“A fairly attractive gray-haired woman rushed up to him and grabbed his hands. Her top definitely showed some cleavage and her skirt was too short for someone her age, but she did have nice legs. The three inch heels probably helped.”

Marley certainly could drag things out. Maybe that made her an effective podcaster, but I knew it made her exasperating.

“I was too far away to hear, but she obviously asked him something. He answered, reluctantly it seemed to me. He probably managed five or six sentences before her face lit up, and she wrapped him in passionate embrace and planted a kiss on his lips. He seemed a bit embarrassed. Maybe because it was a very public place, but anyone who noticed would assume he’d told her about big winnings at the blackjack table. Maybe what transpired between you two had her squirming in damp panties, assuming she was wearing any.”

“Holy shit,” I managed to blurt out. “God, I need a Bloody Mary to help me process this.”

“I’ll have a Mimosa,” she said, and after a pause remembered to add, “Please.”

After the first one, I ordered a second, heavy on the Vodka because I realized that Marley was as hungry for Tom’s and my stories and where they would lead as she had been for that breakfast. Our story was thesis worthy, and, God help travesti istanbul me, podcast material.

It had to be something more than the two drinks that led to what followed with me loosening my tongue and opening up to her.

“Now I want your story. That was the deal, right. Let’s go to my room where we can have more privacy.”

I wasn’t quite sure when I’d made a deal.

“You’re still in grad school studying, and you can afford this pricey hotel?” That seemed hardly possible.

“Well, not exactly a room in the hotel proper.”

When she led me to the parking garage, I had an inkling what she was up to. Sure enough, she led me to a pink van that was decorated with stylish graphics.

“Cool art work,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“My design and paint work,” she said with a smile, obviously pleased with my assessment.

Once inside I noticed that most of the space was taken up by a mattress, but shelves along the wall contained art supplies. There were about 15 pieces of art in frames and a crate with maybe 30 matted works in plastic sleeves.

“Can I have a look?” I thought it was appropriate to ask.

“Be my guest,” she replied. “I sell them at craft fairs to help make ends meet. I could sense that she was eager to see my reaction to work.

Most were paintings, probably acrylics of street scenes with people at cafes or in parks and moody architectural cityscapes.

“Stunning stuff, I’m not kidding. You have an amazing eye and talent as a painter.”

“Since I like you, you get a discount on any you want to buy.” I could tell she was pleased by how I lingered over a number of the images.

She caught me glancing at a stack of papers thumbtacked to a small cork board. I recognized that they were HIV/STD test results since I had my own.

“I need those to get cash for donating blood,” she offered. “Keeping gas in Dolores (her name for the van) is getting more difficult lately. Have a seat. I want to hear what you have to say about the last 24 hours, and I’ll ask you some questions.”

Because of the low ceiling, Marley had crammed two of the new-age improvements for bean bag chairs for us to sit on. She informed me that she was going to tape my interview, but if any parts of it were used in the podcast aspiring actors from the Fine Arts Department who were her friends would read from transcriptions.

The notion of getting taped kind of set me back a bit, but though I never could figure out where her magic came from, I soon was giving thoughtful answers to her questions and giving very explicit descriptions of what had transpired in my time with Tom.

It was almost like reliving it, and I found myself getting hard. I wondered if my words were affecting her, but she had a drawing board in front of her, so I couldn’t tell. At first I thought she was taking notes, but then I noticed that it was a charcoal stick in her hand that she off and on used to make strokes on the paper.

It must have been at least an hour before the tape ran out, and I was pretty much “worded out.”

“That was great. Thanks so much,” she said and handed me the sheet of drawing paper she had been working on.

“Stunning,” I managed to whisper for I was awed. In the center of the page, a naked male was lowering himself onto his partner’s cock. The figures were, of course, not recognizable, but her strokes deftly suggested motion and captured the passion.

“Your prize for opening up–and for breakfast. I’ll spray it for you, so it won’t smudge. How about lunch? It will be dry by the time we’re done eating.”

As we headed out, Marley dropped another comment that I would remember later.

“First times seldom go so well. There are probably a lot of guys out there who would love you as their first.”

Yes, Marley knew the best place for all-you-can-eat lunch, and her appetite hadn’t been alleviated by her gargantuan breakfast.

Over lunch, which also took an hour, we entered each other’s numbers into our phones, so I could text her if there were new developments, especially concerning the “Mystery Woman,” as Marley called her.

I was pretty sure who she was, but for me her response to Tom’s words was the mystery. Most likely she was his wife. Maybe she had women lovers and had encouraged Tom to explore his bi-side. Maybe it was a sincere desire to open him up to a new world of pleasure; maybe it was to make her feel less guilty. Could she be one of those women I’d read about who are turned on by watching two guys or one who wanted to try MMF? I had no idea how I would feel about something like that. Then again, she just could have been his sister, happy that he was finding his true self. Yeah, right. It didn’t sound like a sisterly kiss.

Marley, intuitive as she was, probably had suspicions that were pretty much on target, but she wasn’t sharing.

When we went back to Dolores to get my print, I put down a couple hundred dollar bills for two of her framed paintings. Not only were they amazing, but I was also bothered by the fact that she had to give blood to get money for gas.

Two days later, I got a text from Tom:

T: The weekend after next end blissfully free. All weekend. Encore at my place?

Me: Delicious! Send address and time for arrival. Warning–I’m likely to be early.

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir