Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Merhaba aksamci.org sex hikayeleri okuyucuları, derlediğimiz en büyük hikaye arşivini sizlerin beğenisine sunuyoruz.okuyup keyif almak ve sırılsıklam olmak işte tüm mesele bu.
Back in the days when I thought I liked girls, I did a foolish thing. I had read a story about a guy who shaved-off all his pubic hair because it made his erect penis appear bigger than it was so I decided to do it, too.
I had a wild, tangled mess of unruly pubes and when my dick was soft I could barely see it; and when it was hard it didn’t stick out much over the hair.
It was embarrassing when I was with a girl. Even though no one mocked or ridiculed me, I was acutely aware of their initial surprise at seeing (sometimes squinting at) my less than four-inch boner.
A typical response once they’d gotten over their visible disappointment was “Oh, what a cute little thing!” or “That sure is a lot of hair!” or the one I hated most “You know size doesn’t matter, sweetie!”
All it took was some depilatory cream and a steady hand with a razor and voila – my three-and-three-quarter inch hard-on suddenly appeared much longer and thicker without any hair hiding it, at least it did to me.
I may have felt better about myself once a girl saw it for the first time, but like they say, ‘you can put lipstick on a pig but it’s still a pig’…
I became so paranoid about the size of my dick my self-confidence suddenly disappeared, and what little self-esteem I had became worse. I began avoiding girls altogether.
I hung out with a small group of friends from high school. A couple of the guys were going to the local college while three of us found full-time jobs. If they didn’t have dates, we’d hang out on weekends. No matter what topic we may have been discussing, the conversation would always gravitate to ‘pussy’.
They would brag about the women they’d scored with, and to keep up my end, I would lie about a gorgeous blonde at work, or a pretty brunette I knew who had big tits.
When we turned twenty-one we went to bars three-four nights a week with the goal of ‘finding us some pussy’.
They’d have a drink or two to gather the courage to approach women. Most nights I found myself drinking alone as my friends went in pursuit of getting laid.
I discovered I had a high tolerance for liquor. I could have six-seven-eight drinks and still function well.
The ones who didn’t find a girl, we’d end up drinking until midnight or one in the morning. I thought I was a lucky guy to be able to drink all I wanted and wake up the next morning feeling fine and able to always make it to work on time.
It didn’t take long before a couple of the guys noticed I never tried to talk with the girls in the bar.
Again, I would lie and say something like “While you guys were off hustling somewhere – see that girl at the end of the bar – I thought we had a great conversation going then she just shut me down…I think she’s a lesbian!”
Well, I couldn’t keep that up much longer before they became suspicious so I began to actually make an effort to talk with at least one girl each night. I had to make sure a couple of the guys were watching when I approached a girl.
Most of the girls were polite enough to at least talk with me a few minutes. Now I’m not bragging but I have been told I’m a very cute guy by many girls. I am intelligent and have a good sense of humor. In fact, the girls in high school liked to be with me because I kept them laughing…especially after they saw my dick, hahaha…oh, never mind.
Whenever I spoke with a girl in the bar, most times I sensed their disappointment. I was sure they were there to meet some big stud, not a small guy like me. But it didn’t matter to me because I wasn’t actually trying to pick them up, no, I simply wanted my friends seeing me make an attempt with a girl.
That tactic worked for a while but after a couple months of not leaving with a girl the guys started saying things like “You’re either the unluckiest guy in the world, or you don’t like girls” or “Why are you so picky – that girl was obviously into you.”
So I had to begin making excuses like “I thought I had her – I was sure she was going to leave with me” or “She was nice to me before this big guy came along and interrupted us” or “She’s only here as a designated driver for her girlfriend” or “I dunno, I think she’s crazy” or , my favorite, “What a waste of time – after ten minutes she tells me she’s here with her boyfriend.”
Sometimes I would disparage myself by making excuses like “She told me to take my needle-dick and get lost” or “She was nice until she told me to go piss up a rope” or the one I used most often, which was a complete lie “Ah man, I’m too drunk – I couldn’t get it up now no matter how hard she tried.”
To be honest, I could have left with several girls, but I simply couldn’t bear the humiliation I would have felt once they saw or felt my tiny dick.
When a girl propositioned me I was forced to make an excuse to them like “My friend signaled me he’s ready to leave and I’m driving” or “I’m afraid I’ve had too much to drink – if you know what I mean.”
Whatever excuse I came up with I always asked them for their phone number and more times canlı bahis than not they would give it to me. I would show the guys her number as proof and tell them “She’s nice – I’m going to call her tomorrow” which I never did.
A couple more months passed and I began to hear little snippets of talk from my friends behind my back.
“He’s okay, he’s just shy” and “It’s hard for him to talk with women” and “No, he’s not queer – he had a couple girlfriends in high school.”
Another month went by and their talk turned cruel.
“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him with a girl in over two years” and “Just look at his small hands and feet; he acts effeminate, hell, he’s too pretty NOT to be queer” and “I remember catching him checking me out in the showers at school after gym class” and then came the worst comment of all “It could be a good thing he’s a faggot – whenever we strikeout here we can have him blow us in the car on the way home!”
After that I quit going to the bar with them. My excuse to them was my drinking had gotten out of control and I needed to stop…of course, all I did was get hammered at home instead of at the bar.
**
Their hurtful words haunted me so much I intentionally shut myself off from close human contact.
It was easy to do at work. I was a Junior Programmer/Analyst II alone in my cubicle all day. I simply immersed myself in the job.
The only problem during the day was at lunchtime. Most of my co-workers were older than me so I’d never made any real friends at work. But in the break room, instead of sitting with some of them like I’d been doing, I began eating alone.
Sometimes when I heard laughter from their table, I thought they were laughing at me. I would wolf down my lunch and return to work as fast as I could.
After work I’d stop for groceries and whatever else then stay home the rest of the night.
Every night was the same. After dinner I would quickly gulp down four-five drinks until my nerves calmed down. I would sit there and try to figure out why my so-called friends thought I was gay.
Just because I’m not having sex with women doesn’t mean I want to have sex with men, does it?
And to prove it to myself, once I was feeling a nice and mellow buzz, I’d go to porn sites online and stare at photos of men and women together. I particularly got excited by women sucking cock and women bending over getting fucked from behind.
I turned into a chronic self-abuser. My penis was the only friend I had in the world who I could trust.
I jerked-off when I woke up each morning; then later in the shower; one time when I got home from work; and two or three times before I passed out at night.
Another month went by when suddenly one night I couldn’t get a hard-on no matter how much I stared at the photos and played with my dick – I just couldn’t make it stiff.
Sometimes I would go to bed nearly in tears thinking I had been betrayed by yet another close friend.
Fortunately, my prick worked fine in the morning. There is no better hang-over remedy than a couple of mind-clearing orgasms.
**
One morning when I arrived at work I saw a couple women crying, and men frowning, slowly shaking their heads. I walked by them to my cubicle and found the reason why on my desk. I read the form letter twice.
It stated our company was closing the local office. That employees had two options: either be laid-off and receive two-weeks severance pay, or transfer to the office located in the deep South.
My first reaction was one of dismay. I had joined the company three-years ago as an Entry Level Programmer/Analyst and had received two promotions since that time. I was finally making decent money, and I knew jobs were scarce for someone without a college degree. Could I find a comparable job here in my hometown?
While all around me I heard cursing and crying, I suddenly became overwhelmed with joy and jubilation.
This is the chance of a lifetime, I told myself. I have a great excuse for leaving this damn town and start a new life somewhere else!
Think about it, John. No more snow and cold in winter – you can play golf year-round. New friends…yes, I will make new friends – people who accept me for who I am – not who they think I am…new girls and women…Southern girls and women – they seem so sweet and genuine in movies and on television…I’ll have a social life again – I won’t be the hermit I’ve been the past few months.
There is absolutely nothing here for me anymore. My parents moved to Florida – I’ll be closer to them, but not too close. I have no friends here. If I leave I have nothing to lose and everything to gain!
I read the letter one more time. Today, Friday is everyone’s last day. If I choose to relocate, I have until Monday of the week after next to drive down there, find a place to live then begin working. It’s not much time, but I can do it.
It’s a new beginning, John – a fresh start…you can finally be yourself again.
**
I arrived in my bahis siteleri new city on a Thursday afternoon. Armed with maps and directions, I found the weekly motel I’d stay at until I had time to find an apartment. It was the closest motel to where I’d be working.
It wasn’t as nice as some I had passed on the way, but it certainly was cheap. It didn’t matter to me, I wouldn’t be there very long anyway.
I quickly unpacked the car. I hadn’t brought much with me. Clothes, computer, odds and ends…I wanted a fresh start so I either threw or gave away most of my stuff.
It was in an older, rundown part of the city, but there were a couple nearby bars and restaurants. I wanted an easy transition with the basic necessities close by.
It was too early for dinner so I connected to the wi-fi and began surfing. I caught up on the news and my favorite sites.
I sat staring at the screen and said, “What the heck” and found my favorite porn site.
I had abstained from jerking-off for three-days. Whenever I felt the urge I castigated myself saying, “John, this is your new life – you need to make some changes in your behavior!”
But when I saw the images of naked men and women, my dick stiffened immediately and I told myself this isn’t one of the changes you need to make – masturbation is normal for a young guy like yourself. In fact, it would be weird NOT to do it!
Well, one load wasn’t enough…fifteen-minutes later I stroked-off another one.
It was still too early for dinner but I was restless and decided to check-out the neighborhood.
There wasn’t much to see. Every other store was shuttered or closed so when I came to a corner with a bar I thought, ‘One or two won’t hurt anything’ so I went inside the dingy, dimly lit barroom.
There was a black man behind the bar and five older black men sitting on bar stools.
I barely made it through the door when the bartender called out, “Whoa, boy, you can’t come in here.”
My first thought was ‘Is there some sort of segregation down here I don’t know about?’
The bartender then added, “What are you, sixteen?” and all the men laughed.
I reached for my wallet and showed him my drivers license. I hated looking so young – I get carded every bar I go to.
The bartender said to the men “That figures – he’s a northerner!”
“What ‘ll you have, boy?” he asked.
“Whiskey and water, please,” I said.
When he set the drink in front of me I could see it was a good one…a nice, dark color.
It was all I could do to take the first few swallows without choking or gagging. I didn’t want to embarrass myself before the other men.
The bartender asked me, “Are you lost, boy?”
I said, “No, I’m staying at the motel down the street.”
He smiled and the other men chuckled then he asked me, “Why?”
“Well, I’m new to town and I start work Monday at a company not far from here,” I explained.
“Well, boy, I hope you’re a heavy sleeper cause that motel gets a little loud at night,” he said bringing laughter from all the men.
Well, one drink turned into two-then-three-then-four-then-five. When I looked out the window I could see it was already dark.
My legs were a little rubbery when I climbed off the bar stool.
The bartender came over to me and said, “Be careful out there, boy…when you go to your room stay inside…if anyone knocks – don’t answer the door, you got that, boy?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, thanks,” I said.
There were a lot more people on the street than before and they were all black. That didn’t bother me as I walked back to the motel. I wasn’t hungry so I decided to skip dinner.
I saw a store across from the motel and went inside. I was the only white guy in the place. I went to the snack aisle and picked up chips, crackers and cheese. As I approached the counter I saw bottles of liquor on the back wall.
“This be it for you, homey?” smiled the guy behind the counter.
On an impulse I said, “No, uh, I’ll have a half-gallon of Maker’s Mark.”
I was already reaching for my drivers license when he chuckled and said, “Yeah, right, boy.”
He studied my license then slowly shook his head. “Is this thing fake, boy?”
“No, I’m really twenty-one,” I said.
He bagged the items, looked all around then said in a hushed tone, “Be careful out there, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
On the corner by the motel there was a group of women standing around. They wore skimpy and very tight dresses. As I passed them by they looked at me and smiled.
“Hey, boy, want to party with me?” one of them asked.
Another one joined in and asked, “Ever have some black pussy, boy?”
A third woman said, “Hey, boy, I promise – once you go black you’ll never go back!”
And they all laughed as I hurried by them and locked myself in the room.
The next three-days I went out and explored the area and other parts of the city. I found the shortest route to work. I ate early dinners and made sure I was back in bahis şirketleri my room before sunset.
**
One thing you may recall from the opening of this story is that I had been shaving-off all my pubic hair to give girls (and myself) the illusion my hard-on is longer and thicker than it actually is… a month ago I stopped doing that because I wasn’t going out with girls any more.
It seems that may have been a mistake. The hair was slow to grow back, and when it became stubble, it began to itch like crazy. I had to scratch down there so much to relieve the itching, it became second nature to me.
Sometimes I found myself scratching when I was in public. On Sunday I made a decision to shave it off again. I didn’t want to be caught at my new job scratching away at my crotch.
I found a drug store and bought some razor blades and a new bottle of depilatory cream. The girl behind the counter gave me such a look I blushed a deep red. At the motel I went to work down there until and I was totally hair-free again. The itching was mercifully gone.
I was tired on Monday morning. Sunday night I thought it best not to drink so I had a difficult time falling asleep. I may have gotten three-four hours at the most.
The noise from the adjoining rooms didn’t help either. The sounds of squeaking bed springs; loud male moans of pleasure; and the high-pitched squeals from the women kept my fantasies running in overdrive. I didn’t fall asleep until after my fourth climax.
For my first day on the job, I wore a new polo shirt, new blue jeans and brand new tennis shoes. I looked pretty good if I have to say so myself.
I was the first one through the door at Human Resources. I gave my paperwork to a pleasant young girl and she began processing me.
It didn’t take very long before I was summoned to the office of the H.R. Director.
When I entered the room, she looked me up and down and said, “You know son, this is Monday not Friday, right?”
She could see my confusion and added, “I’m sure what you’re wearing is fine up north, but down here we dress appropriately for work! Only on Friday’s are we allowed to dress like, uh, you are now!”
I blushed and stammered, “I’m, uh, sorry, I didn’t know – should I go home and change?”
“We’ll go over your contract then let your department head make that decision,” she said.
“Oh, okay,” I replied.
She handed me the contract, told me to read it before I signed, then began telling me company policies and procedures.
I skimmed over the contract. I had already signed a preliminary work agreement at the old office before I left. However, once I reached the bottom of the document the words ‘Agreed Upon Salary’ and the figure next to it caused me to flinch. I had to read it three times before it sunk in.
“Ummm, I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong here – the salary isn’t right,” I said.
“No, that’s the correct amount…” she said.
She found the agreement I had signed two-weeks prior and pointed out the same figure on the document with my signature.
Uh-oh, I thought. I was so happy about leaving home I had simply skimmed through the preliminary agreement. I guess I missed seeing the number. I had assumed my salary would be the same here.
“But, uh, this is less money than when I started as an Entry Level Programmer,” I said softly. “I’m now a Programmer/Analyst II.”
“Didn’t you read the employment agreement before you signed it?” she said scornfully.
I flushed a furious red. My hands began to tremble. I cursed myself for not reading the original document.
“I, uh, well…” I stammered.
She said, “Son, in case you didn’t know – this is a ‘Right-to-Work’ state meaning you will never be forced into joining a union and have to pay union dues…”
Huh? What does that have to do with anything?
“I, uh, I didn’t know there was a union for programmers,” I said.
She replied, “Luckily, thanks to the law there isn’t one…son, if you don’t want to work for the salary we are offering you – which you already agreed to – we have plenty of applicants who will.”
Oh my…Think fast, John – think fast, John – think fast, John…
My hand was trembling so bad I didn’t recognize my own signature when I grudgingly signed the employment contract.
“Alright then…I’ll call your immediate supervisor and she’ll come and escort you to your work station – go wait out front for her.”
“Uh, yes, Ma’am,” I softly replied. “May I ask you a question, ma’am?”
“What is it?” she coldly asked.
“Did any of my previous co-workers transfer here?”
“Nope, you’re the only one!” she said without a trace of a smile on her stern face.
While waiting, my mind became a whirling dervish of activity.
This isn’t fair. What do I do now? How can I live off this salary?
I had to tell myself to calm down…stay positive…focus, John…get through your first day here and you can think about this tonight.
I was introduced to another stern-looking, older woman.
She looked me up and down and said, “You know this isn’t casual Friday, right?”
I blushed and said, “Yes, I thought the rules were like back home. I can go and change clothes if you want me to.”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32