A gay story: I Became a Cock Sucking Fag
I turned myself into a cock sucking fag. Part 1.
My name is Timothy L. Jaines, but people call me Timmy. I was born and raised in the suburbs of Los Angeles. I was born in 1967, raised on rock in the 80s, and discovered a whole new world of sexuality years after I had become a man. I am undoubtedly the proverbial California surfer boy—tall, thin, with blonde hair, and blue eyes. I am very social in almost every situation and learned how to talk to women at a young age.
I was, without a doubt a player, a womanizer, a cheat, and someone who thinks with their dick. Well, at least I was. I learned how to talk to women. More importantly, I knew how to talk them out of their panties. I knew what they needed. The attention they craved and the more I honed my skills, the more frequently I was getting them into bed. I was the neighborhood hero to all my friends because I could pick up any girl I wanted and most of the time, sleep with them quickly. I accumulated a pretty good list of names entering into my 20s.
College was even better for me. Nights of drinking, young girls away from home for their first time, and meeting someone like me, who had experience… Well, you get my point. But all of that changed over the years and after giving a blow job to my neighbor after losing a bet; the development of the internet, openly accepted gay relationships, gay porn, and transexual women, changed what turned me on and what I wanted. And let me tell you, it turns out I like sucking dick more than eating pussy.
It was a slow change, something I never saw coming, but one I wouldn’t trade for the world. Throughout this story, I will tell you how my feelings, desires, and ambitions changed me. How my lust for dick, having online boyfriends, erotic pictures, texts, and emails, and trans porn made me long for men, more than women. How I transformed myself from a straight male sex fiend to a cock sucking sissy. And how one hot summer night when I was 28 started me on a trajectory of homosexuality, that has yet to disappoint. So, for this chapter let me tell you about giving my first blow job.
I graduated college with my degree in business and landed a job almost instantaneously. After 4 years of freedom from my parents, there was no way I was moving back home to be under their rules or their expectations of how their son should live. I wasn’t a wild child or some drunken, drug-addict kid, but I liked my independence and my ability to come and go as I pleased while away at college, and I didn’t want to let that go. I crashed with a college friend until I got some paychecks saved up and within three months of my graduation, I rented a nice one-bedroom apartment in a four flat in an area closer to the city limits.
I didn’t have much, but I managed to acquire what I needed over the first few months. I found some second-hand furniture, dishes, tables, and chairs and made that little apartment my home. I lived on the first floor, apartment 1A, while other renters had units 1B, 2A, and 2B. The building was on a lot and a half, so there was a nice backyard and a long side yard. The building had a back staircase and a cemented patio from the back of the building butting up against the two-and-a-half garage. The yard was fenced in and had adequate room for any outdoor activities. Long-time friends, co-workers, new acquaintances, and a host of girls came in and out of that apartment. And just like in college, I was sleeping with one right after another.
As the years passed, new tenants would come and go. I’d try to be friendly and sociable with them all and be a good neighbor. However, a couple of years after being there I met and truly befriended a guy who moved upstairs in 2B. His name was Charles. I called him Chuck. Chuck was 15 years older than I was. He was never married, had a thick full head of black hair, and looked like the consummate 80’s gay guy. Back then I don’t even know if I realized, or even asked him about his sexuality, but now I know he was a closeted gay man. Chuck worked as a mechanic and was knowledgeable about things I couldn’t even comprehend. He was someone who tinkered with everything and could fix anything. A mechanically inclined dork, would be the best way to describe him. He was very friendly, very funny, and was always easy-going, but wasn’t as socially accepted in some groups as he probably would be now.
As we got to know one another more occasionally we would sit out on the back patio, having a beer or two after a long day of work, or we’d catch each other in the foyer of the building and talk for a while. Our friendship developed into us even hanging out in each other’s apartments occasionally to catch a sports game on TV. He met my friends, and I met his. And on occasion, we’d all party at the building. In all reality, he was my apartment buddy, for lack of better words. He never hit on me or led me to believe he was gay. I just figured he was one of those guys who wasn’t lucky with women, and just lived his life.
The landlord didn’t live at the building and the garage was off-limits to the tenants. I had always wondered why the landlord didn’t rent out parking spaces in it. I asked Chuck about it and he informed me that the owner kept a late-model Corvette and a small motorboat on a trailer in there. I didn’t believe him, I thought he was fucking with me. I thought to myself, who keeps a classic car and a boat on a trailer, in a garage, at a place where you don’t live? So, I told Chuck, he was full of shit. And just went about my day.
However, what Chuck said, aroused my curiosity and it got the better of me. One day when throwing out the garbage, I tried looking into the windows of the garage, but they had this black film over them, so I couldn’t see inside. The service door had a handle lock and a dead bolt and the overhead door was solid, with no windows. One night I even tried looking into the windows with a flashlight, but I couldn’t see inside. I was perturbed that I couldn’t see what was in the garage, and I still didn’t believe what Chuck had told me.
A few weeks later I was hanging out with Chuck at his place and I asked him again. He swore up and down that he had seen the old car and the boat in there, and bet me they were in there. Neither of us had any money, so what bet were we going to make? But here’s where things got interesting. Chuck told me he could pick the locks and get the door open, so I could see what was inside. I didn’t believe him and told him I’d give him whatever he wanted if he could pick the locks.
Chuck’s exact words to me were, “If I pick the locks and get us in, you owe me a blow job.”
“Okay big guy,” was my response. Being overly sarcastic. I followed up with, “You know what! If you pick the locks and get us in, I’ll blow you right in the garage.”
“Chuck raised his shoulders, and tilted his head slightly, speaking aloud, “Okay Tim, a blow job it is.”
We waited until dusk when Chuck and I walked out to the garage. Chuck had brought some form of a lock-picking tool out from his tool chest and began fiddling with the locks. He told me to keep an eye out for anyone coming out, or walking by, because as much as he wanted to prove to me the car and boat were in the garage, neither of us wanted to go to jail or get evicted from our apartments for entering into an area we weren’t supposed to go.