THE ROYAL RESIDENCE 4
WARNING: This episode is nastier than usual. Send the kids outside.
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode four. As Mr Cheez was playing nurz this morning,
he regaled me with the tale of the out-of-towners who came by the
club where he is doorman of an evening. One of them had to go
pee and asked if they could come in to take care of this chore.
Mr Cheez told them there was a five-dollar cover charge per
person if they all went in. He let the peer go in while the
others waited outside.
The other male in this matched set of hetties asked, Is this a
queer club. Mr Cheez declared that it wasn't. Well, continued
the hettie, We been up the street a ways and you wouldn't believe
the things we saw! I'm sure Mr Cheez would not only believe what
they saw but would probably help with it or take over -- as would
I.
Stray breeders exploring San Francisco and discovering the
wildlife in the Castro can be both amusing and enraging. They've
heard all the way back to Podunk what to expect in Sodom by the
Sea. Then they come out here and stare at it (and maybe try it
out to see if it really does exist) and then get all upset. I
dare them to pull this shit on Valencia Street with a few diesel
dykes. They could easily end up wearing their balls for a
necktie.
Mr Cheez came over yesterday to just kick back in a major way. I
knew we were going to have a party when he took one of my extra
large size butt doilies and put it under himself as he flopped
down on the end of my bed. I also suspected something was up
because he was wearing a shirt with holes cut to expose his
nipples and the surrounding pec (if you can call it that). (A
bodybuilder Mr Cheez is not, but then I am not one to talk since
I have more than a passing resemblance to the Buddha.) There was
no question about his concerns when he announced, Damn -- I'm
hornier than a three-peckered porcupine.
Next he jumped up and got the shears off my desk. He flopped
back down as before and proceeded to cut the crotch out of his
pants. I was not quite prepared for this. He reached into the
sports bag he had with him and withdrew a small urinary catheter
and a tube of KY jelly. By this time I am rapt with attention.
He's told me about his play times but I had never seen him
perform.
He smeared the business end of the small polyethylene catheter
with jelly and proceeded to insert it into his urethra.
As he began this operation, he remarked that these thin ones were
liable to fall out, but he didn't know who on earth had a dick
big enough for the 24 Fr jobbie an admirer gave me to give him
for Greed Day. A 24 Fr is the size of a pencil. Wheeeeeee!!!
(And you _will_ squeal like a piggy!)
Inch by inch he instroduced it until the tip was snaked through
his prostate (which is in itself a minor trip) and pressing
lightly against the bladder sphincter. Then he paused to begin
another fascinating task, that of running the sharpened point of
a dental pick over the seam in his ballsac, the creases where
thigh meets groin, and up the underside of his shaft. Mr Cheez
likes to hold his urine until the sense of urgency is great.
Then he does these other things to make the tension positively
nextdoor to unbearable.
Putting the pick aside, he again manipulated the catheter until
it passed into his bladder. In a few seconds there was a fine
stream of yellow squirting from the other end and making a dark
spot on the leg of his play pants. He withdrew the catheter to
stop the flow after only a couple ounces of mellow yellow had
been released. He went back to work with the pick and also now
with titclamps. Mr Cheez was having a very good time which
required not my participation but my audience.
Next came the dildoes. The small one went into his back passage
as though it were being sucked in. It had a nice base on it,
porportionally large for its size, but neither of us was sure
this would stop it from becoming unretrievable if used with
complete abandon. It fell out about as easily as it went in.
Next came the larger dildo. Here I got to participate. I
deliberately inserted it with the curvature going the wrong way.
Am I a bitch, or what? Mr Cheez likes to Take It with his legs
thrown up, so I wanted him to have it the anatomically correct
way.
Mr Cheez fondled his meat, picked around, ground into the dildo,
and did all manner of body English but was too tweaked to blast a
nut. I believe he did finally finish peeing on himself and let
it go at that. Interspersed with all this perversion was a
running commentary with questions and answers that would have
done the Marquis de Sade proud. I really don't care what trips
my friends are into so long as I may remain a polite audience and
not feel compelled to participate in what I do not understand.
Mr Cheez is very good about this. All I, personally, really want
is for a horny Mexican 20-something to pump my ass full of jizz.
After some two hours of ministering unto himself, Mr Cheez was
finally able to beat his meat into submission and have a
spectacular nut in the wee hours of this morning. When he gets
like this, he also tends to become dehydrated. His favorite
tipple is a tangerine-flavored beverage completely void of any
life-sustaining properties save simple sugar. He finds my hobby
of guzzling cola-flavored aspartame puzzling. After I read this
narrative to him, Mr Cheez buried his face with embarrassment but
did not have me change a word. He only asked that I make it
quite clear he doesn't carry on like this as a regular thing. He
only gets completely out of control when he is flying on crystal
meth.
Miss Kooky came over this evening and took me out to din-din at
the Virgin Cafe two blocks down the street. Some of the staff in
there are simply more delicious-looking than the food. But you
just aren't safe anywhere these days from bums. An obvious
street person had got in and was going through all the vacated
tables looking for scraps. As we headed back to the Royal
Residence, she sang San Francisco-style songs for me--
The Cocksucker Rag
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--with no apologies to Tom Lehrer
First you get down on your kness
Fiddle with his BVDs
Give him head with great respect
Suck his dick
Suck his dick
Suck his dick
Suck whatever cock you want if
You have cleared it with the pontiff
Everybody does his own
When he's home and all alone
Doin' the Cocksucker's Rag
And then this great Tony Bennett tune--
I sucked his dick in San Francisco
High on a hill he came on me
We did it in a car
Behind a sissy bar
His sticky cum, it fills my hair
--I don't care...
In more uplifting spheres, Queen Bee called me this evening. We
kept being interrupted by the electronically disembodied
"operator" wanting another dime for another minute. I got her to
give me the number of the tardfarm payphone so I could call her
and we could get down and do some uninterrupted gabbing. I felt
sort of sheepish when Bee said she would get the tardvan to bring
her here to see ME since I haven't gotten over there to see THEM.
According to Bee, the crazy old men from the county hospital are
still there, George and Joe are still getting along as roomies,
and the smoking policy has been changed so that no one may smoke
indoors even during designated smoking hours in the designated
areas. I guess the city code finally caught up with them.
For lunch today I took Mr Cheez to the Virgin Cafe. He hadn't
been there before, though we have gone through the software and
the classical compact disc sections of this megamedia store. Mr
Cheez was quite taken with the black-wearing 20-somethings and
Gen Xers constantly drifting in and out. As he munched away on
his Curry Chicken Wrap (spicy chicken burrito in the
unenlightened parts of town), he saw one drop-dead cute boy and
asked me, Do they serve shit here? Nearly choking in my
wonderful see-clearly-to-the-bottom non-tardfarm non-murky
chicken soup, I said I didn't think they did but that some of the
chocolate decadence cakes might make a glorious substitute.
Well, he said, See that boy over there? -- I'd like to get about
three bowls of his shit just to see where it came from.
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