I'm an average looking guy from Orange County, CA who has been reading all these stories on the net for years and felt it's time to finally tell my story. I should probably mention that I had always had a major thing for Asian women.
Growing up in California, it's not hard to find hot Asian girls just about everywhere. Nearly ever girlfriend I ever had was Asian. In high school my first real girlfriend was Allison, she was Chinese, about 5'6" and had a killer body.
We started out as friends, and we'd often rent videos together, go shopping and do "friend" type stuff, but every now and then, we'd fool around. Allison was very pretty, but she was really dumb. Usually Asian girls are stereotyped as being really smart, but Allison was only text book smart. She didn't know the first thing about life, or sex.
Hi, my name is Jim. My story is about the summer my sister Anna and I shared. My story begins about three weeks into our summer break.
I had just broken up with my girlfriend Jill. We had been dating all year and I thought it would last forever. She said she needed to spend time with others and wanted to date other people that summer. None of her reasons were very good. Well, we separated. I was devastated. I didn't understand what had gone wrong. For about a week, I ran through every-thing in my mind to try and figure out "why?" It was driving me mad.
My sister tried to help. We talked about girls and relationships. She tried to help me make some sense of the breakup. Eventually, we both decided that it was best to let go and move on. Maybe later in life these things would make sense.
To help me take my mind off of things, my sister offered to take me mountain biking up in the hills near our house.
"Ware swim trunks because there was a creek where we were going that we could swim in." Anna said.
There is a lot of timing and luck involved in getting the chance to watch your normally reluctant wife suddenly turn it on for another man. But John, a 40-year-old contractor, had that chance to see his 31-year-old wife perform at a convention last summer at an upscale hotel in New York.
Cindy wore an unusually revealing red dress that evening. It was shorter than anything John had ever seen her wear in public. Being that this was a formal dinner and dance with potential professional contacts, he was reluctant to have her wear it at first. But Cindy, who had a shapely but very petite 102-pound body, seemed to be very comfortable and confident in the tight, low-cut dress.
In fact, seeing his wife in the dress stirred some reoccurring fantasies in John as they shared a bottle of champagne in their room before heading to the banquet. Throughout their five-year marriage, John had toyed with the idea of directly asking Cindy to seduce another man.
My girlfriend and I arrived at the Merlot a few minutes before our reservation and when the ma�tre D' accepted my hand in greeting, there was a twenty in the palm which from experience is instantly detected and deftly passed from my hand to his pocket.
He knows that it is a twenty by instinct. He is also converted immediately to one of my most loyal and accommodating friends willing to move anything and anybody in the house to make me happy and to insure the presence of another twenty. In a very low voice, I let him know that my pleasure would be a corner table with a view of the dining room. For a moment he had that wild look that says that he's trapped in a hopeless situation.
Then, whispering, just a moment, he disappeared and just as suddenly returned announcing that our table was ready. We both know that, that table, disappeared from the party that overlooked his twenty.
I hate wearing business suits. Dressing for an evening out is fun; you can show some flair if you want. But business suits are supposed to be boring. Hell, that's the point. You want to look conservative, trustworthy, conventional, inoffensive - in a word, bland. Don't want to scare off a potential customer, after all. And they're usually uncomfortable, too.
You can also get tired of strange hotel rooms. This one wasn't too bad. It had a king sized bed; the bathroom was actually pretty nice. It even had a minibar that I had already stocked with my own ice and soda. But it was still a hotel room: standard fittings, easy to clean up, interchangeable with hundreds of others across the country. After a while on the road, the walls can start closing in on you.
So what was I doing wearing a business suit, sitting in a hotel room and staring at the walls? Feeling pretty lonely and bored, that's what. At least I'd be checking out tomorrow.
I love going out wearing my jogging outfit, mid-calf black Speedos stretched tightly against my vulva, showing a deep crease. Sometimes, I'll see guys and gals walking past me with their eyes glued to my crotch as I ran by, and I enjoy seeing them "getting a rise" over it.
I was wearing just such an outfit last summer when I went grocery shopping at my usual store. I like shopping there, and had become familiar with one of the bag-boys. He was a 17 year-old tall, lanky red head. I noticed he always made an effort to be the one to bag my groceries and take them out to my car.
He told me about his new motorcycle, and that he was going off to college in September. That's when I started seeing him as a young man and not a kid. I also got the feeling that he had a crush on me, with all that attention. I figured that he fantasized about me, lying awake at night, jerking off, dreaming about having sex with me. (I'm getting wet.)
This story is dedicated to Maria.
Paul left me months ago.
Six long, lonely, dreary months of endless darkness and gloom. The weeks of crying, the days of yearning for a phone call, the nights of empty wine bottles and morning headaches were all behind me.
I was healthy now, ready for a chance at a new beginning. Life was looking fresh again. The sun was bright, the air was clean. I was finally whole without him. I had loved him so deeply. It had been unnatural, unsettling, and uncontrolled. Now I could find the paper and pen before me through the fog. I could see the vision and the words. I was writing again.
Looking back, I realized the bad times were barely lingering, whereas the good times were painted like a portrait in my mind. But a portrait painted by a clown, not an artist. All that time, what did we talk about? I remembered the drinking, the parties, his friends, the football games. All of it was one big celebration. We laughed, we had sex, and we laughed some more. I could not single out one time we had a serious conversation other than an in-depth analysis of his team's fortunes on the field.
Paul left me the night my sister was tragically killed in a car accident.