I'm a Lucky Guy, Right?
I think I'm the luckiest man alive, right? My new girlfriend of the past eight months wants me all the time. Take this past Thursday, leaving a work engagement, everyone loved her even my uptight boss who interrogates everyone's girlfriends and wives - and partners. We're walking to the elevator leaving one of the fancy top of the skyscraper restaurants my firm splurges on occasionally, and she grabs my manhood like a leash leading me to the elevator. Luckily the walkway was empty because she unzips my trousers, pulls my dick out and continues to lead me to the down button. I hear laughs and footsteps coming closer, so I go to zip up the lever she's holding, but she grabs it tighter. Thank goodness the elevator doors open and she pushes me in. One of them shouts "Hold the elevator!" and she presses the "close doors" button just in time for them to miss seeing her...well let's just say I'm a lucky man.
Kennedy and I share everything. The old cats, including my dad, always said don't share all your business with a female. The conversations guys have alone in the car or a locker room. Never do it, because they'd use it against you eventually. A doctrine a kept throughout high school, college, law school, until this day. However, with Kennedy I've let my guard down. We intently discuss our dreams, our plans, even our fantasies.
I've told her about my desire to be with three women. The vision of having a warm mouth on every end of my yogurt slinger; the wiener and the beans. I've even asked if she had any friends as prospects. Kennedy has been open about her relationships with others. I don't care to hear about the men but the women arouse my interests. She told me about her and three of her high school clique at a slumber party; about six months monogamous in college with another agency model. Oh yeah, fucking beautiful! A fucking dime! But a ten with the kind of sex drive and friendly attitude that diverts me from probing too deep into her sexual past. I don't want to pull up an image of a bunch of west-side gangbangers running a train, if you know what I mean.
So, needless to say, we get freaky, right? She has this really weird fantasy. I mean my shit is kinda lame comparably. I want three women. I want her to dress like a maid, a teacher, be my slave for a day, all the normal shit, right? She has a desire in her mind of fucking a bear. Yes, a bear. Freaky shit! She says it has her against a tree and she's fighting it, but she enjoys it, and it's just ravaging her. And afterward, it just walks away into the forest. I couldn't help laughing when she first told me; like a fairy tale it just politely disappears in the bush. She can't even climax until I make primal diaphragm grunts like a ravenous Yogi or an asphyxiated Smokey until I come and then of course disappear into the bathroom.
Okay, so we try to fulfill each others fantasies, right? I'll tell you about the night she brought two UK party girls to my condo later, okay? Major freaky shit! But I go to the north-side on Belmont to a costume shop. You see where this is going, right? It's the kind of shop that sells costumes, gag gifts, and psychedelic shit year around. I ask the skinny tattooed guy at the counter if he has a bear suit for purchase. He holds up a bony finger, retreats into the stock room, and returns with a blue and pink Care Bearish suit in clear plastic on a hanger.
"Not quite what I was thinking. Any bear bear suits?"
"Only bear suit I got sir."
"Any other large wild mammals?"
"Got a killer whale, a gorilla, a purple dinosaur..."
"Is it a gorilla gorilla?"
Three hundred twenty nine dollars -- on sale! I have to admit though, it is extremely life-like. It's covered in this black course hair-like fur, with brownish patches on the back and the top of the head. It has a real leather black chest. It really feels and smells like real leather. Pink mouth and all. I mean it's top shelf for gorilla suits. I take it home and this is where it gets really interesting. No matter how big or real or life-like these animal costumes are, they never include the genitalia, right? It has all these details and it's too much to put a little nine-inch limp peter with a ballsac; so I cut out a penis hole. I cut a little glory hole in the suit so I don't have to take it off, unzip it, or pull it down.
Now I'm in my car driving from my Hyde Park condo to Kennedy's townhouse in the West Loop, gorilla suit in passenger. Kennedy's house is sharp. How she affords it, is unknown to me. An attached two-level townhouse in an active community with store front cafes, bars, and restaurants within walking distance. She makes good money as a senior media buyer at her advertising agency and her occasional print modeling gigs, but the place has to be close to double the cost of mine. Anyways, when I get there I want to surprise her. We never really crash visit without the courtesy call, but after eight months and considering I dropped $350 for a surprise gorilla suit with real live penis, I'm in the surprising mood.
With the key she hides behind the loose brick in the porch, I let myself in. As quietly as possible I undress in her foyer which is blocked from view and slip on the gorilla suit, head and all. Every deep breath I try to suppress to be silent seems to inflate my erection; my heart is fucking racing anticipating the sex.
As I round the foyer wall, I see that she's not downstairs and I hear rustling like she's moving furniture upstairs. I take each step gingerly, sure not to cause a squeak or a sound, until I hear Kennedy squeal out. Only my gorilla head peeks from the lower corner of the stairs, to see Kennedy spread out across her bed in a 69 position with a tanned white man. He's on top of her, with her head leaning down backwards over the side of the bed, his orange tanned ass moving up and down, up and down, up and down...smothering her face. Stunned I watch as he sucks, licks and teases Kennedy's perfect body laid in full access on the bed for his delight. They soon change positions and she just turns over, as he walks around the bed to climb up and take her from behind. Their heads are turned from me, but when I see another position beginning to form and their heads starting to turn my way, I pull the gorilla head back.
I experience a surreal moment; like I was just waking from a sensual dream. Was that shit real? I'm dazed, but still aroused, as I creep slowly back down the stairs. Next I hear a sound I know will stay with me for a time to come. The tanned eight-month girlfriend fucker lets out a howl at the top of his voice. Loud. And keeps doing it. Then continuing to howl in a stutter like he's close to explosion. Do bears howl?! Bastard!
Not noticing, I leave out the house, door locking behind me, without changing back into my clothes. I realize it when I get to my car at the curb. Even worse, the key to the house is inside in my pants pockets with the key to my car and house. I lean my back against the side of my car. Still dazed, still thinking -- still surreal. I must have stood there for only less than five minutes when I hear a chirp behind me. Yes, you already know...
"Officer, I'm sorry I'm just about to leave. I just have to get my keys from..."
"Just stay right there!"
Two officers approach from opposite ends of my car, hands at their holsters telling me to calm down. Why me? I try to tell them that my clothes are just on the other side of that door, but they won't hear it. I figure one of the affluent neighborhood watchdogs saw me standing at my car, in all my glory, and called the police. They didn't even let me take off the gorilla head, wanted to show their catch to all their law enforcement friends. They laughed near tears in the front seat.
At the station, enduring immediate humiliation, one of the officers safety pins a loose sheet of paper over my stuff while I'm being processed. Exhausted, embarrassed, self dehumanized, I can only call the only person I trust to understand my immediate circumstance, right? Kennedy.
And yes, we did have sex that night.
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