Straight boys don’t know dick about drag!
A lull in Monty and Nat’s sex life is not the end of the world but it might just be when Nat arrives at his brother-in-law’s divorce party, dressed as a very sexy woman, and the drunken young straight boys don’t know dick about drag. Monty worries how they’ll react when they find out.
Ebook ID: 5112_1069
lyd Category: His and His Kisses
Length: 36 pdf Pages / 5483 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html,
lrf, epub, RB,
Ebook Cover Price: $1.99
Nat wriggled in an attempt to pull the hem of his cocktail frock down to a respectable length as a truckie kept pace with our car, blaring his horn in admiration. The big burly boofhead wasn’t to know the gorgeous woman seated next to me was actually my boyfriend who was doing his best to hide his generously proportioned cock.
I laughed. “I told you that little black number you’re wearing would scarcely cover your unmentionables.”
Nat was lapping it up, telling me that dressing up actually had the strange effect on him of making him feel more feminine, more like a woman. He easily passed. He was pretty: very pretty. A young pretty woman. That’s why he had been receiving his share of stares and cheers from passing motorists, the truckie just the most recent in a long line of admirers.
“I think maybe we should have been more careful about the sort of woman we chose for you to imitate,” I said.
“Nah,” Nat replied. “I’m having fun.”
As usual, Nat thought he knew better.
We were headed to the annual gay charity fundraiser at one of the larger gay bars in the city. The theme for this year’s event was Sluts & Satyrs. No prizes for guessing that Nat had chosen to go as a slut, something so foreign to his nature that his friends gaped in amusement when he told them. I was outfitted much more mundanely as a satyr, stripped to the waist to show off my gym-toned body and wearing furry underpants with a tail, plus a pair of lace sandals as footwear. My outfit was also Nat’s choice. He loved to get me half naked in public, to show his mates how successful he’d been in ensnaring the most desirable gay bachelor in town. That would be me. He believed the easiest way to incite jealousy and piss people off was to parade me about on his arm in the least amount of clothing that was legal.
I’m in a rather staid profession – accountancy – so I have to keep my looks and, especially, my body in peak condition to overcome people’s rather clichéd preconceptions. It helps that I own a company that handles the largest corporations in the country. The clincher is that I’m endowed where it counts thanks to the family genes and I have the stamina of ten men. That’s what keeps Nat happy.
Or I should say I used to have the stamina of ten men. I used to keep Nat happy. Not that he was complaining, but chemotherapy does have a tendency to kill not only the cancer cells but the libido. Plus the ability to get hard, especially when you most need to. And Nat does like his sex.
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, whacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.