W.T.F. Am I Doing? - 1. W.T.F. Am I Doing?

W.T.F. Am I Doing?

 

What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Doing?

A question I once almost gave in to.

I was last on, not because I was headlining – this was my first time out for crying out loud – it was simply the luck, good or bad, of the draw.

First on and you were effectively nothing more than the warm-up act, last on and no matter how good or bad you were you’d be compared to all the acts who’d already been on. If the crowd were buzzing you had to hit them hard to keep them that way; if they’d been unimpressed by your fellow acts you could almost guarantee walking off stage to the sound of one hand clapping.

I’d seen a Facebook post advertising a monthly open-mic come talent show drag night at a venue called The Alexandra in a town about a half hour’s drive from where I lived. If I was going to go down like the proverbial lead balloon I didn’t want to do it in front of my ‘home crowd’.

I had hoped to go on as number three or four out of the half-dozen would-be performers I was part of; Cleo, the drag queen who would be the evening’s compére had, quite literally, held out straws for us to pick from, on each was a number we could only see once it was out of her grasp; mine had the number six on it hence last on.

I felt sick when I saw it.

Although I couldn’t face being in the crowd to watch I could hear, even hidden in the small dressing room as I was, that for the most part the audience were enjoying the evening’s entertainment.

I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror as I heard the fifth act come to an end,

“You know what the rule is,” I murmured to my reflection, “take no prisoners.”

The M.C.’s spiel was coming to an end so I stood up, my legs surprisingly not shaking beneath me, and walked as casually as I could to the stage steps, all two of them, where I waited for my stage name to be called out for the first time in public.

“Ladies and gentlemen and all you between and beyond for the last time tonight please give a warm welcome to our final act Miss Molly Muffins.”

My heart thumped hard and fast against my ribs as I waited for the compére to leave the stage and the first four bars of my opening song to play. I strutted from the back of the stage to the microphone on its stand front and centre to the second four bars. I’d obviously rehearsed this – for hours as it happens – to make sure I didn’t wobble on, or fall from, the heels I wore.

I hadn’t only practised how to walk, I’d actually spent some months on all of it; I’d watched hours of theatrical make-up tutorials on the internet, hunted down wig-makers, bought the best of everything I could, except the jewellery which was cheap tat, from the lingerie beneath the skirt and blouse I wore, even though the audience would only ever catch glimpses of it, to the outer clothes themselves – the shoes had been eye-wateringly expensive.

As Dolly Parton famously said it takes a lot of money to look this cheap.

I knew in my heart this could all be folly but from what I’d seen many drag acts started out wearing cheap, almost certainly second-hand, clothes, badly applied make-up and wigs that resembled having a dead cat on their heads; the majority of them never progressed from that but don’t get me wrong that’s not to say that all of them were as funny as toothache some were indeed much beloved by many members of the gay scene, myself included, but that’s not what I wanted to be; so I’d been determined to at least make a decent first impression visually.

I got wolf-whistles!

And not only one or two.

My first track was Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, I thought it strutty, and slutty, enough – well the way I did it it was - and sing along enough to get the crowd on my side. I’d been right on that score the audience had been up and singing by the second chorus.

Now I merely had to keep them entertained.

“Before I carry on can I just say we have some unsung heroes with us tonight? The gentlemen selling loose joints at the back will be donating part of their proceeds to Missus Palm’s Rehabilitation Home for the Self-abused.”

“I’ll give ‘em a donation darlin’,” some wag called.

I cast what I hoped was a withering look in the direction of the heckler,

“Yes well, it’s the only action you’ll be getting isn’t it dearie?” I looked back at the crowd and quickly imitated a hand job.

The crowd laughed and I was off.

The rest of my twenty minute spot – the maximum allowed – flew by in about forty seconds. I was as high as a kite on the adrenaline rush when I came off, the crowd still cheering, clapping and stomping their approval when I left the stage, and all but bouncing off the walls of the dressing room when I got there; I had it to myself now, the other acts having packed up and gone. Before I changed I took a moment to pretend it had always been just mine because I was the headline performer.

“If only,” I sighed pulling off my wig.

That was the night I met Phil.

I got back into normal attire as fast as I could – the worst bit for me was pulling off the false lashes – dumped my gear in my car and went to the bar to get a pint.

“This one’s on me.” a deep Welsh-accented voice said from behind me when the barman took my order, a hand slipped him a tenner before I could offer my own cash, "You've earned it and then some."

The hand which had pressed the money into the barman’s palm rested on the edge of the bar to my right his other quickly took a similar position to my left and I had some understanding of what girls meant when they complained about men doing the same to them the difference being that I had the physical strength to do something about it – if I wanted to. And the sound of that voice had part of me not wanting to and another praying that the rest of him lived up to those mellifluous tones.

“It’ll be my only earnings tonight,” I shot back.

“Not necessarily,” the Welshman answered as my pint of snakebite was placed in front of me.

I picked it up then spun to face, and thank, my benefactor.

FUCK. ME.

PLEASE!

Coal black hair, dark blue eyes, barely an inch above my own height, if the biceps showing beneath his short-sleeved shirt were anything to go by there was freaking hot body beneath it and the tight jeans looked to be wrapped around a pair of hard thighs – this guy was pushing loads of my personal buttons.

“Cheers,” I smiled raising my glass, “and thanks.”

“Why don’t we move away from here to somewhere we can talk?” he offered, “I was at the back with the guys selling the loose joints,” he laughed, “good opener by the way.”

“Not entirely original I’m afraid,” I confessed as we moved away from the bar, “I nicked it from the Simon and Garfunkel Central Park gig.”

It was only slightly less noisy where we stood as far from the stage and dancefloor as was possible but it was a little easier to converse.

“The name’s Phil and you are?” he held out his right hand.

“Malcolm, Malc to my mates.”

“And Molly to your fans.”

“I think you’ll find that’s stretching the word fans almost to breaking point,” I laughed.

“Can I ask why you’re in an often talentless talent show? You should be gigging, getting paid I mean.”

“Two answers to that. First tonight was my first time, Molly’s first time, on stage and second because of that I wouldn’t know what fee to ask for.”

“Are you busy this Sunday night?”

“I’ve nothing planned why?”

“You have now. Twenty minute set, that set,” Phil waved a hand in the general direction of the stage, “you’d be second on out of three, fifty quid, one of the acts has had a car accident so can't appear, I was here hoping to find a decent fill-in and here you are.”

“And where would I be earning this king’s ransom?”

“My place in Sheffield.”

I did a quick mental calculation, it would cost less than a tenner in petrol for the return trip, I’d be home by not too stupid o’clock so I’d be fit for work on Monday morning that left forty quid for twenty minutes effort – equal to a hundred and twenty for an hour, pretty close to my everyday rate for consultation work. As long as I didn't stop to factor-in the expense in hours, months, of 'research and development' as well as the monetary outlay I'd put into getting Molly out of my head and onto a stage that is.

“You’re on,” I heard myself say.

Phil pulled a business card from his shirt pocket,

“All my contacts are on there, call me tomorrow and we’ll tweak the details like stage time and such”

“What sort of place is it?”

“An old pub, classic two bars downstairs, there’s a lounge, as they used to be called, that’s where our older queens sipping their sherries or port and lemons tend to gather the tap room as was is a bit livelier but there’s a huge room upstairs like lots of the older pubs had originally for wedding receptions and the like. Now it makes for a great performance space.”

“Will you be watching?”

“Absolutely, but would you consider something?”

“What?”

“Don’t do any more of these kinds of gigs, just go for it get yourself some proper bookings.”

“Not that easy I imagine as I’ve no track record to cite.”

“So do a few at my place then you will, could put it across as a bit of a residency.”

We left the topic of Molly’s possible future performances aside and got on with the business of getting to know each other. It turned out that I’d actually spent a few very enjoyable nights at his place, The George, once he’d told me its name. Phil had grown up in the trade, his parents and all his grandparents had been publicans – he’d even been born on a Sunday at the exact time of the old Sunday lunchtime last orders, ten to two so as he said it was in his blood.

I glanced at my watch and was surprised to find that we’d not been talking for the hour or so I’d thought but for just over two and a swift look round the venue showed we were amongst the last few still there.

“I’ve got to go, some of us have ordinary jobs to go to,” I remarked.

“Yeah, but it’s not like you’ve an hour’s commute to get there is it?” I’d told him that I was self-employed and mostly worked from home.

“True, but I find it’s better if I’m awake when I’m conversing with my clients.”

“Do yourself a favour, give yourself the day off on Monday, you might need it,” he gave me a meaningful and really sexy look.

“I may just do that,” I smirked.

Ok so I admit it we’d been flirting on and off as we’d been chatting and I was in no doubt that Phil’s comment was a veiled suggestion that we could get together after his pub closed. I wasn’t unwilling.

I spent much of the following day rearranging conference calls and one-to-one sessions I had booked for the following Monday. Fortunately I’d long ago decided that unless absolutely unavoidable I wouldn’t book any consulting or training sessions at a client’s premises on Mondays - well you never know what a weekend might bring; if it turned out that Phil and I didn’t get together for whatever reason after my gig and I came home instead there were plenty of other things I could get done work-wise to fill the Monday I now had for myself.

Surprisingly it was Phil who acted as M.C. the night of my first appearance there and he was good – to be honest he could’ve done a stand-up act of his own but when I asked him why he didn’t he just shrugged and told me he preferred being front of house.

“Ladies, gentlemen, queens trannies and all please welcome for the first time at The George and fresh from her recent triumph at The Alexandra Miss Molly Muffins!” Phil yelled.

While the first act had been on I’d peeked into the room from behind the thick curtain which currently hid the steps to the front of the stage to try and judge the crowd and had been stomach-clenchingly surprised to see not only about a dozen or so people I recognised from the night I’d performed at The Alex but also a fair number from my home-town gay bars and club (yes gay club singular, it’s a small-ish place); the ones from The Alex would obviously recognise Molly but not necessarily me and I could only hope the crowd from my usual stomping-ground wouldn’t see me, Malcolm, beneath Molly’s persona. I was pretty sure I wasn’t ready for that yet.

I’d got a few possible openings prepared – I didn’t want to get a reputation for being predictable from the off - and I’d re-worked the set a little, taking out a couple of things I felt hadn’t gone over so well and dropping in some other stuff. The couple of hecklers there were – I was fairly sure one had been Phil – I put down with the speed of a striking cobra including the venom.

Before leaving the dressing-room to head for the stage I’d again looked at myself in the mirror to tell myself to ‘Take no prisoners’ and it worked.

“Fancy wrapping those pins round me?” one guy had yelled about half-way through my set.

“Yeah, round your windpipe,” I spat back.

“I’ve brought you a drink,” I heard Phil say as he tapped on the dressing room door when I was getting changed after my set.

The headline act was on and the opening one had done a quick leave-taking due to having another booking to get to so I was alone.

“Come in,” I called.

I’d already ditched the drag and was half-way through taking off the slap; I was also half-way through getting into my civvies, well I’d got my jeans on at least.

“How about one Thursday and one Sunday for the next two months and I’ll start putting the word out to some other venues in the meantime?” Phil said as he stood propped against the wall behind me looking at me in the mirror.

“You thinking of pimping me out already?” I sniggered.

“That has the implication of sexual services being offered and as yet I can’t comment on how good they’d be; which by the way I’d like to remedy asap.”

On his home turf Phil was clearly confident enough to be more forthright than when we’d met.

“That would be an invitation to your version of a job interview would it” I smirked.

He pushed himself away from the wall and all but stalked across the three yards that separated us, never taking his gaze from mine in the mirror, my dick stood to attention and when Phil put his hands on my shoulders then ran them down my biceps it twitched behind the fly in my suddenly too-tight jeans.

“In case you’re wondering,” he began as he squeezed my arms a little, “I’m the only one who lives over the shop so if you’d like you could leave all your kit upstairs when you’re ready."

So that’s what I did.

When I left the dressing room Phil was waiting by a door marked as private, well it actually had a large “Authorised Personnel Only” sign on it much as I often saw in the places I visited for work.

“Why do you look nearly as nervous now as you did just before you went on?” he asked me while he unlocked the door to his rooms.

I explained about recognising some of the people in the audience and from where so as soon as I’d stowed my bags and costume in his hallway he let me escape down the back stairs to the bars below to try and avoid the people in the audience I knew. By the time I got there Phil had perched himself on a high stool at the end of the bar in the quieter of the two rooms, from where he could keep an eye on both, and waved me over to join him.

“Here,” he said quietly,” surreptitiously sliding a single key towards me across the bar top under the guise of passing me a drink, “go up via the back stairs, let yourself in I’ll be there as soon as the tills are cashed up. Make yourself a brew or there’s a few lagers in the fridge.”

“Yeah a cuppa sounds good, want me to get the makings ready in a mug for when you’ve done?”

“Tea no sugar for me.”

I’d been listening to some quiet music for about half an hour on one of the various devices I took everywhere with me, I had several Mp3’s, an i-Pod, my phone even a couple of USB’s I could plug in to either my laptop or even my car’s audio all loaded with music to some degree or other, when Phil joined me in his lounge mug in hand.

“Do you really think I, well you, could get Molly more gigs?” I asked as I set my Mp3 aside.

“No problem, a couple of my good pals put on live acts, I’ll invite them to come and see you here, if they like you they’ll find you a couple of slots and put the word out that there’s a new act in town; get enough gigs under your belt and you’ll be able to approach a booking agent to get more.”

“How long have you been here?”

“It’s been mine just short of eight years but I’ve been here longer. I was manager for almost four years before that. The old guy Roy who’d had it since Adam was a lad before was diagnosed with Parkinson’s so he gradually withdrew from all the heavy lifting in the cellar and for bottling-up so I took over doing it for him. When he started having problems with his balance and mobility, especially getting up and down the stairs, his partner insisted that they move out. He and his partner Bill owned a house they’d been renting out, to me as it happens, so we simply swapped homes and I took over running this place completely. Around a year later Bill and Roy made me an offer I’d have been an idiot to turn down which meant I could afford to buy it off them. Bill wanted me to have it because he knew I loved this old gal almost as much as he did.”

“Do you still?”

“Oh yeah, never a dull moment round here,” he chuckled, “for drag queen read drama queen, well most of the time.”

“In what way?”

“I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been called to the dressing room to avoid, or split up, a cat fight over missing eyelash glue or false nails or some other piece of frippery that’s of major importance to some. A word to the wise, try and find luggage that’s got in-built combination locks and school yourself to put everything away as soon as you’re stage ready and then again when you’ve done, there’s some seriously light-fingered bitches around.”

“Duly noted, but you’d have thought there was some good food for future routines amongst all that though.”

“You’d think, but obviously too many of them don’t pick up on it. Lots of them have two or three, maybe four, routines they trot out that they only alter when any topical stuff becomes dated but apart from that they don’t grow as performers; there’s no real change to what they wear or how they look.”

“Molly’s had several incarnations already,” I told him.

“How come, if your stint at The Alex was your first time on stage? Or was it? Have you been secretly strutting your stuff further away from home?”

"No, I’m a bit of a perfectionist, obsessive some of my mates would say, and like you no doubt I’ve seen too many drag acts who simply want to pull on a frock and a wig to pretend they’re Judy Garland or whoever despite the fact that they’re a seventeen stone bearded lorry driver a long way from home indulging in a bit of cross-dressing; mostly ‘cos they’re hetero blokes who can’t admit to being a tranny so they get on stage to pacify their need. And I’m not having a dig, in fact I think it’s quite sad that so many still live in the closet so to speak. I on the other hand I would no more want to be seen in women’s clothes off stage than I’d want to wander through a patch of nettles stark bollock naked. Molly’s a shield, the more I practised the more outrageous the things I had her saying became, things no bloke could get away with uttering be they straight, gay, bi, tranny or trans.”

“But when did you think of getting a drag act together? What kicked it off?”

“A bloke at a hotel I went to with a bunch of gay mates. I was chilling-out with them by the pool one afternoon and I went to get a round in and this fella, Adam, stands next to me and says ‘legs like that should be on show all the time’ I made some sarky remark about him having to pay handsomely for the privilege and quick as a flash he asks how much; he thought I was there for trade!” I laughed, “But we got talking and once I’d disabused him of the idea that I was on the game he ended up tacking onto the crowd I was with. One night I was holding court getting everyone laughing and Adam took me aside, told me I should be doing the same on a stage. I said I didn’t have the nerve to say the things I did to my friends to a wider audience so he said I needn’t do it as me, do it as someone else. ‘Flash those pins off and you’d get away with blue murder’ is what he actually said and the only way I could do that was in drag ‘cos I’m not exactly built to put myself over as some fey twink in botty-rider shorts now am I?”

Phil took a slow, lust-laden, look up my outstretched legs over my body to my face before smiling as he replied,

“No, fey twink you most definitely are not.”

Now don’t get me wrong I’m not built like a brick outhouse, I’ve been a middle-distance runner since my early teens with a slim build so I tend to appear taller than my six feet add four inch heels and a bee-hive style wig and I topped six-six and yes I’ve got long legs.

“Exactly, so I thought about what Adam had said and on the plane home I started writing down the things I’d been saying that night on holiday, working out how to alter them to have a woman saying them, when I got home I added some of my family stories, made up a back-story for Molly then began doing some research.”

“Only then?” Phil asked sounding slightly incredulous.

“Well once I’d assembled a persona I needed to work out how to dress, as in did I want to be an obvious parody of womanhood or almost believable as one?”

“So how long has all that taken?”

“The hardest part’s been learning how to do the make-up.”

“How long?”

“Close to a year.”

“Jesus Christ! A year!” he exclaimed.

“I was working full-time as well remember.”

“Actually it’s been time well spent,” he replied.

“You into drag-queens generally then?”

“One in particularly, more so now he’s in mufti.”

I put my mug on the end table biting back the urge to reply with some sarcastic remark as would Molly,

"You mean Molly's not quite innocent, trying to be middle class, with a side-order of slapper's apparel persona isn't quite your thing?"

"Only because of who was wearing it but otherwise no."

"Good because apart from rehearsing I only wear her on stage."

He'd followed my lead and set his mug aside,

"I'm with that Adam fella, I'd like to see a lot more of those pins close-up and frequently."

"Starting when, seeing as you've already had an eyeful tonight?"

"I can't have seconds?"

" Seconds, thirds, fill your boobs," I sniggered.

"I'd rather fill something else."

"O'kay, I can go with that."

"Follow me," he said as he stood up.

Follow him I did.

"Couple of rules, condoms are an absolute must and this is for fun," Phil said when we got to his bedroom.

"We are on the same page then," I replied.

There was no finesse in how we undressed, it was simply a case of getting clothed-off as fast as possible. This wasn't my first one night stand - if that was what this proved to be - and I greatly doubted it was Phil's.

We hit the mattress pretty much together.

"That's a good looking dick you've got there," I said reaching for said member.

Phil's cock was probably about seven inches possibly a shade over, in this I was comparing it to my own of the same length, but it was definitely thicker than average; not frighteningly so - and believe me I'd seen one that was on a male stripper - but it definitely had me wondering 'if'.

"And, as already stated, that's a bloody fine pair of pins which I'd like to have on my back while I've got my mouth round this," he squeezed my cock in demonstration of what he'd meant.

"Charmer," I smirked.

"Before I let this go any further I should've already said that I'm positive but not infectious, hence the condom rule. What you do with that is up to you but I'm sure you know there's things we can do that carry no risk at all."

"Thanks for the belated confession but as I always use them no matter who I'm with I'm sure I've probably known, biblically speaking, positive people without having been told. So in the interests of honesty I should tell you that I'm not gay, I'm bi, so if you've got no objection to that I'd say were good to go."

Phil's wasn't the only late body-positive confession, as you could describe it, I'd heard and thankfully I'd heard very few - late or otherwise.

Here's the thing, as I've mentioned Phil isn't my first one night companion although how many there's been I can count on my fingers, in the years since my first male lover that's barely more than one a year but once in a while a quick fling's no bad thing.

Don't you think?

"One bi man I had in this bed married his husband last year," Phil chortled.

"So which one of the three bi-types do you think I am? Do I like girls but prefer guys, like guys but prefer girls or am I, excusing the pun, straight down the line fifty-fifty?"

"Frigging hell, I never knew being bi could be so complicated," he laughed quietly.

"And just 'cos he's got a husband may not mean he's stopped liking girls."

"Whereas I never started."

"Never?" I asked in some surprise, "Unsullied by female hands then but I'd bet you're far from totally unsullied."

"Right on both counts."

"Show me exactly how sullied that mouth is," I smirked, laying on my back and holding my prick up away from my body.

"My absolute pleasure," he knelt between my legs and lowered his upper body when he'd got his lips round the end of my cock he lifted my legs to lay my calves on his back.

It's true what they say you know guys really do give the best head!

Don't get me wrong some of the gals I've known were pretty good, a couple of them even truly enthusiastic, but guys really know what to do with a dick 'cos they've got one of their own.

Phil first paid some real attention to the head of my cock, his lips rolling over the ridge then back and the tip of his tongue lapping all over the top paying special attention to the hole.

"More," I groaned, hoping it would encourage him to take more of my length into his mouth.

It did.

Phil dropped his head further sucking gently on my dick, it was enough to bring my arousal to a lively simmer rather than a rolling boil. Then he stopped sucking but carried on sliding his lips up and down my pole his tongue pressing it to the roof of his mouth. Before I could really get used to what he was doing Phil circled the base of my prick with a thumb and finger and took it from his mouth I had no chance to object because he immediately started to lick my balls, he took his time licking and sucking each one taking care to ensure he treated each one equally. I know I moaned each time Phil changed what he was doing but I didn't care, I was enjoying everything he did. He was about to start sucking my dick again when I thought it was about time I properly joined in.

"My turn," I muttered, patting the space beside me.

Phil smiled before he lay down beside me, I took a few moments to admire the ink which adorned his right shoulder and his torso; there were three tatts, all clearly unique and expertly executed; the one on his right shoulder consisted of two concentric circles the inner one around 3 inches across the half-inch gap between them carried two dates with another straight across the centre, he caught me looking and explained that the dates in the border were when his parents had died the one in the middle the date they'd married.

"Still got both of mine, thankfully," I put in.

A similar but slightly smaller design of circles, this time with a Celtic knot style border sat just above his left nipple but there was nothing in the centre.

"Just in case I ever find someone to settle down with," he explained.

It was the third one which was a real masterpiece, it spanned from hip to hip just above where his hair began and showed a road, on a full-moon night, disappearing into a vanishing point at the far end of the valley it meandered through at his left hip, at his right was a stunningly detailed depiction of a 1930s sports car.

"It's an MG TA open tourer, my uncle and cousin restore old MG's, it's the nearest I'll ever get to owning one," he chuckled.

"Tell you what if Molly and I make it big I'll buy you one as a thanks for kick-starting our career," I laughed.

"Now there's an incentive I can work with," he smiled.

"Whereas my own current incentive is to get my mouth round your dick," I sniggered.

"With which I am very definitely on board," Phil replied.

I wrapped a thumb and couple of fingers round the base of his cock, holding it straight up my job as I saw it, to start returning the favour, was to pay some attention to the part of his cock head which had escaped from its foreskin so I clamped my lips behind the quite significant ridge - just to keep things as they were you understand - then flicked the tip of my tongue over the exposed skin taking in the taste of his pre-come at the same time.

"Niiiice," Phil drew out the simple word on a deep appreciative moan.

I eased my lips back over the ridge - not to slide them off completely but so that I could peel the foreskin all the way back; that done I started moving my digits slowly to halfway up his pole then back down. Apart from holding the tip in my mouth and keeping my tongue laving over it the only movement I made was to continue slowly, but firmly, stroking his cock.

"Why is it," he began quietly, "that even something as relatively simple as a hand-job feels so much better when somebody else is doing it?"

I took his prick from my mouth but kept moving my fingers,

"I have two theories on that," I answered, "first one is the anticipation, when you indulge in a bit of DIY you always know what's gonna happen next."

"The second?"

"I reckon we’re all basically lazy swines and just want somebody else to do the work for a change," I sniggered.

"You make a good point, well two," Phil laughed briefly.

I used my other hand to massage his balls for a while then to spin a fingertip round his hole before sliding it over the taut skin back to his sac. Not wanting Phil to become too accustomed to what I was doing I took my hand from his cock to take more of it into my mouth but I also took away my other hand leaving my teeth, tongue and lips to provide the only stimulation to his rock-solid dick.

"Fuck that's good," he groaned, "Jesus H. Christ!" he yelled immediately after as he felt my throat relax to take him.

I carried on alternating between jacking him off as I sucked only on the head of Phil's prick while I tormented his balls and taking all of his length into my mouth and throat, but always using my tongue to help heighten Phil's arousal.

"I'm close, really close," he murmured.

"Best dig out a condom then," I replied.

Having no idea about Phil's sexual stamina I didn't want to waste what might be his only orgasm of our encounter in a blow-job when what I did want was to feel his hard dick inside me.

"You get yourself comfy, your choice of position and I'll sort out the latex," he said already reaching to open the bedside cabinet drawer in search of the said sheath.

I lay on my right facing him, watching as he covered his rigid member with the condom then smeared lube all over it, as Phil turned towards me I turned my back to him raising my right knee to give him better access to my sphincter. I have to admit to feeling a little anxious, as I said Phil wasn't my first but his prick would certainly be the first I'd take that was so thick. I tried to stay relaxed, I wanted to enjoy this - obviously - so I wanted my ass to offer as little resistance as possible. But it wasn't Phil's dick I felt pressing against my hole it was a finger as slick with lube as I knew the condom was.

He spent a little while teasing my puckered ring varying the speed and pressure, his next move, when he made it suddenly, wasn't to slide the finger into me he used two!

The man knew what he was doing I'll give him that, he got them in as far as the second knuckle scissoring them slowly as he pulled them back to the first joint; Phil carried on with the slow gliding and scissor action gradually opening me in readiness for his cock which, I might add, was a dammed fine specimen.

"Frigging hell!" my words came out raggedly, my whole body juddered when Phil began twisting his fingers to left and right, that he then started pressing his fingers further into me had my hips jerking erratically. When he hit my prostate I swear I saw stars.

"No! You tormenting bugger," I hissed through gritted teeth when Phil drew back his fingers to my sphincter.

I'd seen the finish line in my race to orgasm but now it had receded and lay tantalisingly just out of reach.

"Want a little more?" he asked from somewhere close to my ear.

I nodded, I wasn't sure I could have spoken through my rapid breathing.

So he gave me more, by way of a third finger all three gliding the full way into my ass until one stroked over my prostate again and my searing need to orgasm reached almost fever-pitch.

Phil must've realised this,

"Your ass ready?" was all he said, his fingers easing down towards my sphincter again

"Frigging hell yes."

I couldn't stop myself gripping the quilt as I waited for Phil to slide his prick into me. Again he didn't do what I expected, instead he put a hand under my right thigh to raise it further then straddled my left where it lay straight down the bed. He rubbed the head of his prick over my ring a couple of times then thrust forward and didn't stop until he was balls deep inside me.

He'd prepared me well, I felt fuller than I ever had, stretched beyond anything I'd known, but nothing that was less than tantalising. If it felt this good with no movement I couldn't wait to feel it drilling my ass. Phil had either endless patience or phenomenal control, to my frustration it was probably both. I'd never felt anyone fuck so slowly; he took my hand from where it still gripped the quilt and fisted my hand around my dick moving it in time with the slow thrust-pause-withdraw-pause rhythm of his cock inside me.

It didn't take long, however, for me to join in with the teasing. I gripped hard around his pole when he was all the way in only slightly releasing the pressure when he withdrew then relaxed as much as I could when he slid back into me, rocking my hips in sync with his. Thankfully our combined actions broke through Phil's calm demeanour, he took his hand from my cock to set it near my body and began really pummelling my ass.

"I really hope you'll be able to sink that dick into me later if you get off now," he grunted the words between his thrusts.

"It'll be my pleasure," I replied through gritted teeth.

"Thank fuck for that, because I'm gonna be cumming in your spectacular ass soon."

"I'm right there with you."

The only sounds in the room were our heavy breathing and the slap of skin on skin as we chased our own and each other's release.

"Fucking hell!" I roared.

I didn't need Phil to say anything to know he'd beaten me to the finish line because, unbelievably, the head of his prick swelled in the instant the first spurt of his hot jizz began to fill the condom. It set off a chain reaction as I slammed down onto him my hand travelling ever faster in my need for release.

"That was frigging incredible," I finally managed to say some time later, my breathing having calmed from uncontrolled to merely erratic.

"Wasn't it just," Phil replied as he carefully moved from caging my body to lay behind me copying my own position, his cock still twitching inside me.

We'd lay together as we both enjoyed the post-orgasm buzz, personally I could feel my muscles trembling much as my legs did when I pushed myself to run faster or further than usual. I felt Phil's hand snake between us as he slowly, regretfully to me, took his prick from my body ensuring the condom stayed in place.

I felt him lean away from me then heard tissues being pulled from the box I'd noticed on the nightstand,

"Here, thought you'd appreciate a couple of these," Phil said as he offered me a wad of tissues, I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Not so much me but I think the quilt cover's going to need a bit more than tissues, sorry," I replied.

“Don't know about you but I need a drink," he said, "I'm for a lager, you?"

"I'm up for that, cheers," I told him.

Phil grabbed his trousers, but nothing more, from where he’d dropped them on the floor before leaving the bedroom,

"Bathroom's next-door, I'll just be in there a few."

I watched as he walked away, fuck me but he's got fabulous arse, mind you it fitted in with the rest of him. Like Phil I snagged only my jeans from where I'd stepped out of them - if Phil was going commando so would I - as I waited to hear him leave the bathroom. Watching him walk away from the bed already had my dick twitching in anticipation of round two.

As I ran warm water into the bathroom sink I looked at myself in the mirror above it and I recalled what I'd asked myself not so long after I'd started putting my drag act together. It had been the first time I'd regarded my reflection in a full-length mirror when fully dressed and made up as Molly; unlike the more positive mantra of "Take no prisoners" I'd made myself adopt the question had made me think more than twice about the whole thing but now? Well now I was so glad I hadn't given in to the moments of self-doubt when I'd asked myself,

What The Fuck Am I Doing?