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My story has no moral. It is not concerned with the larger issues and deeper meanings in life. It hasn’t much to commend it.
But it really happened.
It happened to me.
It is also slightly erotic.
This makes me wonder whether, relatively speaking, I had led a debauched, dissipated existence, or whether I’m just more open about my past than are others…
…every big city has its less-than-salubrious districts. The jewel in the crown of Australia is Sydney, and Sydney possibly also has a higher level of unwholesomeness than any other part of the country. This coarse, vulgar behaviour seeps out through the cracks in Kings Cross - known to locals as “The Cross” - together with the adjacent localities of Darlinghurst and East Sydney.
Back in the days of which I write, the working-class brothels of East Sydney were located cheek-by-jowl along narrow lanes mere yards from the more brightly-lit streets. Sailors from every port on Earth, the less fussy amongst the locals, even the occasional aristocrat, gravitated at night to the lanes like flies to rotten meat. For some of the working girls it was also a day job, and in fact I had my first act of sexual congress, with a harlot, and in this district, at approximately eleven a.m. on a day long, long ago. But that’s another story.
It is no exaggeration to say that at night the lanes were thronged with potential customers. Of course there were also many there just to perv on “the girls”. Periodically, also at night, the police would conduct a primitive form of clean-up, which consisted of driving a paddy-wagon at speed along a lane, horn blaring, with baton-wielding vice squad members running alongside swiping at every head within reach.
Eventually I tired of being smacked on the head and went looking elsewhere for my jollies.
Another haunt, this time for street-walkers, was the more open thoroughfares of Darlinghurst and The Cross. On foot, the customer would allow the tart to lead him to a dingy room somewhere nearby. Driving, he had a choice – park the car and go to a room, or simply find a secluded spot and use the vehicle.
I soon learnt of a sub-culture amongst the girls on the streets that was not in evidence in the lanes. Primarily it was about the availability of variations on the basic sex act, including oral sex. In the lanes, perhaps one girl in fifty would go down on a customer. On the streets, it was perhaps one girl in every two. Never did figure out the sociology of this.
As a lazy so-and-so, I enjoyed having oral sex performed on me far more than humping – I only wanted to ejaculate, and it was much more work the other way. I was in my element.
I was crawling along the street in my Peugeot. My attention was drawn to a statuesque piece with thick flowing golden hair, unbelievably long eyelashes, firm up-tilted tits, and wearing a form-hugging lapis lazuli-shaded cotton-knit dress.
I drew a car-length ahead and stopped.
As the Amazon sidled slowly past a glance was thrown at me. I took the initiative and spoke first. Naturally I can’t recall the exact words but most porn doesn’t exactly have sparkling dialogue anyway. But I do remember the essence. In a rich, sexy-sounding voice I was offered a free blow job if, in return, I would first suck those magnificent tits.
In recent years I’ve come across plenty more offers like that. Horny women who’ll do anything. But back then I was young, unwise in the ways of the world, and it seemed all my Christmases had come at once.
The Amazon and I drove off, found a secluded laneway and performed the deed. I do remember the highlights. It turned out the dress had a front zipper and as well there was no bra in the way – it was Zip! Suck! That fast. My mouth was raw in the corners from all the sucking, chewing and licking. Then I was using my hands only, fondling those magnificent tits as I was blown. As I ejaculated it felt as if an industrial vacuum cleaner had been attached to my cock.
I don’t remember backing up for seconds, so we probably didn’t.
Then we parted, went our separate ways.
Two or three nights later I was again in the district. I’d wanted refreshment, headed for a seedy-looking coffee lounge. Parked myself at an empty table, looked around. Surprise, surprise. Here was my “friend”, with four others – two guys, two dolls – at a nearby table. Once I’d announced myself, I was invited, sexily, to change tables.
We didn’t stay long. My friend told me there was a bedroom out the back that we could use and with unseemly haste we made our way there.
Into the room, closed the door, threw ourselves on the bed. This time my pants were pulled down without any suggestion of a compensatory act by me. Just straight into a blow job. Within seconds, my hand was taken and pushed up under the hem of the dress. I took this as a hint and started searching for a warm moist pussy.
What did I find?
A cock and a pair of hairy balls!!
Oh shit. I was being, had been, sucked off by a transsexual! Yurrrkk!!
I departed rapidly.
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