Bye Bye Blackbird by Morgan Starr
Categories: Contemporary Romance | LGBT
Word Count: 20,920 Heat Rating: 3 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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Andy is a 45-year-old bisexual man labouring under the weight of his disappointment in the ever growing list of his failed romances. In having to deal face-to-face with the reality of his parents’ divorce after 46 years of marriage, he is confronted by two startling revelations that knock the wind out of his sails. Will he ever be able to find that one true love?
I would be very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: MorganStarrAuthor@outlook.com. Please visit my website, www.MorganStarrAuthor.weebly.com, for updates on my next story. Thank you, Morgan |
Chapter One - Animal, Vegetable or Mineral
He’s got that disbelieving look on his face; I’ve seen it a hundred times before. He’s thinking ‘no; you’re gay but too scared to admit it’. The sneer would have been translated as ‘no; you’re just bloody greedy!’
Why didn’t I lie and just say that I was gay and guarantee myself a shag rather than subject myself to the fucking Spanish Inquisition - albeit tacitly.
“Bisexual?”
If I said I was a fucking alien, people would have less trouble accepting the fact. Some people like men, and some like women, and some like both ... is it that fucking difficult to understand, and why does it so often appear that my auditor eyes me with fear and suspicion?
“Yes ... Did you want another drink or-”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure ... So-”
“I don’t think I could go with a guy who’s had his cock in-”
“Right then; thanks for the drink.”
Sadly, there are those gay men who view women as an alien race - what’s not to like? Soft where I’m hard; fragrant where I’m musky; a darn sight more fucking considerate - although not always; tidier ... endowed with breasts and well, let’s be reasonably delicate ... pussy. Do we like that word? Not sure - better than cunt, which I hate.
“So you just wake up and think do I want cock today or pussy?”
“I wake up every morning and think I want coffee ... whether I want cock or pussy doesn’t usually figure until I meet someone, and I can honestly say that I don’t think about that as much as most people [you] imagine ...”
“But you want cock tonight?”
“I did ... because I felt attracted to you.”
“But if you were attracted to say ...” he looks around the bar and tries to locate someone that maybe he thinks conforms to my pattern for the ideal female companion - a brunette by the bar, standing with a colleague from work, I assume - not a bad choice.
“... her; you’d go for it just like you did with me; is that how it works?”
“On one level ... the lines between men and women are blurred ... I see less of the gender and more of the possibility for a connection.” I’m loath to add ‘but I don’t expect someone like you to understand’ because actually he looked to be a tad more open-minded than the usual buff, vapid, clueless, cock-centric millennials who inhabit the bars in this part of town.
“You did want but not now?”
“Up to you ...”
oOo
“Andy, right?”
“Yes; and you’re Marc with a c not a k ... drink?”
“No; I’m good, thanks ... Nice place.”
“Thanks ... I’m going to have a vodka; sure I can’t tempt you?”
“No; thanks ... What do you do again?”
“I design Point Of Sale display units for the cosmetic industry ... the new counters in Boots are my design ...”
He’s thinking poncy but obviously well-paid - I don’t think I have ever met a group that is more judgemental and intolerant as the crowd of thirty-something gay men who inhabit this town. The twenty-somethings are too busy shagging to care, and anyone my age - 45 - or older, is just too fucking grateful for a shag to pass judgement. Actually, we’re just nicer people as a rule. I should stick to my generation but what can I say? I like firmer flesh, and Marc obviously likes the Daddy look. The brunette by the bar obviously liked it too, judging by the smile she threw me when Marc and I left.
Guys in their 30s have entitlement issues - the biggest, being that they feel entitled to everything without a shred of gratitude.
“What do you do?”
“Didn’t I say?”
Yes; but I’ve forgotten because it was forgettable.
“... I manage the mobile phone shop in the precinct ... Are you a top?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Are we going to work our way through all the stereotypes tonight?
“Total top,” I lie, secretly planning to ravage his hole and give him reason to wish it was Sunday tomorrow so that he doesn’t have to work behind the counter all day with a sore arse.
“Kinda thought you would be ... Shall we then?”
Yes; you think I stick my cock in whatever hole happens to be available, regardless of gender - I’m a fuck machine, a nympho, an addict, undiscerning, selfish, arrogant and abnormal, possibly dangerous but strangely alluring, and whether getting fucked by a bisexual man was on your bucket list or not, you’ll be able to tick it off now - and won’t your friends be impressed!
“Yeah; the bedroom is through there. I’m just going to use the bathroom.”
I’m not a total top by any means; in fact, I’m very versatile. Labels are annoying and get in the way of having a meaningful and enjoyable time. Why create expectations, which are inevitably wrong; why not just enjoy life - and sex - for everything it has to offer?
It wasn’t always like that of course. Along with most of my contemporaries, I closeted myself and dated safe brunettes with nice breasts and pert bums. In always wanting her to don a strap-on and give it to me up the arse, it should’ve given me a clue to my true nature. Then, and you’d have to say fortuitously, I met Wendy and Bryan. Twenty-one and clueless, slightly drunk and looking across the dance floor with eyes as bright and round as two-pound coins. A conspiratorial look passed between them; Wendy approached me - a safer strategy for reeling in the hopefuls, I guess.
“Want to dance?”
They were a little older than me; as it turns out 26. The confidence translated through nice clothes and tans, discreet jewellery and a BMW 3 series.
“Okay ...”
She grabbed my hand and towed me to Bryan, who smiled - if he’d winked, I’d have run a mile - and with practised ease, I was sandwiched between them. Wendy was in front, diverting attention away from the fact that Bryan was fondling my arse. I was petrified but willing - the equivalent of bungee jumping.
It was impossible to hold a conversation except with our eyes. Wendy was sweet but definitely self-assured, and I liked the way her breasts swayed to the beat of the music. Concentrating on her gyrations - a kind of easy and fluid Sixties hippie flower power personal gig - I was only peripherally aware of the fact that Bryan had slipped his hands around my waist and had pushed them into my jeans’ pockets, framing my package, kneading my thighs through the thinner pocket lining material. I can’t remember specifically but I guess his cock was pressed into my arse.
When he whispered, “Want to head off soon?” I’d nodded. He’d gripped and ground tighter. Wendy had smiled, one presumes knowing the format. Fifteen minutes later, we were picking up our jackets from the cloakroom and looking for car keys and cigarettes.
They had a tidy little flat on the new development. Conversation en route had been confined to work and something about their last holiday - Ibiza. Once we were through the door, the routine was in full-swing - vodka, spliff, low lighting, Sade playing through top-of-the-range speakers and a box of rose-scented Turkish Delight.
No questions asked; clothes came off as and when until we were naked - I can’t imagine why I didn’t feel more self-conscious. Only when Bryan commented on the size of my cock did I really think about what I was doing, and what was coming next. You might have said that they were predatory but that would have been overstating things to a very large degree. Nothing got explicitly discussed, explained or requested ... we flowed into the moment, taking advantage of the big floor cushion in the middle of the lounge.
“Fuck me, Andy ...”
He’s got that disbelieving look on his face; I’ve seen it a hundred times before. He’s thinking ‘no; you’re gay but too scared to admit it’. The sneer would have been translated as ‘no; you’re just bloody greedy!’
Why didn’t I lie and just say that I was gay and guarantee myself a shag rather than subject myself to the fucking Spanish Inquisition - albeit tacitly.
“Bisexual?”
If I said I was a fucking alien, people would have less trouble accepting the fact. Some people like men, and some like women, and some like both ... is it that fucking difficult to understand, and why does it so often appear that my auditor eyes me with fear and suspicion?
“Yes ... Did you want another drink or-”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure ... So-”
“I don’t think I could go with a guy who’s had his cock in-”
“Right then; thanks for the drink.”
Sadly, there are those gay men who view women as an alien race - what’s not to like? Soft where I’m hard; fragrant where I’m musky; a darn sight more fucking considerate - although not always; tidier ... endowed with breasts and well, let’s be reasonably delicate ... pussy. Do we like that word? Not sure - better than cunt, which I hate.
“So you just wake up and think do I want cock today or pussy?”
“I wake up every morning and think I want coffee ... whether I want cock or pussy doesn’t usually figure until I meet someone, and I can honestly say that I don’t think about that as much as most people [you] imagine ...”
“But you want cock tonight?”
“I did ... because I felt attracted to you.”
“But if you were attracted to say ...” he looks around the bar and tries to locate someone that maybe he thinks conforms to my pattern for the ideal female companion - a brunette by the bar, standing with a colleague from work, I assume - not a bad choice.
“... her; you’d go for it just like you did with me; is that how it works?”
“On one level ... the lines between men and women are blurred ... I see less of the gender and more of the possibility for a connection.” I’m loath to add ‘but I don’t expect someone like you to understand’ because actually he looked to be a tad more open-minded than the usual buff, vapid, clueless, cock-centric millennials who inhabit the bars in this part of town.
“You did want but not now?”
“Up to you ...”
oOo
“Andy, right?”
“Yes; and you’re Marc with a c not a k ... drink?”
“No; I’m good, thanks ... Nice place.”
“Thanks ... I’m going to have a vodka; sure I can’t tempt you?”
“No; thanks ... What do you do again?”
“I design Point Of Sale display units for the cosmetic industry ... the new counters in Boots are my design ...”
He’s thinking poncy but obviously well-paid - I don’t think I have ever met a group that is more judgemental and intolerant as the crowd of thirty-something gay men who inhabit this town. The twenty-somethings are too busy shagging to care, and anyone my age - 45 - or older, is just too fucking grateful for a shag to pass judgement. Actually, we’re just nicer people as a rule. I should stick to my generation but what can I say? I like firmer flesh, and Marc obviously likes the Daddy look. The brunette by the bar obviously liked it too, judging by the smile she threw me when Marc and I left.
Guys in their 30s have entitlement issues - the biggest, being that they feel entitled to everything without a shred of gratitude.
“What do you do?”
“Didn’t I say?”
Yes; but I’ve forgotten because it was forgettable.
“... I manage the mobile phone shop in the precinct ... Are you a top?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Are we going to work our way through all the stereotypes tonight?
“Total top,” I lie, secretly planning to ravage his hole and give him reason to wish it was Sunday tomorrow so that he doesn’t have to work behind the counter all day with a sore arse.
“Kinda thought you would be ... Shall we then?”
Yes; you think I stick my cock in whatever hole happens to be available, regardless of gender - I’m a fuck machine, a nympho, an addict, undiscerning, selfish, arrogant and abnormal, possibly dangerous but strangely alluring, and whether getting fucked by a bisexual man was on your bucket list or not, you’ll be able to tick it off now - and won’t your friends be impressed!
“Yeah; the bedroom is through there. I’m just going to use the bathroom.”
I’m not a total top by any means; in fact, I’m very versatile. Labels are annoying and get in the way of having a meaningful and enjoyable time. Why create expectations, which are inevitably wrong; why not just enjoy life - and sex - for everything it has to offer?
It wasn’t always like that of course. Along with most of my contemporaries, I closeted myself and dated safe brunettes with nice breasts and pert bums. In always wanting her to don a strap-on and give it to me up the arse, it should’ve given me a clue to my true nature. Then, and you’d have to say fortuitously, I met Wendy and Bryan. Twenty-one and clueless, slightly drunk and looking across the dance floor with eyes as bright and round as two-pound coins. A conspiratorial look passed between them; Wendy approached me - a safer strategy for reeling in the hopefuls, I guess.
“Want to dance?”
They were a little older than me; as it turns out 26. The confidence translated through nice clothes and tans, discreet jewellery and a BMW 3 series.
“Okay ...”
She grabbed my hand and towed me to Bryan, who smiled - if he’d winked, I’d have run a mile - and with practised ease, I was sandwiched between them. Wendy was in front, diverting attention away from the fact that Bryan was fondling my arse. I was petrified but willing - the equivalent of bungee jumping.
It was impossible to hold a conversation except with our eyes. Wendy was sweet but definitely self-assured, and I liked the way her breasts swayed to the beat of the music. Concentrating on her gyrations - a kind of easy and fluid Sixties hippie flower power personal gig - I was only peripherally aware of the fact that Bryan had slipped his hands around my waist and had pushed them into my jeans’ pockets, framing my package, kneading my thighs through the thinner pocket lining material. I can’t remember specifically but I guess his cock was pressed into my arse.
When he whispered, “Want to head off soon?” I’d nodded. He’d gripped and ground tighter. Wendy had smiled, one presumes knowing the format. Fifteen minutes later, we were picking up our jackets from the cloakroom and looking for car keys and cigarettes.
They had a tidy little flat on the new development. Conversation en route had been confined to work and something about their last holiday - Ibiza. Once we were through the door, the routine was in full-swing - vodka, spliff, low lighting, Sade playing through top-of-the-range speakers and a box of rose-scented Turkish Delight.
No questions asked; clothes came off as and when until we were naked - I can’t imagine why I didn’t feel more self-conscious. Only when Bryan commented on the size of my cock did I really think about what I was doing, and what was coming next. You might have said that they were predatory but that would have been overstating things to a very large degree. Nothing got explicitly discussed, explained or requested ... we flowed into the moment, taking advantage of the big floor cushion in the middle of the lounge.
“Fuck me, Andy ...”
