TristonB

MENAGE TROIS (MINUS ONE)

by Triston

So when I last left you I was at work on the computer as my Turkish lover arranged a date for us.

So I left work, arrived at his house at 8.45. Two joints, two beers and half-way through a German serial thriller on cable, the doorbell rings.

I have just come out of the shower. I am in my 'trick it' draws. They are so small that when I breathe, IT breathes.

Yes, it is THAT time.

"Who could it be?", I ask. Curious, but not the least bit concerned.

Ralf smiles and opens the door. I proceed to the couch. For that is where the fat joint awaits me, you see...

And then, through the door, comes this tall, gorgeous young German boy. The very boy that said he could not trick it with us until next week. Friday, to be exact, at 11.30.

An aside: what's with this scheduling shit? If I am going to have sex like this, it is spontaneous. I am always ready to trick it, anywhere, anytime. I always have my sexcapade 'draws with me at all times in my trick satchel (not to be confused with man-purse, which I don't carry. that's really just a bit too much) and believe you me, they do get used. This is part of trick etiquette, you see. More on that later.

So Ralf, being the gracious heauxst that he is, rolls another joint.

Me?

I like back and take in all the hotness in the room.

And before you call me a skank, bear in mind. That fabulous grass that I roll for you?

Um, yeah.

So...Ivo introduces himself, quickly showers (so far, so good), and then returns as naked as the day he was born..which was not that long ago. For Ivo, you see, is only twenty and apparently he feels that he is ready to enter the realm of full-fledged skankery.

I barely remember twenty, but I do know, in all my grand skankiness now, that I never could have been ready for what was about to ensue.

Ralf and I go right at it. We're heauxfessionals. This is not our first time at the sex rodeheaux. Something's gotta give, and eventually, that is Ralf's ass. Has Ivo joined in yet?

Not really.

Aside from a yank, tug, and moan here and there... spread out conservatively amidst our groans and thrusts, he was a menage e what?

Ralf and I, not too be deterred, were oblivious and carried on with our lust connection. We were sluts of the SINtury. Every corner, every nook and goddamn cranny. Do you hear me?!

Ivo?

Ivo watched the pr0n on the television, which is a slap in the face, considering the top notch slutdom laid presently before him. He had hot Turkish delight in all its' athletic glory and sexual chocolate oozing by the kilo and he was not playing?

Bitte?

But, I digress...

Two out of three is never a bad thing. The law of averages. And once we came (that's me and Ralf, not the third wheel), we were through. In our grand tradition, one round is always more than sufficient. What, combined with the green sugar, Becks, and the poppers, walking home was always the biggest challenge of any night with him.

Lying on our backs, Ralf and I began our as-in-depth-as-we-could-at-the-time-because-we-were-
higher-than-NASA interview.

A few outtakes...

"How old are you?"

"Twenty"

"Why didn't you come?"

"I was too hot to come."

"Too hot to come? At your age, I could come if the wind blew."

After this short, but quite thorough sex questionnaire, Ivo decided to go home.

It was for the best.

And any true heaux knows that leaving is always slower than coming.

Not this time.

He dressed in record time and was out the door before we could even finish the third joint.

More for us. With two, it's much more difficult to fuck up rotation.

Whatever.

"Tschüss", we say.

Wanna-be heaux.

Ralf and I looked at each other..

"Was?"

The one thing I can say, which Ralf also agreed to as well, is that no matter what he did, he will never ever forget what we did. It didn't matter that he failed to rise to the occasion.

I never fly at half-mast.

Ivo's simply taking notes now. He is not ready for all this skankery. Not quite yet. File it under the heaux Rolodex for future reference.

The door clicks.

We watch a little TV. Real TV. Watching pr0n after sex is like watching a colon cleansing.

We finish the j0int. I shower again. I return. I receive the green sugar that you love so much, and then I am out the door.

Will I make it home in one piece? I stumble forward.

Oh, look. On the streets! It's Ivo!

I touch the nape of someone I perceive to be Ivo.

I am brutally rebuffed and questioned as to my identity.

Should I say my code name?

"Wonder Heaux", I whisper to myself.

I can't say this aloud. I have not revealed my super powers to him yet.

And I never will.

But, I digress...

"I'm not Ivo."

"Oh, I thought you were. Tut mir leid!"

Lawd, I am touching total strangers on the street, confusing them with people I know.

Well, that proves that theory...

This is some good shit!

And as I type this, I open my old, weathered Altoids case and it is filled with enough green sugar to last me for at least two days.

If you're lucky, maybe you will see me before then to partake.

Isn't that sweet?

Never forget who loves ya, heaux!

SMURFCHASERS

by Triston Brewer

This is so emotional...but I have to tell somebody, and it might as well be all your crazy asses.

So I was out on the town in Belgium, and it was getting late, and it is a school night and, and...Whatever, I needed to take my black ass home and sleep especially since there was no real heauxtential in the room.

Well, there was; I mean, this is Belgium and the people are very attractive (usually). I am just picky (and classy). Anyway, on my 18th trip to the bar, I saw something hot sitting on a stool. As I ordered my _____ beer, I was spoken to by this hot man. Now you know me, I am no shrinking violet, so I was all "How you durrin?". I sat my ignunt ass next to him (oh, name was Mario....*details*), and we discussed life, politics, and his BIG ass.

It was getting later, and I was getting friskier. One thing led to another, and I had agreed to go home with him. So he paid for his last drink and got off his stool. I looked *down*.

Now now now. My rule of (Tom) thumb is usually "under 5'9" is not fine", but this sprite was hot. Now I still am not sure how I ended up going home with him...if he offered to show me the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (or just pot), but we were whisked away to Hoboken (that's south Antwerpen for you non-travellin' muthafuckas).

I was still in a state of shock at being in the home of someone so short. And how could he have an ass that big at this height?! Freak of fuckin' nature! I am too ashamed to say his exact height, but let's just say he would have to picket to be able to ride anything at Six Flags, Disneyworld, or Dollywood. I am thinking teacups.

But once he pulled off those pants, my brain had a stupidity leak of epic proportions. Images of Danny Devito and Mini-Me went through my head as I made out with Papa Smurf. I had him in positions that would have made Bela Karolyi blush. Or at least strip Mary Lou Retton of her gold medal.

After the thrustfest, small talk, and cold cuts (you know I am always hungry), I am now at home reflecting on my trek to the other side. I know I should feel kinda nasty. But he was hot. Do I need to change my height requirements now? Lawd, he was 3 apples high!

Ooh, I need a LONG shower.

WHISPER IN MY EAR

And what is it like to be a big-dicked, beautiful black buck of a man in Berlin?

Well, I'll tell you.

Not that I would have to anyway, mind you, but the predatory instincts which I'd like to believe I possess within me, are not necessary in this environment. I am prey in Berlin like no other. With the right calculations, a sexually deviant mind can be a terrible thing to waste. You, the reader, will only be privy to the general overview of my sexual existence in Berlin . Feel free to ask me personally; if you are brazen enough, far be it from me not to answer in depth. I have no secrets.

Where to begin this sordid overview? My first week, of course.

The very day I descended upon the Sodom and Gomorrah that is Berlin, I was sexually booked for the week. Site-seeing plans were combined with the sexual excursions, as I criss-crossed the neighborhoods of Berlin on pure carnal instinct.

The Palast der Republik The Wall, Alexnderplatz?

These historical landmarks were but mere blips on my mental register as I sexually surveyed the Berlin scene. With every passing day, I was testing the theories of the Kinsey reports to boundaries previously unforeseen. Completely safer sex, of course. No city could ever fashion me that delirious. If you want those stories, ask another muthafucka because I'm not the one.

Where was I?

Oh yes. the rendezvous week of sin consisted of some of the best (and relatively fresh) that Berlin has to offer. Because contrary to popular opinion, I am not a slut. But, that being said, I always prefer quality over quantity any day. But not this day. Not this week. This was the week of the lust connection. I made the brash decision to combine both quality and quantity. Not because I'm greedy. The truth is, I like to multi-task and stay busy whenever possible. Besides, quickly thereafter I discovered that in Berlin, sex was just that: a thing to do...

But back to the story at hand.

Let me tell you. When quality and quantity combine to produce just the right mix, it can be a very beautiful thing. You probably want names. You may want numbers. Whisper in my ear and I'll whisper in yours. Believe me when I say the sunsets and sunrises were blurred like never before. I don't remember a single meal. I don't recall which clubs exactly. But I do remember every position.

It was easy to fulfill so many of my fantasies so quickly because in Berlin I fit the description of the black mystique. I fulfill the part of the bargain because I want to, not because it's what they think I have to offer. Everyone secretly desires to be someone's fantasy. Justify your lust, I say. I would be more specific but I am considered a keeper of the mystique. Fret not, however. I am always searching for eligible members.