A LOIN STORY


Polymorphic Sexuality





By Ahh Chuu




1. THE SEVENTH SUM


Entry and exit between a woman’s legs, ingress and egress through the female cunt, thus passes the history and mystery of all life on Earth.

I fear sometimes it must have been at least in part my mother’s fault. But mostly I just feel sorry for her.
After birthing six boys and rightly being mildly dismayed to be pregnant again(!), she soon became excited to probably be having the ‘seventh son’; just like her favorite jazz song of the era. But sorry, no more boys, just left over testosterone for oddball, androgynous me. And then I never ceased chasing every boy I could find immediately, almost right out of the womb.

My first innocent androgynous conquest began with my youngest brother. Somewhere around his entrance into public school, while he being almost 2 years my senior, we often wrestled as young children do. Maybe it was the obvious not so suppressed-impressed look on all the adult’s faces that so turned me on. But once, after getting his head in a leg-scissored head-lock, right before he almost passed out and then began crying mercilessly, I was prohibited from ‘wrestling with my siblings’ anymore. I still have to consciously restrain myself today from similar head twisting temptations during partners’ helpless, worshipping episodes of captivated cunnilingus.

One of my first mirthful memories previous to that was of several adults ultimately being required to pry my rigid, squinching and resisting thigh muscles from the jungle gym. Sometime later, the poor little pony at the fair was dragged mercilessly sideways, until I finally quit squeezing its sides, as my dad freed my tired legs to end my over-joyous ride.

Following that, it was but a daily cumulus of building obsession with besting all the boys in grammar school at recess in one way or another. Faster than any of them, winning races was soon enough boring; so of course, folding them into a helpless pile became the end game, before one ultimately tattled.
Mini conquests like these didn’t spare my imagination either. Maybe trying to hopefully ‘feminize me’ a little more, my parents were overjoyed when presenting me with a ‘Barbie and Ken Doll’, I would spend hours fascinated alone in my room. Unbeknownst to them however was the little dramas that eked forth. Always dominated, poor little Ken was ultimately straddled and head twisted by leggy Barbie in some ever more creative abusive fashion; or when he didn’t have his hand or even whole arm extracted while massaging her midsection. If poor Ken ever met Pinocchio’s fairy and became a real boy, he would have been an immediate cripple. I attribute these hours possibly, in part, to why I have such a resilient imagination today, with spatial skills finding outlet in fluid graphic design and fashion layouts.
Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, a lasting influence was my junior high school PE teacher. An ex-track star, on hot afternoons she would dress less, and illustrating a particular position or move, her thin ropey muscles would flex and ripple. I often pictured her at night for years in my masturbatory fantasies grabbing me in various positions, and tried sculpting my body after hers.
Once puberty hit, turning inward, glorious masturbation adventures began to moisten even my homework. Fortunately I was never discovered, for being the town’s Baptist preacher’s daughter, I would probably have had a forced clitorectami; even though, Reverend Hypocrite was the town’s biggest secret Lothario . I think even today I too often wrestle with guilt feelings about my hyper assertive sexuality after my father caught me forcing kisses down upon a smaller boy, trapped by me behind the barn; for which I got a good whopping.

And then soon, growing these enormous breasts created a whole new set of problems. Not chasing the boys anymore, their secret and lurid gawking began invading my every movement. Thus began my young romantic ‘safe-sex with vegetables’.

I first started flirting with small zucchini. But graduating soon, only the bigger and longer cool cucumbers would satisfy. Thigh squeezing the back of my hands for more pressure, I would thrust deeper and deeper, almost mesmerized to see how far I could go. I soon perfected a fine art of cunt-flexing around the warty roots and legumes, up until delayed nerve exploding orgasms. I was quite proud of my abilities of clutching zucchinis and crushing them to squash. Until I tried showing a friend.

So overstimulated to share pleasure with my first girlfriend, trance-like, I guess, I got carried away. Loudly orgasming while dislodging a cucumber smoothie, my new friend ran horrified form the house and avoided all contact with me throughout the rest of high school.

Males soon became much more interesting again though. They never seemed to care how wild I got. One boyfriend thought my taut muscular body emanated from the excessively tight shop of my rigid vagina; but maybe it’s actually the other way around.


Smooth skin, symmetrical features, mathematically erect bone structure, protuberances extreme, and in all the right areas, I quickly teen-age knew I’d been blessed. Since then, for too long that realization has made me even more focused on perfecting my own physical ideal. Because even from the beginning, actually hating the societal focus on the body beautiful female image, I had to recognize and admit to it being my lifetime addiction. I’m a terrible flirt with any mirror, especially, my chest. I do sympathize with every hypnotized slobbering male that can’t take their eyes off of them; cause I can’t either.

Tom-boy or Cover-girl; I think I actually enjoyed my time playing youthful competitive soccer more than my brief stint as a swim suit model. But truth be told, I have become ever more interested and obsessed with whatever tools and artifices the current market offers to make one look more appealing. To be ever more presentable in an alluring sexual sense—my body has been pre-shaped by exercise, gyms, expensive juices, boutique exercise classes, skin care routines, skimpy clothing and tanning vacations. Since fashion seems to subjugate the female so pervasively in our culture, I have decided to use it more as a tool and manipulate it, rather than be repressed by it. I have become my own harshest judge and critic.

And now these enormous tits! They are primarily my fault though. Sometimes I don’t even recognize them as mine, and don’t even know what I was thinking at the time.


While living and traveling a few years back with my best friend through Australia, she came home one day wide-eyed after learning that the government(!) there would actually pay for a breast enlargement as a ‘medical expense’. With little bug-bite boobs, I fully understood her excitement. When she wouldn’t shut up about me joining her for, “just for a little tiny, fun augmentation”, I finally gave in to a sisterhood experience. And to add indulgence to stupidity, apparently the doctor got a little carried away with his artwork as it were.

Big mistake.

Their contours—once flouncy bouncy fun tubs that juggled men’s hearts, especially while galloping wildly out of unison atop a young wide-eyed sex stud, now are diligently pointed rocks. They are always gazing upward, regardless of posture. Nipples constantly erect, I’m no longer able to wear a braless t-shirt. And the men!—such an endless headache of attention before, now refusing to place their less wandering eyes anywhere else. And thus they assume, I’m always in a hot little animal rut—which more unfortunately, I usually am.

Don’t get me wrong; don’t believe I don’t totally enjoy seducing men. In fact, nothing there is more fun than sucking on a big hard dick. I love stretching it out as long as I can, and slapping it around too, because once it enters my moist clutching cunt, the rocket blasts off, the party is over, and soon again, the taffy sags and goes limp. Nothing do I appreciate more than watching big tough guys turn into soft little used up puppets.
But it’s become so easy pummeling wienies; it has lost much of its challenge. Militant sexuality—I think I had to learn aggression well from the outset. When every man is a come on, one has to develop a certain ‘come-off’. Mine has always been to meet every offense with more offense. Maybe it started back in grammar school when some pervert tried to lure me into his car after watching me twirl on the jungle gym. I quickly kicked him in the nuts and ran away! Since then I guess, kicking egoistic jerks in the metaphysical nuts continues to turn me on. Humiliation is the most provocative titillation.
The frequent come-ons from a female are usually very obvious and complementary too. And yes, I do enjoy, but, for some reason do not overly crave that special certain delight of stroking some smooth, rounded delicate skin. So lazy and easy with delicious aromas, and rounded, hairless buttocks. Less in a rush, they are always so much more gently willing to please. I did have a period of only women for a while that was really nice, but it didn’t last that long.
That moist-eyed look, anticipating a guilty delight; when another woman softly takes your hand and leads you into her room—it’s incredibly erotic and teases one’s innocence. Women can be so much freer, open, and vulnerable with their intimacy; slowed down, the physical dimension can entice all the senses—hearing, taste, smell, as well as the visual.
And out in the street, I especially like to follow and admire their physiques, fashion, and subtle expressive movements. Nothing is more attractive to me than a sexy woman who doesn’t really realize that she is . That incredible softness of an engorged labia, like no overripe fruit on the planet! I will admit that that small, vulnerable, raised mound of flesh can be hypnotically alluring. But you see, I have one of my own to play with too. So much more intriguing to me is the alpha male. But I also want him to be a gentleman and attentive too; finding his soft spot and weakness seems to me to be a much greater challenge.

Fortunately, I don’t have the classic blonde haired, blue-eyed movie star perfection of face. Oh, my features are definitely arrayed in a symmetric, pleasing manner. But my forehead is too broad, the tip of my nose a bit too large for my preference, and I wish I had those bulbous lips that adorn and entice so well. But with long raven hair up in a bun, wearing sunglasses and loose fitting clothing, I can pass by many at times unbothered and unmolested.
One boyfriend explained my problem as being “just too fuckable.”
But I don’t think so; more the opposite.

Dominatrix tendencies still always have me wanting to use my strength right away during copulation. Quickly eschewing the usual male choice of forced back-dancing, I love flipping my surprised lover over onto his back, and, while using his head as a supine punching bag for my rock hard tits, I cum down upon him. Veggie squeezing my cunt like an iron fist on his helpless dick, usually it takes only a couple clenching thrusts….and he’s history. Tittie-slaps and cleavage suffocation, I love it when an overpowered man mumbles helplessly and supplicates upward that he can’t breathe.


I always craved connection, but I didn’t want what it so often seems to entail: the men who turned me into the sole focus of their lives (“You’re the only thing worth living for”); the men who told me what I wanted and didn’t want, rather than what they wanted or didn’t want; the men whose expression of concern for my safety revealed itself to be only a mask for control and coercion — whose words moved from “You shouldn’t” to “You can’t”, as they stood blocking the door, preventing me from leaving.


But then, the tyranny of the ideal—everyone is almost always so distant. Women hate, envy, judge and compare. And with men it ultimately seems either a challenge, or just a possession men want to experience. My body usually seems like something just to be owned or consumed by everyone else. Like it’s ultimately not mine. No one, it seems, ever just wants to love and accept me for who I am.
Everyone keeps telling me to use my skills and get a rich guy. But they’re so often ego-centric assholes. They’re much more fun to eventually humiliate.
Thus, always an aloneness there. A seeming superpower of attraction, even though actively cultivated, often feels like a prison unwanted attention. My karmic inheritance—The unquenchable total of all your strong, dominant, female fantasies and desires—The would-be Seventh Son’s Sum—misunderstood perfection; divided perennially by zero, always, it seems, still equals just a lonely zero.




2. INCUBUS MAN




I’m sure I didn’t always have an 11 inch dick. Though it must have been pretty formidable from the beginning. For one of my very first memories from age three was the following: waking from my warm REM bed sometime around Christmas and parading down the hall with a tiny-tyke boner pointing toward the ceiling, I crowed:. “Mommy, look at my Christmas tree!”, proudly shaking it about….

Now why remember this? Not so much due the mirth, nor embarrassment it incited—I wasn’t embarrassed. But the Oedipal air emanating from behind my mom was a blast furnace. At three, I had already usurped and outdone my mostly impotent father. This innocent and confused shame mingling with unnatural prowess has been the singular curse of Incubus Man ever since. Chagrin amidst abundance has been the default mode.


Incubus Man first flexed forth from a brilliant amalgam of faith and artifice. The simple dream of a child and family chocked off by a sterile, mostly impotent husband, was rekindled, like a magic breath in a complete, naïve, almost adolescent love.

My mother apparently hatched the plan by herself, and only later was able to enlist the necessary cooperation of my biological father—the ‘holy man’ she “absolutely loved at first sight”, and the only man she apparently ever really loved. Discretely, I suppose, cause no one, apparently, ever knew, or guessed………..except eventually for me. I was always her secret ‘love child.’ Even born on Mother’s Day, for Christ’s sake! From her, the only tale about him, taller even than he was that ‘he was a man of God.’

Secret bastard, You see, I was wrapped up in devious sexual glee, deception, reverence, and misunderstanding from the very beginning.

It was very soon after that, by about four that the body obsession began. Incubus Man was first really inspired and initiated by his friends from the cold war comic book industry-- Batman, Superman, even Spiderman….and from an early age enthralled by all his maniac muscle Marvel mentors. But one thing makes me realize that it was less the colorful storylines that entertained, than the bulging muscles just visible between the skin-hugging pajamas and tights . Even before those friends, I had found and hoarded a singularly bazaar comic whose hero was fully human, always shirtless, with a ridiculous pumped body, in flesh tones no less!, whose major theme was that: ‘muscles were good, useful, and attainable’.

No one was really on to me till much later. Other than an overly precocious girl in fifth grade, who apparently noticed and told all her friends, that unbeknownst to me, I was often adjusting, for comfort sake, outside my pants, my wee wienie grammar school packet with a twist of my hand. Sorting things out as it were, getting it out of the way, and making the damned thing fit better in my pants.

But it was in complete innocence and ignorance of my condition that led to my first real problem. High school locker rooms were more about who had more pubic hair, and was therefore more ‘mature and developed’. Toward the end though, some of the athletes started calling me “LD”; not knowing for a while it stood for “Long Dick”. I don’t think endowment, was really much of an issue then.

Being a good momma’s boy,(no first time bawdy high school bordello whores for me), I saved myself for my first love. Sneaking down below her parents’ bedroom in the middle of the night, we had to secretly visit the hospital later that night. A small virgin, my size and youthful exuberance was more than she could safely handle. But hey, what did I know?.......

It was later in college, when finally a super loose young hippy girl who had been around the block enough times to own it, and who also gave me the crabs and other fun experiences first exclaimed : “Wow, you’re by far the biggest I’ve ever had!—you’re even bigger than all the black guys!”

At that point I started getting curious myself. I had to begin to investigate her claim. But it wasn’t like I was ever out with a yardstick on my boner; it was just that my last three women, in amazement, wanted the exact curious statistics. Each one came up precisely with the same 11 inches on the tape.

But indeed, I have to admit, extensive, long term investigating it has been. After countless nudist colonies, naked beaches, and locker rooms I’ve checked out thousands of naked men. I have seen very few men with bigger appendages, and of course many the occasional gym freak with more muscles. But, I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever seen anyone with an equally long shlong AND a fitter body. Basically, I am a freak! I’m sure they’re some out there, but you’d have to world-wide-web yourself for a while to find one. (Oh, and just generally speaking, black guys do have bigger dicks than white guys.)

So, what’s the big deal, and where’s the problem Incubus Man you might ask?

Well, for one thing, there’s the completely anatomical troubles-- Always having to remember to grab and elevate upon sitting down upon a toilet, or a dirty little dipstick I become. It’s a good thing that baggy pants are in, cause tight pants don’t work either. I can’t even wear any normal underwear for fear of it schlepping around or sitting on it. Speedos are they’re the only thing that will smush it up against my body and keep it in place. Oh, and forget ever being able to play around with a woman in any of that dirty backdoor stuff—just not anatomically practical. My body has Pied Pipered more than one woman home with grand expectations, only to have her laugh outright on spying my re-dick-ulously long schlong, before recoiling from any further pursuit.

The most frustrating part of macrophallia though is the fact that although women make a lot of noise about how much they all want a big dick—sorry; it just ain’t really the case. Oh, maybe a couple times just for an experience, yeah; then forget it! I admit, it took me a while to figure out that fucking little young things such that they barely could walk the next day was of little pleasure to women. After a woman I really respected told me having unrestrained sex with me felt half-way between sex with a normal dick and childbirth that I realized I had to drill only as deeply as needed.

My previous wife for example referred to me as “donkey dick”, and basically refused to do it without both hands, one on top of the other, wrapped firmly around ‘her’ tool that she then controlled completely. One girl friend dubbed me “Dick Johnson” or, “Dr. Double Dick” cause I had twice anything she’d ever seen. Another called me her “porn quasar”. A recent partner gasped when she first saw me naked and feared we were going to “have an accommodation problem”, and stayed only on top, never letting me move an inch during intercourse for fear of getting hurt.

Other epithets from various women have included “disturbing, disgusting, and ridiculous”. Slowing this hotrod down into a pace car that never gets to really slam booty on the turn, or hard pound fuck that can be a fun part of sex is frustrating. Sure, sometimes gentle restrained sex is great, but never being able to open it up, rev the engine up on the straightaway, and flooring it to feel all the horsepower is a drag.

My most recent girlfriend was more pleased and remarked of my body that: “It’s just the perfectly developed delivery vehicle for that enormous dildo dick of yours.” My best buddy upon seeing me naked a few times remarked: “Dude, you’re all just muscle and dick.” A guy at my gym said: “You give everyone else in the locker room ‘penis envy’”, and called me “Super Dick”. Girls ask if ‘I have a license to carry that weapon’? No; and although I do like to shake and brandish it about a bit, I almost never unholster the whole thing for anyone anymore. My Latin girlfriend dubbed me “Mr. Manguera”, or “Mr. Hose” in Spanish. Most women just shudder and scream after about 8 inches. My experience is that 7 to 8 inches is more than enough for most women. But also, with ridiculously large hands, this long pole, and fairly strong muscles, I can impale you pretty firmly and effectively when so desired.

Most sexual positions are basically out of the question with many women too. It’s much harder to give a woman an orgasm, cause it greatly helps to stick it all the way in and thereby have the pubic bone rub on the clitoris; but that is pretty much out of the question. I’ve adapted though, become very careful, and learned how to use just the top of my tool rather dexterously.

Actually, most women prefer it just partially erect. My last girl friend said the only women I should have safe sex with would be acrobats or gymnasts; which come to think of it, might be a turn on. One girlfriend said she used to have orgasms just watching me working naked in my rose garden. However, with almost every woman, as I briefly shove it home, close to all the way, they will flex ridged, and tense up, and try and helplessly flee away from it with all their strength. I do admit to kinda liking that a lot though.

A couple women, after being impaled about 8 inches will writhe uncontrollably in protest, scream, and flip around like a fish out of water; and again, that’s kind of a taboo turn on too. When I finally attempted to feed my obsession twice with professional women—with the first one, at first sight gleefully offered it for free, while the second wanted to charge me double. Paying ridiculous amounts for speedos in order to keep that thing flattened firmly up against my leg instead of flapping around is a bit uncomfortable too.

It can also be entertaining --(although I have never actually shown anyone), I can literally suck my own cock—(it’s not at all a turn on though). And being extremely limber as well, I am probably the only guy you’ll ever know that can not only nibble your ass while having sex from behind. I can also, just barely, lick your clitoris while the head of my rod is still inside your vagina. Practicing Yoga almost daily since I was 13--flexibility, muscles, and a billy-club dick-- women often prefer to just admire and play with my body. That’s OK too.

Dealing with the homosexual attractions has continued to be a constant hassle though too. I’ve never really been attracted to other, little-dicked guys. Mono-sexual self-adulation is more my perversion. The couple times I tried experimenting with another man were unremarkable except for not being very fun. But admittedly, too often enjoying my own auto-eroticism, I am also somewhat shamed by my own excessive vanity and narcissism.

So, like all my old childhood superheroes, I am constantly trying to hide my unusual powers and just blend in and be a normal person. Unfortunately, the reverse has never been the case. Ever since late teen-hood, even with my shirt on, it’s been one long parade of leering potential male suitors. Even in my more advanced age now, whenever approaching nudity, I might find even young, teenage fag-boys clicking and whistling at me like I was some 16 year old little blond coquette or something. It’s really disconcerting, and not really fun, and I seem to generally just spark a certain level of obvious gapping, envy, jealousy, and resentment when naked from most normal guys. My best friend said he wouldn’t even introduce me to his new extremely horny girlfriend because she’d probably ‘grab me somewhere’. It’s a drag being disdained for something you can’t really help. And yes, at times I surely fall victim of flattering myself into assuming I have some special talent, or rather gift. But generally, a talent or gift is something one uses, not something that uses you.

I make enemies immediately without doing anything. So confounded by my own interpretations of what others find as masculine and sexy, and often embarrassed by my own sculptured vanity, I have never swaggered. And while my Clark Kent side is probably OK looking and discrete, nothing is really remarkable when clothed. Trying to pick up on a young thing in a nightclub that I had admired previously at a nude hot springs, when my pickup line was something about where I had previously seen her, she blurted out:—“Oh! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

But the main problem this creates is psychological. I guess being especially sympathetic to the disgusting predation cute girls constantly go through, I’m extremely reserved and respectful of women’s space and desire to remain unmolested. Really; it seems rude and ridiculous. Being the recipient of constant unwanted sexual advances from other guys makes one more compassionate and unassuming. I am probably therefore one of the shyest, respectful, and most reserved people around.

This quiet reservation is then reversed, and usually interpreted as extreme conceit and snobbishness. While other guys whistle and hoot at hotties, I’m left alone in silent awe, worship, and admiration from a distance. Basically, I’m just an oversensitive, shy, and pretty isolated guy. During the day I’m just another quiet, mild-mannered, nondescript, even boring guy. At work, I’m always carefully disguised in loose fitting long sleeve shirts and baggy pants, blending in and giving no indication of any superpowers.

Although I do possess two advanced degrees in psychology, I certainly do not consider myself one of the sharper tools in the shed either. In fact, I would be reassured to know that I was even of average intelligence. “Billy the Id”, “The Greek Freak”-- I’m always overwhelmingly focused on the body-physical-tactile sense modality. Thus, it often seems difficult to string very many long, linear, rational thoughts together in a row. This does, however, allow me instead to be an excellent masseuse, and a very focused, intimate sensual lover.

‘Love child’, raised almost exclusively by the dotting mother has also given me a somewhat burdensome clear insight into the female psyche. And thus, the possessiveness begins. One night with the ‘sensitive guy with the big dick’, and most women won’t leave me alone. So, what should be a joyful case of unrestrained sex-hibitionism and overly endowed giving--physically emotionally, and psychologically--stumbles instead, into becoming a self-conscious, vanity- shamed, hiding everyman, afraid to get very involved, afraid to be possessed.

And as such, there goes Incubus Man—quiet, lonely, isolated, and misunderstood; apparently filled with enviable superpowers, but usually totally helpless to really take advantage of, acknowledge, or ever even able to enjoy them much. Just like his childhood superheroes. You might consciously notice and admire him in passing some day, but without directed effort, never meet, or get to know him; until he wanders, unexpectedly, as a free -floating spirit into your sex dreams at night. But one needs more than just enviable super powers to be a superhero, they must eventually act for the collective good. When one can only inspire lust, envy, or desire, and have little skill at consecrating these yearnings, superhero becomes superfool