I was a late-in-life virgin. I’m not talking one of those extreme ones – 30 years old, 35, etc. – I mean, like, 23. So does that qualify? Not really. But my point is that most of my friends went about losing their virginity at 17, and an extra six years of virginity back then — well, it felt like a lifetime. All this is to say that by the time I finally got around to The Knocking of The Boots, I was out of my parents’ house, living in my first apartment with this gay dude who spent most of his time at his boyfriend’s apartment. And all that is to say that a thing I never had to struggle with was finding a place to have sex. I had my own room by the time I really needed one. So any gentlemanly partner in the erotic arts I stumbled across, he and I would just do it in there. Great. Boom. Done. Keep reading »
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