Frank didn’t vocalize his orgasms. So I never knew he’d cum until he stopped his motion and pulled out of me. Then I’d look over my shoulder with a smile and ask, “Did you cum?”
And Frank, already backing off the bed, his big cock curving downward now, would reply, “Yeah.”
Although normally quite chatty, in the immediate aftermath of sex Frank turned into a man of few words, a regular Clint Eastwood (though not nearly as tall or handsome). Without having to be asked I would back off the bed as well and say, “I’ll go get a towel.” I’d wet one in the bathroom sink and after wiping my crack with it come back out and clean the lube off Frank’s cock. I enjoyed doing this. It was the only contact I had with my lover that wasn’t an act of sex.
Frank didn’t go for touching and hugging and certainly not kissing. The first time we had sex I was leaning against the headboard with him and, in a small show of gratitude, or affection, I leaned over and kissed his left shoulder (or was it the side of his neck)? And Frank said, “I don’t go in for that.” He wasn’t angry, his tone was even, but I got the message all the same: Frank liked fucking other men, and being sucked by them, but it ended there. No shows of affection.
I always brought Frank a pristine hole to fuck. That was one of the things he liked about me, I think. I was older than him; he undoubtedly would have preferred a younger bottom, but after douching myself twice before coming over I provided him with a clean hole and one capable of accommodating the not inconsiderable thickness (and length) of his cock. He had a nice one, all right. Magnificent. And a nice plump pair of balls as well. I loved to fondle them as, down on my knees, I sucked his cock. Got him ready before we climbed on the bed. Frank had only ever fucked me doggy-style. Not doggy-style exactly. I wasn’t up on my knees and elbows, ass in the air. He liked me lying face-down, on my belly, my mid-body bolstered by a couple of his dark-cased pillows. His bed sat atop a platform, in bedroom’s corner, wedged between three walls, with curtained windows on the far side. When you stood on the floor the top of the mattress, even in my tall case, came up to your navel. You literally had to “climb” onto Frank’s bed.
Butted up against the top portion of the bed, and against the same wall as the headboard, was a tall, wide dresser. An antique, I think. Though Frank, a blue-collar guy who worked in some kind of warehouse, wasn’t the type to go around collecting antiques. On its doily were squirt bottles of lube and strips of condoms (magnum-sized) and in the top drawer on the left, various sex toys, including a penis vacuum pump that Frank, amusingly (to him, anyway), had tried on me once. I wasn’t into having an artificially enormous penis (I was into bottoming for them) and I think Frank, just as I had with the aforementioned kiss, got the message. There were dildos and butt-plugs in the drawer but we had no use for them. Wherefore? They were of no use when the real thing, blood and hard flesh, was available.
Frank never bothered with the condoms, and I never made him. The first time he fucked me he started out wearing one, but—unknown to me at the time—he stripped it off at some point and finished in me with his bare cock. I only realized it afterwards, when he pulled out of me. I had mixed emotions as I stared at his unsheathed, now drooping, penis.
“You took the condom off?” I asked, somewhat in amazement.
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” What could I say? I’d just received one of the best fucks of my life. I wanted to come back for more. I wanted to partner Frank in bed on a regular basis, every Saturday afternoon.
“I hate wearing those things,” he added.
“That’s okay,” I said, after a doubtful pause. Then, “I’ll go get a cloth and…”
To be honest, it always thrilled me to know Frank’s deposit of semen was lodged deep inside me, sealed in me now. It brought a smile to my lips and produced in me a warm glow. It made me feel more complete as a lover, as a bottom and submissive, as the “female” in our relationship. I had no hard evidence that Frank was healthy (nor him about me) but he certainly seemed to be. Despite the show of condoms and lube on the dresser I got the feeling Frank had been as starved for sex, and as frustrated from its lack, as I. He seemed a rather lonely figure to me, and not someone who was out fucking everybody on Craigslist.
Though, from that first time on, I’d never been enough for him. He was always advertising for a third person and frequently promised, upon my arrival, that he “definitely” had someone else lined up for today. No one ever showed, however. Like most people on Craigslist, they turned out to be fakers. Cowards. Mere fantasists. I understood, believe me. I myself had failed to show up for more than a few dubious get-togethers with strangers.
So Frank was stuck with me. Just me. I liked it that way; Frank didn’t. I was jealous. Covetous, I guess, is the better word. I wanted that big pleasurable magic wand of his all to myself. Although…if that mythical third person had turned out to be a top, like Frank, and no matter who went first with me, I would have been able to experience the rare pleasure and privilege of bottoming for two men in a single afternoon. Did Frank want to watch? Was that it? Or have all three of us in bed, naked, at the same time? A sexual free-for-all? I don’t know, for sure, what his idea was. I never asked.
I can’t quite remember how or when Frank found out I was a crossdresser. Did he realize it from the very beginning, the first time I sent pics of myself to him? Did I mention it to him in an email? “Oh by the way, if you’re into it I also happen to be…” The first few Saturdays I went over to spend the afternoon with Frank, in his double-wide on the west side of town, the only fem thing I wore was a discreet pair of dark women’s panties. The kind that, from even a short distance, could have been mistaken for a men’s Calvin Klein bikini brief. No lace, in other words. Nothing pastel or flower-patterned or too obviously girly.
Upon my arrival, and very much still fully dressed, Frank and I would sit out on the minimal little wooden deck behind his trailer and drink beer—Keystone Light—and chat. Frank liked to sit and talk—and drink—both before and after sex. Except in the immediate aftermath, that is, as I’ve already mentioned. This was one of the things I liked about my lover. There was no “Wham, bam, thank you…” Frank was not your typical bisexual male, sourced out of desperation, or loneliness, from Craigslist.
After the third or fourth time Frank and I had sex, he, regrettably, went cold on me for some reason, dried up. Like a spy, a reliable double-agent, or a newspaper source. He stopped replying to my increasingly desperate emails and my texts. What was wrong? What had I done? Had he decided I was disgusting? Too old?
After my last visit, after beer and many words on his minimalist deck, we’d parted, as usual, amicably. All smiles but no parting hugs, of course.
“See you next week?”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll see if I can get somebody else to come over.”
Yeah. Whatever.
Three weeks went by. Frank stopped replying to my emails—Thank you for fucking me so well again today! Note I did not use the word “loving,” “loving me”—as well as my texts. I called several times; got voicemail, though I never left one. It got to the point where, jealous lover that I was, I thought about driving the eight long miles to his trailer park and knocking on his door. Had he found someone else? On Craigslist? Someone younger? Less bald? Better looking? A better fuck? (Whatever that meant. All I did was lie there on my stack of pillows and take it, and take it well. Was that the problem?)
Then as the fourth unfulfilled Saturday approached I received—I think it was on a Thursday—an out-of-the-blue buoyant text from Frank. It read something like:
It’s me. I live in the trailer park? You been here before. Want to cum over Sat around 2? Wear your little panties?!?!
I was simultaneously relieved, elated and, well, deflated. Frank, by then, had fucked me multiple times. We’d exchanged countless emails and texts. Did he honestly think I had multiple “Franks” in my phone book who, as well, lived in trailer parks? It sounded highly, almost disrespectfully, impersonal. As if we’d fucked once, months and months ago, and now some lonely guy, out of desperation, was trying to reconnect. On the other hand, it was my lover, Frank. And he wanted me back. He wanted to shoot his cum in me, and what was almost better than this, as a bonus: he wanted me to dress fem for him. Great! I’d wear lace this time!
Yes! I hastily replied. In my panties! What time?
Little matter that he’d already mentioned what time he wanted me over. I was too excited to have noticed! All reservations were swept away. I wanted him back!
From our fourth time together on I wore, under my street clothes, lace microfiber panties, thigh-highs with lace tops and, under my loose-fitting sweatshirt, a very modest B-cup lace bra. I did not go full-fem for Frank, wig and makeup and all, but I was getting there. The fact that he wanted me this way, liked me this way, meant, of course, neighbors being what they are, we could no longer sit out on his deck and drink our beers and chat. We had to reside on his somewhat ratty (no antique, this) sofa before and after bareback sex. Frank’s attitude toward me also changed, in subtle ways. Now, sitting close to me, his non-beer hand might—usually did—stray onto my stockinged left thigh.
Frank even said to me once, near the end, “Nikki, you have great legs.”
“Thanks,” I blushed. “My ex used to say to me… ‘With your legs you should’ve been a girl model.’”
“You should have been.”
“Well…” I wished at this rare, almost tender, moment I’d brought my wig and makeup kit. Everything else I could hide on the drive over under my street clothes. But I could have finished the act, gone full fem for him, after a few brief minutes in Frank’s bathroom.
“You ever go out like this?” I remember him once asking, as he stroked my thigh. I giggled. I was wearing women’s underwear. I was naked aside from that.
“No. No way.”
“There are clubs, you know. Bars. They have crossdresser nights or whatever.”
Had I been wearing my platinum-blonde wig at this moment I would have tucked back a forward curl, tinged red from my lipstick. Instead, “Yeah. There’s one near my apartment. Right down the road…”
“You should go there. I’d come to see you,” Frank claimed. I laughed. I honestly can’t remember if we had this conversation before or after he fucked me, that last time. No, definitely after.
“See me do what?”
“I don’t know. Dance?”
I laughed again. But I was also flattered. “Me? Up on stage? I don’t think so. Besides, it’s a long drive.”
“So? I’d come. You give me a lapdance?”
I was tittering now. It all seemed so absurd, at this fragile moment. Frank, obviously, had been to more than a few gay bars.
“Honey,” I said—dared, “I’d rather you fuck me.”
“We can do that too,” he smiled. In fact, we just had. Frank let the “honey” remark pass. He seemed—for that brief illusory moment—to be opening up. Accepting the nature of his sexuality. Accepting mine. I wanted to suck him again. Bottom for him again. Accept a few more thick drams of his love—his semen—inside me. Deep, dark. Frank’s hand was still on my thigh. I leaned over, into him. Despite everything, I wanted to kiss him. On his bare, bony shoulder. On the side of his neck. On his right cheek. On the mouth, preferably.
“Darling…”
Frank stood up abruptly. He was wearing men’s briefs, the makings of another slanting, constrained hard-on in them. He said, glancing at his bare wrist, “What time is it?”
I had no idea. I only knew, sadly, it was time to leave.
Frank said, “I have neighbors coming over. We’re gonna have a little cook-out.” Frank laughed. “Fourth of July shit, you know. Hot dogs, hamburgers…I’ve been appointed chef.”
Right. I got the message. Knew when I was unwanted, uninvited. I rose. Felt mildly absurd there in my bra and panties and thigh-highs. I really needed my wig and makeup and lipstick to complete the package. Made me look twenty years younger, did it not?
“Well I better be getting out of here,” I said, sadly. I knew the drill.
Frank had mentioned at least twice about his desire to move to Texas, where he was from. Waco, was it? He had family there. Maybe even a job offer from some guy he knew.
After that last typically wonderful fuck Frank went back into the cold on me. I never heard from him again. I’d kind of expected as much. A few silent weeks later I drove through his distant trailer park and discovered—no shock—a For Sale sign outside his double-wide. The place looked empty. It hurt. Obviously I—my crossdressing ass—had not been enough to keep him local. He sought something—someone—else, just as he had in all those Craigslist ads.
It was devastating for me. Perhaps in some small way, I’d fallen in love with Frank. The intimacy of a long, satisfying fuck. His deep deposit of sperm inside me. On the other hand…
My ex-lover had given me a new idea.