Saturday, January 11, 2014

The Girl Behind the Glory Hole

I was expecting at least the rudiments of an interview, the day I finally plucked up the nerve to answer the vaguely worded advertisement at the back of the local free paper; decode the shadowed suggestions and hints that the dark voice who answered the phone let slip; and then show up at the cafe one wet afternoon. Yes, I was expecting an interview. Instead, I got a lecture. A very, very short lecture, because he’s not a man to use three words when a simple grunt will suffice. But, a lecture nonetheless.

“Three rules. No talking, no time wasting, and no mess on the floor. Spit, swallow, smear it on your skin, I don’t care what you do. But I don’t want to see any cum on the carpets, none on the walls, and none on your clothes. Any questions?”

I shook my head. He’d already shown me to my “office,” as he called it, a three foot square cubicle with pale lilac walls and, at varying heights on three of them, a series of holes. Through which the johns would poke their peckers, in expectation of the time of their lives. There was a pair of identical cubicles on either side, each one servicing three more walls worth of guests apiece. On a busy night, I imagined this as one of the happiest houses in town!

“First few times, you’ll probably only be able to handle one at a time,” Deidre (a pseudonym), a forty-something bleached blonde, told me as I sat sipping coffee before my first shift began. “Give it a couple of days, though, and you’ll have three on the go at a time, one on each wall, and all three of them will believe that they’re the only man in the world. Assuming,” she added, “you’re any good.”

She paused. “So are you?”


“Any good?”

I think I must have flushed a little, because her eyes softened and she smiled a little. “I think so...” I began, and she interrupted with a laugh. “You’ve never had any complaints yet, right?”

“Right,” I smiled back.

“You won’t get any here either. Or, at least, not many. There’s always the odd guy who will kick up a fuss, saying he didn’t cum hard enough, or you brought him off too quickly. But Mike deals with them, and they don’t complain for long. Most of our customers, they’re so happy to get a pair of lips around their cock, they wouldn’t know a ‘good’ blow if you spent all night giving tongue baths.

“No, what I mean by good is - you’ve got to be quick. And you’ve got to be able to move around quickly. One night I had five cocks at once, all sticking through those holes like it was the most urgent thing in the world, and it was my job to agree with them.”

“Five?” But there are only three walls, I was going to say, but Deirdre beat me to it. “They double up. Two guys staggering home from the bar, drunk and horny... they just bundle into a cubicle together and don’t think anything of it.”

I tried to picture the scene from my angle, one dick at mouth height, the other in my hair... my god, you could get whiplash trying to please them both. But Deirdre just laughed, a warm sort-of-cackle, and started laying out a side of the job I had never even thought of.

Mike did not offer any health benefits. But it had some, regardless. “It’ll save you a fortune in skin care products. If you grind your teeth or have TMJ, sucking cock is the greatest exercise in the world. I know, because it worked for me. And if you ever want to give up smoking...” she nodded at the Newport I’d lit up... “Well… it’ll help you out there as well. Every time you feel like a cigarette, just suck some cock instead.”

I stubbed out my cigarette.

“You’re up.” The door to the cubicle in front of me opened, and an absolutely stunning woman stepped out, looking like she’d just spent the day relaxing at the spa. In fact, she’d just spent three hours on her knees, but her skin glowed, her hair shone, her eyes danced and her smile flashed.

Deirdre introduced me, and the girl, Cass, inclined her head, and then stood aside as I rose and walked into the cubicle. I looked around. Just as Mike said, the room was spotless; not even a balled-up tissue or two in the wastepaper basket, and the little hand basin was sparkling too. I adjusted a few of the cushions that were scattered on the floor, then took a deep breath and pressed the little buzzer that let the front desk know I was ready to begin.

Okay. You’re probably wondering what sort of girl would willingly sign up to spend six hours day (in two shifts of three), five days a week, on her knees in a box sucking stranger’s cocks? Well, I’ll tell you.

I’m twenty-eight, and I’m putting myself through college. So I need the money, and this pays well. Better than waitressing, better than dancing, better than stripping and, from what I’ve heard, better than whoring.

I enjoy sex, of course I do. But I also see sex for what it is, as opposed to what we all dream it is. A physical transaction between two people, one who wants to get his rocks off, and one who is willing to help him.

I love giving blowjobs, that‘s true. But sucking off strangers is very, very different to sucking off my boyfriend, or someone I’m involved with. Or even know. It’s not a love thing, it’s not a lust thing, and it’s not even a desire thing. It’s just... a thing. With someone you have feelings for it can be the most intimate act imaginable. With someone you don’t know from Adam, it’s no different to giving them a massage. In fact, it is a massage, in a way. A part of your body is in contact with a part of theirs, and if you can overlook the fact that it’s your mouth and their penis, as opposed your hands and their shoulders (and you can overlook it, a lot faster than you’d expect), it really isn’t that big a deal any longer. And if that makes you look at me with different eyes, or not want to hear any more of my story, then that’s up to you.

I suck cock for a living and I love my job. But that doesn’t mean I have to love every cock that I suck. I don’t love every drop of semen that they pump onto my hand, face, or onto my tits or anywhere else. I just need to pretend that I do.

Mike had said “no talking,” and at first I thought that meant we had to remain completely silent. No, it just means no long conversations. Three cocks into my first day, and a tap on the door from Deirdre let me know I’d already had my first complaint. I didn’t tell the last guy what a massive, handsome prick he had, and the best-tasting helmet I had ever had in my mouth. “They like that kind of thing,” she laughed. “And they leave bigger tips as well.” 


So after that, every cock that I sucked was... well, you can imagine. And if two came in together (and I got my first of those that lunchtime), then both of them were so hot and hard that “I wish I had two mouths so I could taste you both at once.”

I learned to make sounds in the back of my throat, moans of pleasure, of hunger, of greed. Well, I didn’t exactly learn; I already knew how to do that. I’d just never thought about it in the past, because they always came out naturally. Now, I conjured them out of nowhere, and they all added to my customer’s delight.

There are the guys who tell you precisely where they want to cum, and it’s your job to make them believe they have done so. “So sweet on my tongue... so thick on my face... it’s dripping from my nipples...” - and more than once I’ve laid it on so thick (figuratively speaking - unlike Cass, I [italic]|always] fill the waste bin) that a sucked soft cock is suddenly coming back to life, and the first time that happened, I was jerking him in one hand while hanging out the cubicle door, asking one of the other girls what do I do?

Give him a freebie? Ask for straight cash? Neither. Press the other buzzer, and someone would come and explain the situation to him nicely. You’ve already had what you paid for. If you want it again, you pay up again. And, like I said, they explain it nicely. This one paid again, and yeah, he left a great tip as well.

The Money
Compared to some of the places I’ve heard about, Mike is a saint. Thirty percent of what the customers pay goes to the house. But the other seventy goes to the girl. There’s more than one joint in this same town that flips those percentages completely, but Mike has so many other sidelines running here as well, from the coffee shop out front (the original cafe), to the liquor in the back room, the peep show and dirty films, and probably a few lines I don’t want to know about, that he can afford to be a generous employer. Tips we throw into a communal bowl, and divide them up at the end of each shift. On a good week I can earn my next month’s rent; in a good month, I can pay off half a term’s tuition.

We get plenty of mouthwash with a brandy infusion. For obvious reasons, condoms and dental dams are forbidden, unless the customer specifically asks for them - and one or two do. But baby wipes are not out of place, and we all get checkups on a regular basis, for our sake and for the customers’. I’ve only ever had one case where a dick looked like it might not be as healthy as it ought to be (no, you don’t want the details), so I pressed the buzzer, the other buzzer, and whatever transpired on the other side of the wall was said softly and persuasively enough that I never heard another word about it.

Well, there are the ones that Deidre warned me about, the ones who don’t feel they got their money’s worth, or demand their money back altogether. Mike handles them. The ones we’re on our own with are, to put it gently, the gents who are either so excited, or so nervous (and occasionally, so out of shape or otherwise ailing) that they can’t get an erection to begin with.

Those are the ones we talk to sweetly, softly, try and coax them into some kind of life with loving words, and it’s surprising how often that works. Or you suckle on their softness for a while and... I didn’t even know this was possible, but it’s a lot more common than you might think; you bring them to orgasm without them even attaining a decent erection.

Or there are the poor souls who really are a lost cause, and you send them away disappointed because there is nothing else you can do. But you know what’s strange? They are often the best tippers of all. They may not have got what most guys come for, but maybe they got what they needed the most, which is a few words of sympathy, a few words of affection, something that helped them see that their dysfunction is not the end of the world.

And if they should return a few days or weeks later, and mention that their last visit prompted them to go see their doctor, and he was able to fix their little problem, then that’s just terrific. I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan of little blue pills and things; I’d rather see someone get help for the problem, and not get fobbed off with some chemical that will mask what’s really happening. If I can point someone in one direction rather than the other... well, let’s just say, those are often the occasions when I enjoy my job most of all.

And enjoyment is important. I said before, I view my work as a series of transactions; the customer’s need being fulfilled by a capable professional. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that at least a couple of times every shift, which means four or five times in each working day, I am confronted by a cock that I could happily take home and make a fuss over all night.

I like the middle-aged ones the best. It surprised me just how quickly I learned to tell them apart. Some of the girls say a cock is a cock, but they are either lying or they are jaded. For me, every penis is different and, while I’ve definitely trained myself to see the good points about each, there are those where my training just goes out of the window and I feel like a first-timer all over again. Sucking not because it’s my job and I want a good tip, but because I want to make its owner feel good, because doing so will make me feel good too.

The first time I ever orgasmed purely from the excitement of giving head, I was with a college boyfriend in his car on a road trip some place, and I put it down to the thrill (not to mention the insane illegality) of sucking cock in a moving vehicle. Now I know different. It doesn’t need to be the right circumstances. It needs to be the right cock.

So even on those days when, to put it bluntly, blowing strangers really is the last thing I want to be doing with my time, at the back of my mind there is always the caveat - until the right stranger comes along. Because then, it’ll be the only thing I want to do, and my only regret is the time-wasting rule. Mike wants them in and out in ten minutes. Sometimes, it’s been fifteen and I’m still only just getting started.

But never, ever mix business with pleasure. Nobody knows that I work here; none of my friends even knows this place exists. I would never date a customer, or even give him a clue as to who I am... their fantasy, whether they know it or not, is the disembodied mouth and voice on the other side of the glory hole, who will give them what they need without question or qualm. And mine... well, my fantasies are that I’ll keep on loving my job for as long as I need the money, and if I’m lucky maybe for a while after that.

We all need to work, to eat and pay rent, and most of the jobs in the real world today seem determined to keep you on your knees till the day you retire. And given the option of sucking figurative ass or literal cock.... well, I made that decision eight months ago.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Reclaiming "cocksucker" for those who deserve it

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Living Dangerously... it was Delicious!

We all did things in our youths that we are now slightly alarmed by (or, at least, I hope we all did!) And now, in adulthood, maybe we'd like to again. A look back at the years of "I just wasn't thinking," and how not thinking again could be the best thing you've done.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

My New Website is Up and Running!

I did it!  It's only January 2 (well, almost the 3rd) and I actually fulfilled one of my New Year's Resolutions!

True, it was a four year old New Year's Resolution, but that's not the point.

My new website is up and running.

Most of you will know that I write and publish a lot of stories.  Well, now you can read all about them, and more besides.

Just head on over to Constantly Chrissie, and there I'll be.

Looking forward to seeing you there!


Blowing Smoke

Sex and cigarettes - the history and mystery of the smoking fetish.

I have to admit, it took me by surprise. As long as I have worked alongside Marcus, he has been almost evangelical in his loathing of smoking. I do mean evangelical, all hands wafting fresh air in front of his face, pointedly opening windows if there’s even a whiff of tobacco in the air, and furiously pontificating on the dangers of second-hand smoke, even when the nearest puffer is on the other side of the street.

So, when he asked me if he could join me on my lunch break, knowing full well that a good twenty minutes of it would be consumed by my getting a nicotine hit or three in the parking lot across the way... yeah, I was surprised. I was even more surprised when, before we’d even crossed the rod, he asked if I had a cigarette.

At first I thought he wanted it for himself, and a shadow crossed his face when I offered him one. “No, I meant for yourself.” I probably looked at him more strangely than I intended to, lit up - and I swear he sighed happily. Which, much later, I discovered he did.

Marcus is capnolagnic, and perhaps stranger still, he’s a nicotine-free capnolagnic. A non-smoker with a smoking fetish.

It’s an odd one, isn’t it, and probably not one that gets that much coverage any longer. The anti-smoking brigade has seen to that, and if you want to mull the irony for a moment, how bizarre it is that consenting adults can discuss and indulge almost any kink they like, from flagellation to electrocution, and listeners will nod, “whatever floats your boat.”

However, smoking is such a social no-no now that even acknowledging you like a quick puff now and again can see you ostracized from society. Some companies can even dismiss you for being a smoker, because of the strain it places on the health insurance bill.

Being capnolagnic is not the same as being a smoker. In itself it poses no health risks, unless, of course, you are at all wary of the effects of second-hand smoke. In which case, it probably isn’t a fetish you would want to entertain. Or maybe you would. A lot of fetishes, after all, demand the pushing and even removal of certain barriers and conditioning. Well, this is just another that falls into that category.

The fetish itself is primarily a visual one, and appears to be rooted in Victorian and Edwardian (19th/very early 20th century) society’s disapproval of women smoking. It has nothing to do with health. It was a sign, it was said, of low morals; of loose virtues. The only women who smoked in public, it was believed, were prostitutes and ladies of similar standing; to do so, then, was an act of open defiance, even rebellion, that the early organizers of women’s suffrage were very quick to pick up on.

Their struggle, after all, was not simply for votes. It was for equal rights in all arenas, and that included shaking off the shackles of what was and wasn’t considered ladylike behavior. Anybody who doubted the effectiveness of their methods was then promptly shaken from their complacency when Alice Roosevelt, the President’s daughter, was asked to leave the lobby of a Chicago hotel after lighting up a cigarette. Management thought she was a hooker, because who else would smoke in public?

So, the smoking woman was a powerful woman, a determined woman, and an elegant woman.

Or maybe she was a hooker. That delightful French phrase tailler une pipe (literally, “cut, or make, a pipe”) derived from the secret signals of 19th century prostitutes who would signal their availability (and their willingness to fellate a client) by hand-rolling a cigarette between their fingers, and doing so as slowly and seductively as they could. They would then lift it to their lips, light it and inhale deeply and visibly; this meant they also swallowed.

A powerful, determined, elegant woman who swallows? The fascination is becoming clearer by the moment.

The queen of the smoking fetishists was Greta Garbo. In 1927’s Flesh and the Devil she caused a mighty stir in the scene where she walks up to the officer (John Gilbert) to request a light for her cigarette. As he reaches for his matches, she removes the cigarette from her mouth and places it into his. Then, when he finally strikes a light, she blows it out. Tame by modern standards, but the movie’s audience whooped and cheered the entire sequence.

Author Dave Thompson, in his XXX movie history Black and White and Blue, discusses a number of stag films dating from the first decades of the last century, several of which advance from the simple cigarette in the mouth, to placing it elsewhere for the delight of the viewing public. Thompson writes, “Many of the women in stag movies are avid smokers, and the puffing pudendum can be espied across the pre-World War Two landscape, included in such efforts as 1938’s A Trip To Treasure Island, and the Cuban Hot Rod.”

However, he also points out that “The imagery was still making sporadic comebacks as late as the mid-1960s How To Be Pals,” suggesting that old habits die hard.

In these instances, the insertion of a lit cigarette into a vagina (filtered end first, don’t worry) is probably little more than the stag movie makers simply seeing how far they can take an idea before the audience loses interest - a practice, of course, that remains common today, as anyone who has wondered why modern porn stars enjoy spitting up one another’s asses will testify. Such actions have nothing, or very little, to do with sex; they are simply attempts to go further than anyone else, and maybe there’ll be enough like-minded people out there to transform your invention into a full-bodied sexual practice.

The pack-a-day pussy is one of the ideas that didn’t take off. However, capnolagnia remained (and remains) a dignified, refined, and essentially solitary pursuit in which the sight of a woman sitting, smoking - whether she’s aware she’s being viewed or not - is satisfaction in itself.

It is primarily a male fascination, for obvious reasons, although studies (of which there seem to be surprisingly few) indicate that bisexual and gay women may also have an interest. Again, presumably, for obvious reasons.

Those same studies hypothesize that capnolagia suggests an interest in oral sex on the part of the male viewer, but we can probably overlook that - a guy who likes blowjobs. What a shocker! Whether or not it indicates that the smoker shares a similar interest has, sadly, been left unsurmised. Perhaps a woman who smokes is more orally inclined than one who doesn’t, but there are enough non-smoking fellatrices (and, contrarily, chain-smoking “get that thing away from my face”-ers) out there to render the discussion moot. And, apparently (because we aretalking about human nature here), there is a sub-section of enthusiasts for whom the damage caused by cigarettes is itself the root of the fascination - so-called “Black Lung Fetishists,” although one imagines they’d have a very long wait for any kind of gratification.

Advertisers played their part in popularizing capnolagnia. All those ads we remember from the 70's and before, pushing new brands of elegant cigarettes at women and illustrating them with glamour girls sucking hard on a menthol death stick? They weren’t only aimed at women, you know. I once came upon a scrapbook on eBay, comprised of nothing but vintage women’s cigarette advertisements, and watched in astonishment as the bid price rose towards three figures. It may have sold to an innocent tobacciana collector. However, my guess would be otherwise.

Madmen notwithstanding, however, the 21st century is a bad, bad time to be a smoking fetishist. No longer can they sit in a quiet bar, getting their kicks from simply watching their fellow drinkers puff away. Rare is the movie in which a girl will do a Greta Garbo, as the anti-smoking bandwagon deletes even the suggestion of cigarettes from most mainstream productions. Seldom are they approached in public by a pretty little thing who poises her Newport between ruby lips and softly asks, “do you have a light, please?”

There is a thriving underground, however, and in the absence of any academic or otherwise informative links to offer in my bibliography, I’ve included a few links to it below. Smoking fetish fiction has a well-established place on the internet, and there are Tumblr sites that also are dedicated to nothing but “Smoxploitation” movies. In these movies, beautiful women simply smoke provocatively, and these sites and movies have an avid following, while more hardcore delights have also been catered for. Finally, some diligent digging on the tube sites can usually turn up a few “smoking blowjob” clips; a scenario which really must represent the best of both worlds to the confirmed capnolagnic.

It certainly did for Marcus.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Do You Remember The First Time?

There's a first time for everything, and it may not be the greatest. But it's always the time you remember the best....

The first time he tied, or handcuffed you down, then brought out the toys. Done badly, it is just annoying. Done correctly, with a smart guy who follows your body’s lead, it can be the most exquisite torture on earth - and all the more so because you don’t have a clue what he will do next, or how your body will respond. It’s something that no amount of imaginative solo play can forewarn you about, and if there’s tickling or tongues involved as well, then you might as well trade your whole body in for putty. 


The first time you watched one another masturbate. I’ve never subscribed to the belief that watching your partner bring him/herself off is a reliable way of learning what they really like. You see the movements, but you don’t see the pressure, you gauge the speed, but you can’t judge their timing. So don’t even try to learn. Just revel in the imagery, and encourage them to play as well. Introduce toys, talk about fantasies. Then store the thoughts away, because you will want to come back to them later.

The first time you watched a porno together and found its intentions matched yours to the letter. I’ll admit, a lot of modern XXX movies leave me kinda cold, veering off in directions that I’d never want to try (spit in my ass and I’ll fart in your face). But occasionally you’ll find one that... well, to put it simply, you could have directed it yourself.

A great movie, when we talk about “mainstream” productions, is one that touches a part of your soul that you don’t normally expect to be affected by a DVD. It might make you cry, it might make you yearn, it might make you fall in love. Strangely, or maybe not, I didn’t like the movie that illustrates this article. I just don’t think it got it. But V For Vendetta gets me ever time - that final scene when the people gather, and the Parliament building goes up in fireworks. The sense that no matter what the government decrees, the will of the people is ultimately stronger.

Love Actually. It’s sappy and silly and parts are just creepy. But its overall message and the heartstrings it tugs... they’re priceless. And so is The Opening of Misty Beethoven... a seventies porno whose plot (yes it has one) I won’t spoil, but which balances exquisite beauty with naked eroticism. Although I probably still won’t be taking that one along to the local movie society’s open night.

The first time... Ah, but now it’s your turn. Either in the comments below, or in your own mind. What experience did you sample for the first time, some time long ago (or maybe even just recently), and once it was over, and throughout it as well, realize that this was a moment you will never recreate, no matter how many times you repeat it? A moment when your entire being shook to something that it had never felt before, and responded with such ecstasy that you could float on the memory for the rest of your life. Or at least until another thrill comes along?

Your first threesome, your first whipping. Your first submission, your first stab at anal. It could be anything, so long as it means everything. Because that is why first times are so important to us, why we should treasure their memories and keep them alive. Life in general, and sex in general too, can often fade into a succession of ... I don’t want to say “mundane encounters,” because they’re usually fun while they’re happening. But once you’ve (for instance) blown your boyfriend in the car a few times, the memories do all tend to blur a little, and very few will stand out as especially special.

Apart from the first time. When half of you is frightened, in case someone comes along and sees, and half of you is wondering how this will even work; part of you is petrified that the car will crash and you’ll be rushed to the ER with your boyfriend’s dick still gnashed between your teeth (enjoy explaining that away to the doctor); and part of you... well, you get the picture. But there’s a part of you that is excitedly thinking “oh my God, I’m going to do it,” and you wouldn’t lose that sensation for the world.

That’s what the first time is about. Stepping into the unknown, stepping out of your doubts, experiencing something you have never tried before. And loving it.

I saw my friend again a month or so later... the friend with the husband who made the list, remember? And of course I had to ask her if she’d followed my advice. She had, she said, and the first time “felt weird, but then I really got into it.”

The first time?” I asked and she gave a dirty laugh. “Now I’ve seen how much he likes it, and I enjoy it too...” then she told me something else. She went to check that the list had been updated, and she found it in the trashcan instead. Those past experiences were cyphers now, no longer relevant to his fantasies, because he had the real thing in his bed. And I bet if she ever asked him about their first time, every detail would be preserved in his head, and all the girls before would be fading from memory already.

All, I would guess, apart from the first time.

You always remember the first time.