Porn Review Blog

It wasn’t a typical New York scene. The loud, congested bustle of
Times Square was much the same as usual. However, as I walked north on
Broadway I stopped dead in my tracks. On the corner was a large group
of foreign sailors. They were awfully darned cute in their navy blue
uniforms and white hats. I took advantage of the red light although I
usually cross against it anyway, if my life isn’t in immediate peril to look
them over. They each had a band around the brim of their hats that read
“Jeanne D’Arc.” Joan of Arc. Obviously their ship was in. Noticing one
particularly handsome sailor in his early twenties who flashed me a shy
smile, I wondered if my ship had come in, too.
They were crowded together studying a map. I asked them in my
very basic French if they needed directions. They all suddenly brightened
at hearing a stranger speak their native tongue and ignored the map and
crowded around me. I don’t know about you, but, having a dozen very
humpy twenty-year-old French sailors some on them with baskets the
size of the proverbial loaf of French bread squeezing closer to me from
every side suddenly made me a very friendly New Yorker.
The one I had already made a mental note of was the closest. He
had close cropped brown hair, handsome regular features, a dark tan and
a pair of green eyes that made my heart melt. He also had arms that
strained the fabric of his tunic to the bursting point, and a French loaf
dressed down the front of his thigh that looked like it could feed a family
of six with leftovers.
I asked them where they wanted to go. Twenty-four shoulders and
a dozen lower lips raised themselves into elaborate shrugs. They were
easy. They just wanted to have some fun. They had come to the right
place. New York is fun. And I’m easy.
My favorite emerald eyes introduced himself as Philippe (it
sounded like “Fleep”). He told me that he heard that Greenwich Village
was fun. I told him that it could be. The gang had a vociferous,
gesticulating vote. Half decided they wanted to go to the Village. The
other half, the less cute half, I might add, sour grapes or not wanted to go
into one of the porn theaters.
There was one small problem. I was on my way to meet my friend,
Linda. She was just about to finish work. We were supposed to see a
movie, but, how could I relinquish my new-found calling as unofficial New
York Ambassador to see some stupid film? Especially since Philippe was
leaning the entire weight of his loaf against my thigh?
I came up with an idea. (No mean feat considering the fact that the
blood normally apportioned for use in my brain had engorged a more
southerly region.) We were standing right beside a pay phone. I waved
good-bye to the half dozen deserters who straggled into a dingy theater
to see a movie that featured the word “muffs” prominently in its title.
Miracle of miracles, it was a pay phone in working order. I reached
my hand into my pocket coming into brief contact with the blood that
had momentarily abandoned my brain and dug out a quarter. I dialed
Linda’s number.
“Linda Metzler,” she cooed in her That Girl voice.
“The Count of Monte Crisco,” I joked. Linda enjoyed an occasional
snappy comeback.
“David, you’re not calling to cancel on me, are you?” she
admonished. I could picture her pulling off her earring and readying
herself for battle.
“Now, Linda, keep an open mind…”
“David, the movie finishes tonight. It closes. It will cease to play in
a theater near you.”
“It’ll be out on video before you know it,” I offered weakly.
“I don’t wanna see it on video!” she snapped. “I want the big
screen. I want the Dolby sound. I want that bad, grease-soaked movie
popcorn!” Linda is a gal who wants it all.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I replied, forcing myself not to whine.
“You haven’t the equipment!” she snickered. (I knew it was just a
matter of time before she let out a zinger.)
“But, something’s come up!” I explained. “Something irresistible.”
“Knowing you, the only thing that’s come up is your little piece of
turkey gristle!” she fumed. Calling Linda a ball breaker would be like
calling Acme Wrecking a housecleaning service.
“But, I want to include you in my change of plans,” I fudged.
“And what might that be?” she asked with more than a hint of
disbelief.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider giving up the chance of sitting in a
darkened theater with someone who really didn’t want to be there for the
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of spending an evening in the Village,
wining and dining a half-dozen incredibly sexy young French sailors? On
me.” I crossed my fingers for luck. There was silence at the other end of
the line.
“Linda? Are you there?”
“Well, I’ll have to go home and change my clothes first.”
“Change? Why?”
“Because I want to wear something a little more casual. Something
that shows a little cleavage. I’m gonna give you a run for your money,
honey!”
“Fine. Wear whatever you like. Just meet us at The Riviera when
you’re ready. We’ll be there. Okay?”
“Okay, Davy. But, remember, just because I’m being so goddamn
nice about this change of plans does not mean you don’t owe me.”
“Don’t worry. The thought never crossed my mind.”
I hung up and turned around to see my entourage waiting
expectantly. They looked so adorable, with the red pompoms on top of
their white hats and the ‘V’ of horizontal stripes across their chests, that I
hated to share them with Linda. She would be what you’d call a straight
female version of a chicken hawk. Well, I’d take my chances. But, if I
caught her so much as smiling at Philippe, I’d pluck her.
We started our march south. Heaven was smiling on me. Philippe
spoke English the best of the bunch. Coincidentally, I suddenly forgot
what little French I knew. He had to stick close. To translate.
The sailors found me riveting. You can’t really blame them.
Besides being New York’s only Goodwill Ambassador, I’m not that hard to
look at. I’m thirty. (Okay, thirty-two.) Tall and naturally slim. (Okay, so I
starve myself to fit into last year’s jeans.) And a natural blond. (Okay, so
I’m naturally a shade darker. That doesn’t mean I’m not a blond.) Suffice
to say that I’ve never been referred to as a troll, although I’ll admit to
having been called willowy once or twice, which I’m not. I belong to a
gym. (Okay, so it went bankrupt four years ago if it ever reopens, I’m sure
they’ll honor my membership.)
Our march was not without a few forced halts. One was at Macy’s.
The platoon wanted to buy some jeans. It was exhilarating. The
salesperson an older guy in a rather good rug and I couldn’t have been
more helpful. We commandeered the changing rooms and watched,
breathless, as one after the other squeezed themselves in and out of
countless pairs of jeans.
Philippe was shy. I nobly volunteered to curtain myself into a
cubicle with him. His shyness was soon explained. He hadn’t worn any
underwear. His tunic had to come off in one piece, leaving him wearing
nothing but his socks and a bit of foreskin. His cock hung heavily
between his legs. It was as big soft as a respectable one would be hard. I
had purposely selected a couple of pairs of jeans that I thought would be
a little on the small side. (They only knew their European sizes.) Crammed
into the tiny enclosure I could see his round white ass squirm and wriggle
in the mirror behind him as he pulled the jeans over his muscular thighs.
He was about to give up, but I told him that it was the fashion again to
wear them tight. (So I lied sue me!)
He managed to get them pulled up over his ass, but cramming his
cock and very sizable balls inside was a tricky maneuver. He had to
squeeze his balls down one leg and his cock down the other. I told him
the fabric would stretch and indicated that he should lift his arms over his
head and hold his breath. He obeyed. I knelt in front of him and tackled
the fly. They were button fronts. (Pure coincidence!) As I struggled with
the metal buttons and the stiff denim, I naturally huffed and puffed a
little as I strained to do them up. At that point, I’m sure my breath felt as
hot as a blow dryer set on full-power.
One of my fingers strayed teasingly down the leg that held his
cock. It wasn’t only the denim that was stiff! Throwing caution to the
wind, I grabbed the waistband at the back and yanked down for all I was
worth.
What a reward! His cock was semihard. The dark pink head was
peeking out from his receded foreskin. I wrapped one hand around the
thick base and in an instant it leapt to attention. I peered up and saw that
Philippe had leaned back against the mirror and closed his eyes. That was
invitation enough.
I scooped the skin backwards and slid the glistening pink head
into my mouth. He tasted like paradise. I knew that time was of the
essence, so I quickly jerked him as I sucked. With the other hand I played
with his smooth, heavy balls and sent a finger to scout the unknown
territory of his tightly puckered ass.
Just as my mission was about to be accomplished, we were cruelly
interrupted by voices outside the cubicle telling us they were ready to go.
We had no choice. We had to abandon ship.
I quickly helped Philippe out of the jeans and back into his tunic.
We had a bit of trouble lowering his periscope, but, somehow managed to
stuff it in. We exchanged a quick kiss and joined the others. They didn’t
notice how sheepish we looked, they were so busy comparing their
purchases. The salesman also looked flustered. His face was bright red
and his rug was askew. And when he asked us to be sure to come back
soon, I could tell he really meant it.
The boys and I meandered through Chelsea and into the Village.
Linda was already waiting for us at The Riviera. She had appropriated two
outdoor tables and was guarding them with her life.
She was really dolled up for the occasion. On a good day she
could look like a dark-haired Jodie Foster. On a bad day, she could look
like the Wicked Witch of the West. It was a good day. Her hair tumbled
fluffily onto her shoulders, her make-up was perfect and her tits
provocatively pert above a low-cut turquoise blouse looked good enough
to eat. (Although 1, personally, would have to be pretty damned
hungry…)
I took a glance around to see how my crew was reacting. They
were all drooling over Linda’s cleavage except Philippe. He narrowed his
beautiful green eyes, as if gauging whether or not she was competition. I
leaned over to him and murmured that we were just friends. The smile he
flashed me made me practically pass out.
We squeezed into the chairs and ordered drinks. Linda was on my
left and Philippe on my right.
“What kept you?” she asked. “I was beginning to think you’d
dumped me again.”
“They all wanted to stop and try on jeans at Macy’s.
It was a madhouse.”
“And I can guess who was the happiest lunatic. You look like
butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”
“You’re wrong there, Linda. It would melt in a second,” I chided.
From then on, Linda turned her attention to the tallest, beefiest of
the bunch, who was sitting on her other side. She had managed to
squeeze a couple of years, at a Swiss finishing school, out of her parents.
She could hold her own quite well in French. She thought she sounded
just like Brigitte Bardot, but, with Linda’s rasping voice it was more like
Maurice Chevalier.
Philippe and I got on together like a house on fire. Our thighs
never parted under the table, keeping us both in a constant state of semi-
erection. (I know I checked every now and then.)
Military service is compulsory in France, so he chose the navy to
see something of the world. He was from a town near Avignon, called St.
Remy. When his service was completed he told me he wanted to continue
his studies and become an architect.
Now, there was a coincidence! Not only did we both have raging
hard-ons, but we were both into architecture. I told him about the
building I was submitting a proposal on in Tribeca. I didn’t bother letting
him know that most of my living came from designing suburban
shopping plazas. He’d find that out for himself.
After cocktails at The Riviera, we ate at a pizzeria the boys’ choice
and then hit a jazz club. It was early, so we easily got seats. By that time,
Linda and The Beefcake were obviously getting hot under the collar. Her
hand was constantly massaging a suspicious looking lump on his thigh
and his hand was so far up her skirt it looked like it was lost forever.
A little before midnight, four of the sailors suddenly struggled to
their feet and announced that they had to be back aboard ship. I gasped
and looked toward Philippe and The Beef. They smiled and shook their
heads.
Being the ambassador, I took the four outside and put them into a
cab. The cabby who was kinda cute raised an eyebrow at me and asked if
there were any more where they came from. I told him that there was a
whole shipful, but they had to be on board in a half hour. I’ve never seen
a cab pull away from the curb so fast.
When I got back inside, Linda and her new pal were just getting
up to leave. Philippe explained that he had invented an aunt in
Manhattan, and on the strength of that had wangled a weekend pass for
him and his buddy.
I asked Philippe what he wanted to do. Thank god he said he
wanted to go back to my place. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to
drag him around bars and watching everyone drool.
I’ve got a loft in Soho. (Okay, so it’s in Noho.) It was a beautiful
night for walking. We took a cab. Just call me Mr. Impatient!
I was so excited that I felt like carrying him over the threshold. We
headed straight for the bedroom. (Bed area.) In about fifteen seconds, we
had both ripped off our clothes. After all the hours of what amounted to
foreplay, our cocks were both instantly at full mast.
We. fell onto the bed. He heaved himself on top of me and our
tongues thrashed together while the blood in our cocks beat in unison. I
grabbed two handfuls of his unbelievable ass and pulled him even closer.
He then pulled himself down between my legs and took my cock
in his mouth. He wasn’t an expert cock sucker, but I gave him an A for
enthusiasm.
Then it was my turn. I reached down and wrapped my hands
around his ridiculously slim hips. As my cock slapped wetly out of his
mouth and onto my stomach, I pulled him forward until he was on his
hands and knees above me. He fucked my face something fierce. I
managed to wrench a finger into his hole. Eureka! He started to buck. I
pulled myself away before he came. I had other things in mind. I coaxed
him onto his back and balanced his ankles on my shoulders. With one
hand I rubbed my cock back and forth along his balls and crack. With the
other I searched frantically in the handy compartment in my headboard
for lubricant and safes.
Philippe kept shaking his head “no.” But his body was arching and
saying “yes.” I put a dollop of lube in the tip of the condom and then
unrolled it down my cock. I squeezed more lube onto my hand and
introduced a finger into his hole. That was all it took. His “yes” became a
verbal one and I positioned the head of my cock and slowly shoved it in
to the hilt.
From then on, I could do no wrong. Philippe started pumping his
own cock as I pushed in and out. His ass felt incredible, my own snug
harbor. I grabbed the sides of his ass and really started to pump.
As Philippe started spurting over his chest, I plowed in deeper. I
came in waves as I leaned forward and our lips met again. I pulled out of
his ass and we lay together, our breath heaving.
Suffice to say, it was a hell of a weekend. Occasionally we dragged
ourselves out of bed long enough to have a meal with Linda and her Beef
or to run to the drugstore for more condoms. Philippe and I have kept in
touch. His military service is over soon. I’m trying to persuade him to
attend architecture school on this side of the ocean. I won that bid in
Tribeca and am in dire need of an assistant.