A gay adult sex story: tons of sex by emanuel 69 ,
MAY, 1999I. Ashley was a caller. That’s how it started. She’d called a few times over a few weeks, always asking to hear the same song, one that you could hear every forty-five minutes if you just turned your radio on. It annoyed me, but I knew to expect it from a Top Forty audience.
After the second call, she’d engage me in conversation before making her request, in the beginning with the usual questions: what’s it like to be on the radio, what do you look like, what’s your real name, etcetera. Lately, though, we’d exchanged more relevant questions with each other: how was your day, have you seen this or that movie, what do you like to do with your time off, and the like. She was actually quite pleasant to talk to. She wasn’t obnoxious at all. Her voice was soothing, and her speech was above par for her generation. She was really quite intelligent, and possibly more knowledgable about current events than I was. Talking to her during my shift was a welcome deviation from the normal brain-dead masses who called.
Early on she told me that she’d just turned eighteen, and would be graduating from high school next month. When I asked her what her plans for college were, she said she didn’t have any yet. She just wanted to take a break from school before committing to a career, and I complimented her on her wisdom.
Our two-minute conversations continued.
On a Friday night a few weeks after the first call, I had an on-location broadcast to make from a local nightclub. I made these appearances frequently, and they were almost always a treat. It was a chance for me to stretch my entertainment legs, and mingle with the population. It was also my chance to be the object of flirtation for seemingly unlimited numbers of stunningly hot, scantily clad young women. I’d never had difficulty getting women to take an interest in me, even before radio, but this was something different. The free pass that these appearances afforded me were certainly appreciated (a foot in the door, if you will), and I enjoyed without reservation the sexual escapades my pseudo-celebrity status rewarded.
This particular Saturday evening appearance was the standard affair; I’d arrive at around 9:00, set up and be ready to roll by 9:45, make the first test signal to the studio to confirm reception, and make the first broadcast at 10:15. Over the following three hours, I’d make two broadcasts per hour, on the fifteen and forty-five minute marks. Between broadcasts, I’d circulate, hand out t-shirts and stickers, and perhaps hold random events inside the club, rewarding participants with promotional materials from the record labels.
At around 11:30, I was sitting in the passenger’s seat of the van when I admired a particularly attractive girl emerge from the front door. She looked to be around five foot, three, with short black spiky hair. She was wearing a short denim skirt, fishnets, and a vented, neon pink t-shirt with cutoff sleeves. Black designer leather combat boots completed her ensemble, which seemed odd, but somehow she made it work. After she’d taken several breaths of the comparatively cooler outside air, she briefly surveyed her surroundings, identified my van with the multicolored strobe lights, and began to make her way over. I felt a stir in my loins as I smiled to myself. Showtime.
The closer she got, the better look at her I got. She had an exotic face; angular, almost Asian, and light skin. Magenta painted lips shared a natural smile as she approached. Her muscles were toned, and it was obvious to me that she’d earned her physique. Her medium, perky breasts seemed well-formed. and her legs were shapely, yet muscular. Holy fuck, she was gorgeous.
I took a gulp from my bottle of water.
“Hi,” she beamed with the most cheerful energy imaginable, piercing me with slender brown eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Not much, just hanging out and making the waves.” I was aware of my cheesiness, but I knew that it didn’t really matter as long as I sounded like I knew what I was doing. “Are you having a good time?”
“Sure am. Getting sweaty from all the dancing. Which one are you?”
That was a question that I hated, “Which one are you?” It made me feel like all deejays were interchangeable in the eyes of the public. Granted, a lot of us are, but I took particular pride in my craft. I worked hard on making my show flow seamlessly. In my time off, I’d practice my speech, timing, and mixing, always striving for perfection. I was passionate about my profession, so when asked which one I was, I felt as if I deserved more respect. However, I knew that it was never anyone’s intention to make me feel unappreciated, and that it was just an earnest question of unfortunate construction.
“I’m Vinnie,” I replied with a generic smile, and extended my hand out the window to shake hers in greeting.
She beamed and grabbed my offered hand eagerly. “Oh HEY! It’s me, Ashley! You remember me?”
My eyes widened briefly before I quickly regained my composure. This was Ashley? This was the anonymous girl I’d been talking to at work for that past few weeks? I started imagining private alone time with her; perhaps I would give her a graduation present. I started to get an erection.
“Hey, of course, I remember you, Ashley!” I was really laying it on thick. Then quite genuinely, “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Somehow, I had managed the response in a convincingly nonchalant manner. “I haven’t talked to you in a few days. How are you doing,” I asked her.
She frowned. “Oh, stressed over finals. God, I can’t wait ’til school is over.” She put significant emphasis on the “God,” and “wait,” in typical teenage fashion.
I smiled empathetically. “Yeah, I know what you mean. The high school thing does remind me, though; how did you get into the club, seeing as how you’re only eighteen?”
Shifting only slightly in discomfort, “My friend let me borrow her ID. Most door guys don’t look closely at pictures, only birth dates.” Almost as an afterthought, and with a bigger smile, “Especially if you smile at them a lot.”
“Of course.” Having run the door at a bar myself at one time, I knew exactly what she was talking about. “Well, you’re a sly little one, aren’t you?” I looked at her in fake accusatory fashion, still smiling.
She smiled big again and said, “You know it! Promise you won’t tell?” She knew I wasn’t going to say a word to anyone.
“I don’t know. What’s in it for me?” I followed her lead.
Without missing a beat, “What do you want?”
My head burned hot with the possibilities. “What do you want?” Where do I begin? “How about we just keep it our little secret?”
“Deal.”
“So, how would you like a brand-spankin-new, top-o-the-line, cutting-edge, high tech Jammin’ 97 tank?” When I was with someone I thought could appreciate the humor, I really liked to ham it up.
She giggled. “No t-shirts?”
My generic response, “Ts for the guys; tanks for the girls. Unless you want to walk around looking like you’re wearing a nightgown.”
She giggled again. “A tank, please.”
I foraged between the front seats for a girls’ small, black tank top, emblazoned with the station logo, and the stack produced one without much effort.
“Here you go,” I offered as I handed her the shirt.
She accepted it with a, “Thanks,” before stuffing it between her legs and reaching for the bottom hem of the shirt she was wearing. She pulled the cotton up from her torso, and once the material had cleared her bra (her front-clasp, black lace bra), it caught for a few moments on the rhinestone encrusted leather collar I had somehow failed to notice, which matched the rhinestone encrusted leather cuffs I had also, somehow, failed to notice. With her arms caught over her head, and her view obstructed by the shirt that was stammering her escape attempt, I took time to observe her firm, toned torso. She was quite athletic. I was even able to make out the faint trace of a six-pack, though just barely, and I thought to myself, Holy shit, this chick is serious, even as I pictured myself licking honey liquor from her perky breasts. My erection grew harder.
Once she’d freed herself from the pink mess, she offered the crumpled shirt to me. I snapped my gaze from her body up to her face to find her looking me in the eye, and as if this sort of thing was done all the time, she asked, “Would you hold this for me?”
I chuckled briefly as I accepted the almost weightless shards of cotton. “Sure.” I smiled at how free she was. She seemed either to not care about the scene she was presenting, or to be oblivious to the mild impropriety of it.
Her entry into the new shirt was much faster and less eventful than her egress from the old, and once she was as comfortable as she was going to be with the fit, she again looked brightly at me, then spun around.
“Well, how do I look,” she asked me with earnest interest.
The shirt fit her snugly, and I was so, so glad. I responded quickly and coolly, “You look good.” I decided to leap. “The tank looks pretty good on you, too.”
She tilted her head down, keeping her eyes on mine as a new kind of smile formed on her lips, and both of her hands grabbed the very front of the shirt and pulled down. She remained silent as her body twisted to-and-fro in an obviously manufactured seductive shyness, and I was hard as a rock.
I suddenly remembered to check my watch to see that I was only a couple of minutes from my next check-in. “Oh, shit,” I urgently remarked as I leapt from the van to get my headphones and mic from the side door as I dialed the studio on my phone for signal confirmation.
While the studio’s line was ringing, I turned back to Ashley to see her looking at my crotch, and I immediately remembered my erection, now deflating.
“Sorry about the interruption,” I said, “but the show must go on, you know.” There wasn’t time for her to respond before the studio answered my call, and a minute later, I was reading promotional materials into my microphone, and convincing my audience of the fantastic time that was to be had, “Right here at Ground Zero, Lexington’s Premiere Party Scene.” I stole a look at Ashley. She was motionless, looking at me in utter concentration. She appeared totally fascinated at what I was doing, as if in disbelief that this could be the origin of the magical noise on the sound machine in her car. She was completely entranced, and I paid her no mind as I finished my check-in.
[zilla_likes]