Evenings in Paris

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Although I had great freedom as a kid, to roam and play with other kids, I lived in a very 'morally'-restrictive place: Ireland. It wasn't until I was 21 and living in Denmark, that I had my first and only (and marvellous) heterosexual relationship. The thoughtful woman concerned introduced me to my nipples for the first time in my life.



When that ended in the usual 'Best Friend' taking over, I went into years of what I can only call Sexual Grief. These were dismally punctuated by visits to urinals, where unattractive and often seedy (or stinking of aftershave) men waved their members in the hope of a Quick Fix in that department.



It wasn't until I was 39 that I met a man, in Paris (France)who actually attracted me. He had a beautiful beard, and was nicely hairy. I was utterly awestruck.



Unfortunately, I didn't have the experience to make my sexual companionship worthwhile, so this, and many subsequent relationships petered out.



Eventually, however, this slow learner met another man in Paris. Not very attractive, but with a buzz about him that got me hard.



When I brought him back to the flat, the buzz turned into a kind of symphony, in which we seemed to play various instruments by turn and together. We would wrestle erotically, tickle, hug, kiss, play with each other's balls and nipples, do shiatsu on each other's backs, play with each other's feet, tickle toes with our tongues, and that was just the prelude.



I would invite him for dinner, and he would arrive, often straight from work, around 6.30. I would have beautiful spacey music suffusing the flat: Pink Floyd at their best, Klaus Schulze at his, Terry Riley, that sort of flowy stuff. Candles and incense, too : a reaction against my Protestant upbringing.



We would start our sexual sonata with slow, mutual undressing and stroking. Then we would work up almost to a climax....



...and take a break and, still naked, prepare dinner together, with which, of course, we drank champagne or very good Burgundy. The cooking and the eating were erotic in themselves, so we didn't need to touch each other much. And of course I had done most of the preparation beforehand, so we could concentrate on the sheer eroticism of making food together in a small kitchen.



And so we would sit down, and raise our glasses to our already-raised and pulsing cocks. And to each other, of course. I think I'm not allowed to describe inter-erotic eating on this site, so I will fast-forward past the main course.



Things would get really intense when my friend came to the cheese course, which I (via my productive cock) provided. Fresh smegma tastes like a delicate goat-cheese from SW France, in fact it is hard to tell the difference.



Thereafter we would virtually bounce from wall to wall around the flat in zestful and passionate play, and, well after midnight, we would squirt shoutingly, sometimes together and often in each other's beards and moustaches. A spermy beard is a proud thing to wear, and can be carried for days afterwards without other people noticing.



Ever since my first encounter in Paris thirty years ago, I have chosen to masturbate and masturbate with only bearded, and preferably hairy men. I am completely turned on by hairy (preferably unwashed) balls and perineums, and I happily find other men with similar tastes.



I am so glad to have escaped the stultifying anti-sensuality of Ireland, and now live most of the time in spermy ecstasy in France, well-known as a country of cheese-eaters.

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