In Town for Business by Zach Addams

I’ve always wanted to eat pussy. I have no idea if that makes me bisexual; I’ve always felt as gay as Julie Andrews in the Austrian Alps, but ever since I was in high school I’ve fantasized about having my face planted firmly between some gorgeous woman’s thighs. That doesn’t change the fact that most of my fantasies were about men, or that sucking cock was always my favorite thing in the world. But eating pussy came a close second — except that I’d never done it.

It’s hard when you get labeled a queer in seventh grade. You end up with lots of female best friends and a lot of stories about how their boyfriends don’t go down on them, but expect plenty of blowjobs. I had this one friend who was a bit of a blowjob queen, with a reputation for putting out on the first date, even though she never fucked until college. She would so often leave my place after telling me about some new encounter where she had a guy’s dick in her mouth and even while she was enjoying herself she wished he would reciprocate — and I would jerk off. Imagining that I was there, eating her pussy and moving my way up to his cock just in time to have him come in both our mouths. After I’d made her come three or four times on my tongue.

When I did finally sleep with guys, rimming quickly became my favorite pastime. There is something so delicious about planting your tongue in a hole that’s just made to receive a big cock. I always worried about those nasty parasites you can get from rimming, though. But that didn’t stop me, it just made me meticulous about cleanliness, which annoyed me. I loved tasting the sharp tang of boy ass, tasting every hint of his body pulsing onto my tongue as I reached between his legs and stroked his cock, listening to him moan until he came. What would it be like to just dive in to a pussy and taste it in all its unwashed glory?

I wouldn’t be such a dipshit as to try to explain why something turns me on, but I do remember the first piece of porn I ever found. It was a beat-up ’70s sleaze paperback stuffed in my mother’s nightstand drawer, and the most dog-eared of all those dog-eared pages was the one where the hero eats the heroine out for the first time, tonguing her until she came. The very same book had a scene where the heroine, giving some secondary male character a blowjob, tucked her face between his cheeks and tongued his ass until he came all over her tits. I jerked off to those two scenes more times than I can count; the moment I came I would think how weird it was that this is my mother’s book, and would be overcome with guilt as I tiptoed back to my mother’s bedroom and replaced the book after checking to make sure I hadn’t gotten any of my come on it. I am quite sure that some homophobic psychoanalyst somewhere would be able to convince me that jerking off to your mother’s porn will make you gay, but it’s much too late to perform a controlled experiment, and how the hell would you ever get such a thing past the ethics board? My father didn’t have any porn — or at least I never found it. Maybe if he had, I’d be wearing Hooters T-shirts and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon in Fresno this very day, instead of wife-beaters and Amstel Light in the Castro.

What does it all mean? I couldn’t begin to tell you, except that it means when I finally got a chance to do it, I received a round of applause that may have just turned me into the world’s gayest pussyhound.


It was just like a success story published on an adult personals website. “Attractive early-30s couple, in San Francisco this week in business, seeks very oral non-bisexual man to service both him and her. Reciprocation possible but not promised.”

Sometimes you do things and then wonder why you did them. I sent an e-mail stating emphatically that I was not bisexual, though I suspect I was not at all what this particular couple had in mind. “Not even close to bisexual,” I said, adding with a twinge of guilt at my deception, “At least, I don’t think so.”

I got an immediate response with a picture that made me drool. Their names were Tim and Gina. In the picture both were wearing skimpy swimsuits, his a beach thong in electric blue (tasteless) and hers a string bikini in hot pink (even more tasteless). I was not particularly interested in a fashion consultation, so I let it slide, hoping if anything happened I would be able to talk them out of their clothes quickly. He was tall and buffed, and the way his cock, half-hard in the photo, tented his tacky swimsuit made my own cock stir. But she was even more gorgeous, in that she had a body shape like Pamela Anderson before she lost her D-cups and bleached hair to match. She looked like the average straight guy’s wet dream. Something about that turned me on; if I was going to eat pussy for the first time, didn’t it make sense to do it with a woman who could easily be in a Hustler spread? I imagined the woman on the cover of that early porn novel and, minus the enormous knockers, this woman looked a bit like her. If I squinted at the picture and didn’t look too close. It seemed crazy to do this, but what the hell? They probably wouldn’t answer my second e-mail, anyway.

I looked through the folder of digital photos I used when cruising guys on the Internet, and looked for the one in which I looked the least gay. There wasn’t one. I finally said “fuck it” and sent a picture a friend snapped while I was working out at the gym; maybe their gaydar would be as faulty as their fashion sense.

I got an immediate response: “You free tonight?”


They were staying in an unfashionable hotel near crack row, but one that was clean enough. I suspected they didn’t know how many dealers were operating less than a block away. I resolved not to tell them, however tempting it might be.

As it turned out, there wasn’t much of an opportunity to tell them anything.

Gina answered the door in a green terrycloth robe that clashed so completely with her yellow hair that I resolved to minimize the conversation.

“Are you Zach?” she asked.

“That’s me,” I told her.

“You’re even cuter in person,” she said. “Tim’s taking a shower.” I could hear water running in the bathroom.

I breathed a sigh of relief and came in to the hotel room. Gina locked the door behind me and when I took off my coat and turned around, she pushed herself up against me, grabbing my head and dragging it down to her mouth.

Never having kissed a girl before, I felt a moment’s panic at the lack of beard stubble. When she opened her robe I saw that she was wearing a skimpy baby-blue lace see-through one-piece thing and nothing else. I tried to think what a straight guy would do in this situation, and went right for her tits. They felt full and heavy, a little too firm — fake, maybe? — and as I tweaked her nipples the way I would tweak a guy’s nipples, I heard her squeak.

“That’s too hard,” she said. “My nipples are very sensitive.”

I felt my face reddening. Should I work harder to seem straight, or just forget it?

I decided to forget it. Not even bothering to take off my T-shirt or jeans, I pushed Gina down on the bed. I buried my face between her thighs as she spread her legs. I kissed her pussy tentatively through a thin film of baby-blue lace, smelling her cunt and feeling my cock respond immediately even as I felt the panic of bizarre newness. When she reached down and unfastened the snap crotch, I thought for a second she’d ripped it. This snap-crotch thing seemed strangest of all so far.

The scent of her cunt filled my nostrils, and I couldn’t decide whether to be turned on or repulsed. When I realized she was shaved smooth, I tottered into a sudden turn-on — there was something so kinky about that. Shaved balls look ridiculous in my opinion, but shaved pussies were beautiful — even if I’d only seen them in porn. Close up, I liked it even better.

“Eat my pussy,” Gina growled.

It wasn’t a request, and I didn’t take it as one. I pressed my mouth to her cunt and started to lick. Her cunt tasted tangy, like something I’d never experienced before. So different than a boy’s butthole. But as I slipped my tongue into the tight hole, I felt a familiar lust taking me over, and started to wriggle deep into her.

“Jesus,” she sighed, sounding bored. “Have you ever done this before, Zach?”

Of course, I thought. The clit. The clit. The clit. The porn I’d read as a youngster was all about the guy jamming his enormous tongue so deep into the girl’s pussy that she came uncontrollably as he tongue-fucked her. But I wasn’t so gay as to be totally without clitoral knowledge. I slipped my tongue up to her clit and began to tease it, and when she responded with loud moans, I started to suck on it the way I would suck on the very tip of a guy’s cock. Gina liked that.

“Shit,” she moaned, sounding shocked. “Jesus, fucking Jesus!”

I kept doing that, and her fingers snaked into my hair, pushing me harder against her crotch. Focusing on the clit seemed to work, and I could still taste her pussy, strong and unfamiliar. I had to prop one knee up on the foot of the bed to keep from sliding off, and that pushed my crotch against the edge, making me realize how hard I was. I started sucking Gina’s clit in earnest, and she moaned “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, just like that, Zach, just like that,” as I did. Feeling her smooth thighs and pussy against my lips, cheeks and chin made my cock throb even more. I heard the bathroom door open, but when I tried to look up Gina’s firm hand on my head kept me from moving, which only turned me on more.

Tim jumped onto the bed next to Gina and said, “Is this the guy? What’s his name?”

“Zach,” she told him.

“Nice,” said Tim. When I glanced up his gorgeous, muscled body was stretched next to Gina’s and he had his hard cock in his hand. He looked even bigger from this angle than he had in the photo. Zach reached down and grabbed my hair, guiding my face off of Gina’s pussy and down onto his cock.

“Hey!” Gina snapped. “Don’t be a pig.”

“Just a little suck,” said Tim. “I want to see how good he is.”

I was good, from the sound of Tim’s moaning as I took his cock in my mouth and began to slide up and down on him. Much as I loved his cock, though, I missed Gina’s pussy, and I found myself sliding my fingers into her as she squirmed. That felt even stranger than eating her, especially since I had Tim’s big cock down my throat. My cock was really throbbing now, and I knew if I just stroked it a little I would probably shoot. I swallowed Tim’s cock all the way as Gina grabbed my hair.

“Gimme,” she snapped, and dragged me back between her thighs. Something about having this happy suburban pervert couple fight over me was making me hot. I started sucking on Gina’s clit again, tonguing it rhythmically as I wrapped my hand around Tim’s cock and started to stroke it. He moaned, French-kissing Gina and playing with her tits as I ate her out. Soon she was clamping her thighs so tight around my face that even with my lack of experience I could tell she was going to come. God, I wanted to stroke my cock. I reached down and started to undo my pants.

“Don’t come on the bedspread,” said Gina through the hoarse voice of near-orgasm.

“All right, Martha Stewart,” I said, my mouth a millimeter off of her pussy. Oh, shit. That was a gay comment, wasn’t it? As if to counter, I eased up my grip on Tim’s cock and started eating Gina’s pussy fervently.

“Jesus!” she moaned into Tim’s face as she squirmed and writhed against him. He bent down and started sucking her tits as I went back to jerking his cock. When Gina came, she screamed at the top of her lungs, clawing at her husband and at the bedspread I wasn’t supposed to come on. I had to stop stroking my cock to keep from doing exactly that.

When Gina finally pushed my face away from her pussy, shuddering with the remnants of her orgasm, she seemed more ravenous than ever. She dragged me onto the bed and yanked off my shirt, then pulled my jeans all the way open and began to suck my cock as Tim pushed his mouth to mine.

Again, I felt the curious lack of stubble as her face bobbed up and down on my shaft. But even stranger was the feel of Tim kissing me — totally unexpected, since I’d figured he was straight, or thought he was. His hand curved around the base of my cock and fed it to Gina as we kissed. Then he got up on his knees and crouched over me, holding my head to guide his cock into my mouth.

In this position I couldn’t do the thrilling job of cocksucking I was used to, but I managed just fine. Putting my hands up to play with Tim’s nipples, I sucked on the front part of his cock and, when I heard him moaning like he was going to come, reached down again to stroke the base of his shaft. Feeling Gina’s mouth glide up and down on my shaft made me want all of his come more than I’d ever wanted anything. He clutched the headboard, swearing at the top of his lungs as he shot his load into my mouth and I eagerly gulped at it. When he finished coming, he slid off of me in an instant, and to my surprise I felt his mouth joining Gina’s on my cock.

They traded off sucking me, and the sight of both of them opening wide for my shaft turned me on more than anything. Especially since I’d fully expected to leave here without even getting a cursory hand job. I was moaning so loud and thrashing back and forth that I couldn’t even begin to tell you who finally got my load in their mouth, but I could definitely feel the clamp of firm lips halfway down my shaft, tongue working the underside eagerly to milk my come out of me. I couldn’t tell you definitively which one of them swallowed my come, but I like to think it was Tim.

There was no cuddling afterwards, no “you give great head,” just a quick “thanks” from Gina and a nervous “you know we never do that” from Tim.

“Me either,” I told them, and dabbed my spit-covered cock and pussy-slick face with the same white hotel towel.


So what does it all mean? Bisexual is such a strange word, and however much I love pussy I still feel gay.

I still love sex with guys more than anything. But you’d be amazed at how easy it is to pick up chicks in San Francisco when all you can think of doing is eating their pussies and sucking their boyfriends’ cocks. Maybe they know that I’ve got a lot of time to make up for, and I can’t wait to get started. Very few of them look like Pamela Anderson, but then, very few of them insist that I not be bisexual. So I don’t bother telling them one way or another, and if anyone asks, I’m the world’s gayest pussyhound. Call Guinness if you want. Or, better yet, just call my cell phone.

About the author:

Zach Addams is a San Francisco queer who is fine being called bisexual if you really need him to be. His work has appeared in several erotic anthologies including MASTER, edited by N.T. Morley.