Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Juice:  A Queerly Medical Fantasy

Doctor’s Visit

by Porno Person

My wife and I had been trying to get pregnant to no avail. I had grown up in a really toxic area and had the sinking feeling that my swimmers weren’t treading water.

I had been putting off this appointment for months. It’s not that I detest doctors or office visits; I simply can’t stand the whole "referral process" that requires me to see my regular doctor, knowing that he needs to send me to a specialist but has to set up on official referral. Such a crock. It’s a waste of my time, the doctor’s time, and everyone’s money.

I had expected a simple "jerk into a cup" kind of appointment with the specialist, Dr. Lan. What I got was something quite different.

We started with a series of questions. He wasn’t shy asking about how often I masturbate, the frequency of sex with my wife, and when both things had last occurred.

You would think that I would be fine admitting how frequently I jerk off but it still caught in my throat; the Catholic guilt runs deep. "Three times a week," I croaked and mentally added, "More, if I can." As for sex, after sixteen months of trying my wife seemed to put sex on indefinite hiatus. It had been two months since we’d last "engaged in copulation" (as the doctor put it).

He nodded to each of my responses and marked my chart.

His questions exhausted, I thought that now was the time for the cup and squirt. Far from it. He rolled his chair over next to the padded, paper-covered table on which I sat and cuffed my arm to take my blood pressure. I could smell his cologne, it was a nice counterpoint to the typical medical office odor.

He tore off the cuff when he was done and, like every doctor or nurse I’ve ever had, didn’t tell me the results.

And then began the part of the exam that I had never before experienced at a doctor’s office. He had me stand up and take off my shirt. While I did that he retrieved a tape measurer. He unspooled it and wrapped it around my chest with my arms down. Getting the number of inches he marked these on a chart next to a line drawing of a figure. He repeated the process around my stomach, around my shoulders, along one arm and then the other.

Initially I felt like I was being measured for a suit but quickly I found that Dr. Lan was being far more thorough in his assessment. Up and down my arm, even noting the length of my fingers.

He requested that I remove my pants as well and, once I was finished, he began unspooling the tape measurer down my legs, his fingers brushing under my buttocks.

He told me to turn around so he could do the same for the front. I was hesitant to do so as I found myself with the beginnings of a hard-on. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice, that he’d be too involved with my legs to not look at the bulge in my underpants.

All the way up and down my legs he worked, the warmth of his hands a welcome presence in the cool of the examination room. He knelt down as he took his myriad measurements, his head even with my crotch. Though I tried not to, it was then that I started thinking about Dr. Lan in sexual terms.

When standing he was a half a head taller than me. Handsome, with an strikingly handsome face. Far thinner than me, he was still muscular and, noting that his white coat was opened, I wondered what he might look like naked. I tried to shake these thoughts from my head as they continued to make my erection more prevalent.

Dr. Lan had me turn around again and walk across the room to watch the way my hips worked, checking for any kind of dysplasia. I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrored surfaces of the room, feeling ridiculous stripped down to my whity-tighties tented out with a hard-on. Worse, after walking away from him I had to walk back, I could feel my dick bobbing in my underpants and hoped that he didn’t notice it.

If he did, there was no reaction. Instead, he asked me to repeat my walk a few times before he had me walk in place. While I did so, he put his hands on my hips, pushing his fingers along my joints. Finally he let me stop and marked more notations on my chart. I tried to spy what all he was writing but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He got back up and, putting down his pen, donned a pair of rubber gloves.

"I need you to remove your underwear," he said. I felt my heart jump. As I lowered my underpants I half-expected to hear a cartoon sound effect, "Sproing!"

My "one-eyed snake" stared Dr. Lan in the face. Ignoring it, he reached underneath and grabbed onto my testicles. "Turn to the right and cough," he instructed. His hand felt wonderful on my balls. I wanted him to tug on them. I coughed for him and he had me repeat this a few times.

"I’m going to take your temperature," he said, getting up and going to his cabinet. I sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling under my ass. As he returned with a thermometer he said, "I prefer to do it rectally."

I shrugged and got off of the table to turn around for him. "Reach back and spread your cheeks for me," he said. As I did I felt the cool of lubrication being applied to my sphincter. This gentle rubbing was all too quickly interrupted by the intrusion of the thermometer sliding inside of me. I stood there in this awkward position, my erection pressed between my body and the exam table and my hand spreading my ass cheeks for what seemed like an eternity, all the while one of his hands rested on my lower back.

His watch beeped and he took out the thermometer. He read it and put it aside before he began sliding his fingers gently inside of me. He slid them in deep until he began gently prodding my prostate gland. My cock jumped at his touch.

His fingers seemed to linger longer than maybe they should have as they continued to press against my prostate. I felt a tingle in my loins, the kind that comes with urination or orgasm, that "loss of control" sensation. I tried my best to resist it.

"Very good," he said, removing his gloves with a snap behind me.

"Please get up on the table," he instructed as he disposed of his gloves and donned a new pair.

I lay back on the table, my legs hanging off the edge and my cock waving.

Standing next to me, Dr. Lan looked down, a small white plastic cup in his hand, and said, "I need a sample of your sperm so I can test the motility. There are a few ways we can do this; you can manipulate yourself, I can give you a prostate massage, or I can give a prostate massage and manipulate you at the same time."

I gulped and wondered if he could be serious about his offer. Rather than repeating what he said I merely indicated, "The last one, please."

"In that case, I’d prefer if you kept your eyes closed." He reached into a drawer underneath the exam table and brought out some gauze. He unrolled a bit and placed it over my eyes. I lifted my head and he began wrapping the gauze around it until he was satisfied that I couldn’t see. I could still make out shapes and shadows but only through a white curtain.

After adding some more lubrication to his gloves, Dr. Lan reached down between my legs and to insert a finger inside of me again. This time he found my prostate immediately and began rubbing it softly. Meanwhile, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around my cock and began stroking me. His firm, sure grasp made me moan before I could even realize what I was doing.

I could hear the sound of lubrication squelching in my bottom as he began moving his finger in and out of me in time with his hand pumping my cock. It felt so good as he expertly jerked my cock.

"What do you usually think about when you masturbate?" he asked me. The question startled and embarrassed me. Moreover, it perplexed me. Did he want the truth or did he want to hear something that would please him? What would make him happiest to hear? Why was he asking? Was this turning him on too? Did he want to know so that he could fulfill my turn-on?

These questions flew through my mind while my mouth quietly uttered, "Sucking cock."

Again, I couldn’t believe that I had admitted this to anyone, much less this stoic physician. My body seemed to be in revolt. I wasn’t saying or doing what I thought was right, only what, apparently, was necessary. This became completely evident as I reached my hand out to where I thought the front of his slacks should be.

I found his cock tenting his pants and gently rubbed my palm against it. He felt huge and rock hard. I hoped that I wasn’t stroking his otoscope. His reaction made it clear that I wasn’t. He pushed himself against my hand and I felt the wonderful upward curve of his cock filling my fingers.

"Would it make it easier to ejaculate if you were holding that?" he asked.

"Yes, Doctor."

He stopped stroking me and I heard the sound of his belt and zipper being undone, his pants falling to the floor with a jangle of keys and change. He put his hand back on me and I reached again for his cock, fumbling in the dark until my fingers found him and wrapped around him.

His cock felt wonderful, so hot and hard. I could feel the tendrils of pubic hair as my fist went down his length and the dribble of precum as I moved back up him again. I licked my lips and began jerking his cock in time with the way he stroked mine. "Tighter," he said. I obliged, tightening my grip on his manhood. He groaned in appreciation and I squeezed even more, so tight that it was difficult to stroke him completely. He helped by pumping his cock into my fist.

His cock was like a living relief map. I could feel the veins throbbing in my hand. He groaned again, I looked up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction but was unable to see anything but a blurry shadow through the gauze.

He plunged his fingers in deeper inside of me and I knew that I was going to cum soon. I felt him pushing me farther along, taking me to that place I love to go. Needing him there with me, I pumped him harder, faster.

His manipulation put me over the edge. I felt hot drops of spunk landing on my stomach. They were quickly joined by more on my chest as Dr. Lan began cumming. My hand was wrapped around him so tightly that I could feel the cum moving under my thumb as he drained himself onto me.

I didn’t want to take my hand off of him. I wanted more of him. I could feel his pulse pounding in my hand. He slowly removed his fingers from inside of me and took his hand off my cock. I did the same for him. He ran the plastic cup along my belly, collecting some of my ejaculate.

"That should be enough for testing," he said, the zip of his pants loud in my ear. "Though, we may need to take another sample if the lab can’t process this."

I felt him wiping me off with a wet towel, cleaning himself off of me, before he cut away the gauze over my eyes. I felt like proclaiming, "I can see!" but ruled that a little melodramatic. By the time I sat up on the table he looked as if nothing had happened.

He made one more mark on my chart before off-handedly saying that I’d have my results back in two weeks and to make a follow-up appointment at the front desk before leaving me to re-dress alone in the exam room. I made my appointment and knew I wouldn’t mind spending the money on my co-pay the next time I came around.

__________________________________

Ah, Porno Person.  He’s such a kinky guy and I simply adore him for it.  The man’s mind is a wicked, wicked place and perpetually in hyper-drive. 

Lucky for us.

Visit Porno Person’s blog, Prurient Interests, to be inspired, shocked, amazed and feel the overwhelming urge to masturbate furiously.

The Wussy Boy Manifesto
by Eric Ott (Big Poppa E)

my name is big poppa e
and i am a wussy boy.

it’s taken me a long time to admit it…

i remember shouting in high school,
“no, dad, I’m not gay!
I’m just… sensitive.
i tried to like hot rods and jet planes
and football and budweiser poster girls,
but i never got the hang of it!
i don’t know what’s wrong with me…”

then, i saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music
of the cure and morrissey and
siouxsie and the banshees,
talking loud and walking proud
my wussy boy icon:
duckie in pretty in pink.

and i realized i wasn’t alone.

and i looked around
and saw other wussy boys
living large and proud of who they were:
ralph macchio, wussy boy;
matthew broderick, wussy boy;
and lord god king
of the wussy boy movement,
john cusack in say anything,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys much kick ass.

now i am no longer ashamed
of my wussiness, hell no,
I’m empowered by it.

when I’m at a stoplight and
some testosterone redneck
methamphetamine
jock fratboy asshole dumb fuck
pulls up beside me
blasting his trans am’s stereo
with power chord anthems to big tits
and date rape,
i no longer avoid his eyesight, hell no,
i just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and i rock out right into his face:
(devil sign and morrissey’s voice)
“i am human and i need to be loved
just like everybody else does!”

i am wussy boy, hear me roar
(meow).

bar fight? pshaw!
you think you can take me, huh?
just because i like poetry
better than sports illustrated?
well, allow me to caution you,
I’m not the average every day
run-of-the-mill wussy boy you
beat up in high school, punk,
i am wuss core!
(flash “wc” gang sign)

don’t make me get renaissance
on your ass because i will
write a poem about you,
a poem that tears your psyche
limb from limb,
that exposes your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper
and more severely
than knives and chains and gats
and baseball bats
could ever hope to do…

you may see 65 inches of wussy boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul is
ten foot tall and bullet proof!

bring the pain, punk,
beat the shit out of me,
show all the people in this bar
what a real man can do
to a shit-talking wussy boy like me

but you’d better remember
my bruises will fade
my cuts will heal,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem
about the pitiful, small, helpless
cock-man oppressor you really are
will last
forever.

______________________________________________________

First  of all, thanks to PQS who celebrates with me and (and possibly now even transcends) my love for poetry.  I wish you could have heard his rendition of this poem (he reads aloud to me often and it is pure heaven) … I am still smiling.

Since PQS calls me and not you, your next best bet is to see the poet himself, the simply fab Big Poppa E, perform this poem on HBO’s Def Poetry Slam:  CLICK HERE.

Then you can read his Wikipedia page and, of course, buy his book.

xo, Angela

A sub-fetish of Erotic Humiliation, Penis Humiliation is the hottest thing in Phone Sex these days.  And while some readers might think this an odd fantasy/fetish/kink, most Phone Sex Operators are quite used to it and actually have a lot of fun with it. 

Think of it as a form of VERBAL BDSM.  I mean, after all, the Phone Domme can’t really use whips and chains and Ben Gay (ouch, indeed, very much).  But she can use words.  It is arguably more erotically powerful to dominate with real words — real bad, mean words — rather than "and now I am going to beat you."  And what matters most to a man?  His dick.  It may seem a trite observation, but it is nonetheless true. 

I often say that our poor men — they just can’t help it.  After all, it’s like God created them with the supreme disadvantage of having a gear shift sticking out right there, right there in front for the world to see … even with the cover of trousers!   How can the NOT think about it all the time?  And it makes them very vulnerable, doesn’t it?

So why not go for the girth?  Make every word count and hit him with those words where it hurts the most?  Only, in this case, with pain — there’s no gain.  Little Willie leaves the encounter none the worse for the wear … but none the better.  His sad puny prick is still sad and still puny.

It makes sense.  Penis size is very much on the male mind (don’t ask — he won’t admit it) at least some of the time. Hornswaggling, doolally spammers bank on it.  In my personal email recently:

• Female Orgasms:  Bigger means Better for your Woman
• Your tool is so small she hardly finds it in bed?
• Penetrate Deeper
• Enhance your masculine tool
• Fill out your erectile tissue
• Enlarging your male weapon means winning a competition
• From now on you will be able to satisfy each size-queen
• Your male power will return like a boomerang

Now, admittedly, this Mystery Meat (pun intended) was more than likely sent from the one and only internet cafe in some backward jungle — the spammer believing the hype of myriad porn sites.  But he is on to something and it must make money, because everybody finds this stuff in their in-boxes.    Even me, and I have a very feminine personal email address.  It’s the marketing method of Quantity over Quality … just like a Size Queen Fantasy!  The irony is delicious.

Besides being a subcategory of Erotic Humiliation, Small Penis Humiliation is a major theme in Cuckolding Fantasies.  Particularly when the Cuckoldress’s lovers are studly black bulls.  It’s the stark differences that give these fantasies their edge:  Black vs. White, Woman vs. Male, Wife vs. Husband, Large vs. Small.  So, even if it’s not quite your thing, perhaps you can understand that, for others, it’s sizzling hot.

Forced Bi Fantasies will often contain at least a portion of Small Penis Humiliation, with size functioning to underline one’s role in the fantasy:  large equals dominant, small equals submissive.  The feeling of tractability can be deeply enhanced when the physicality of size is used as emphasis.

So Big Cock, Small Cock, Average Cock … what’s it all about, Angela?

Well, you might recall that I actually wrote an about this in an essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, for the book, Sex Kitten Presents the BDSM Issue.  While I don’t discuss Small Penis Humiliation per se, I do talk about the "fantasy" of being verbally humiliated, taunted and abused by a beautiful and poweful FemDom. 

As far as me, personally:  Is bigger better?  Do I or don’t I?  Well, you’ll just have to READ ALL ABOUT IT.

xo, Angela

My Beer Buddy

by Louis Friend (Prurient Interests)

Despite us calling it "boys night out," most of the time Tony and I would hang out in his finished basement on our occasional evenings. Basketball season was our favorite. Tony’s wife, Marsha, would order us up a couple pizzas, stock the basement fridge with beer, and let boys be boys.

And that’s how it’s been since. On occasion he’ll want things outside of our nights together. When he was going through a rough patch with his Marsha, I would meet him in the parking garage after work and suck him off before we both went home to our wives. I’m still all man to my Missus but when Tony and I get together, I’m his bitch, completely.

***

Interestingly enough, I recently created a fantasy very close to Mr. Friend’s scenario.  In fact — with a certain few twists here and there — I’ve conjured two entirely unique quasi-versions.Great minds think alike?  Or maybe it’s just that we — Mr. Friend, myself and , of course, my kinkster callers — are just intrepid gutter rats at heart.  Either way, fun was had by all and, if I do say so myself (and, believe me, I certainly do) two very kinky callers just love me to pieces.  Of course, the feeling is reciprocated.

You might wonder, considering their shared interests why I wouldn’t introduce one to the other.  But Angela, you may be asking, wouldn’t that be a Queer Boy’s dream-come-true?  Nah, not really.  Because, you see, neither want to be Tony.  They want to be the submissive friend who takes it up the ass. 

And did you notice the narrator-sub did not get to have an orgasm?  It’s what I call The Paradox of Submissive Phone Sex.  It goes something like this:  In REAL LIFE when a man is submitting, he might very well serve as a footstool, administer foot worship and be fucked by the Dominant.  And, as the story illustrates, the Dominant usually at some point uses the slave to sate their own sexual desire, culminating in the Dominant’s orgasm, while the submissive does not get relief.  His role is very much objectified; he is a means to an end, and it’s all about the Dominant’s satisfaction. 

BUT …

In a Phone Sex Fantasy it is exactly this fact that the Dominant is using the submissive for his own selfish needs, without any regard for slave’s sexual fulfillment, that cause the Phone Sex Submissive to have an orgasm.  

Which I guess could lead to the conclusion that, if you want to orgasm when serving a Master, it’s better to do it as a fantasy.  Lucky for me, eh?

xo, Angela