Dylan D And The Sorcerers Queef

When I was a young man in college I was obsessed with balloons. After school I would race home to my secret stash, which was covertly hidden under a shelf in my closet. Many of my finest balloons were kept there, and upon greeting them every day, I would rub them softly and tell them how sorry I was for keeping them locked away. In my head I could hear their anguish; they implored me to release them to the free world, to save them from the dreariness of the dank closet. Instead, I would pull them out one-by-one and make love to them feverishly.

I didn't care that they cried when I ravaged them. There was something erotic about their helplessness, the way they seemed to deflate in order to get away from my three-inch erection. Emasculation was something I understood quite well. If they could understand it also...then maybe I wouldn't feel so alone. Growing up horny and afraid in PV made me value the subtly of connection. My understanding was that if you couldn't find it with other human beings, you could very well find it with the balloons locked away in your room.

Still, there was something missing. I wanted the cloying, needy feeling I had with my balloons to be more than masturbatory; I wanted it to be real. Suffice to say, my urge to procreate was the driving force behind my behavior, and to be honest, I was pretty embarrassed of that.

I deserved better. My balloons deserved better. Most of all, my sister deserved better. She and my bubbe had been instructing me on the art of balloon-making for months, and if they knew that I was fucking the balloons rather than learning from them, they would never speak to me again. Basically, I was fucked if I couldn't get myself under control. The look on my sister's face (surely mortification mixed with sorrow, splashed with a touch of fear) would have ruined me. It would have left me with a limp cock for all eternity.

So I set out to change things. I was finished fucking my helium-infused lovers like prostitutes off the street. It was time for me to become a decent person, which could only happen if I set my balloons free. I didn't trust myself around them anymore; one glance would turn into desire, then lust, then my cock in their tiny air-holes.

The first chance I got, I rode my scooter down to the adult orphanage on 7th street. I planned on giving every variation of balloon I had to the fucks, then make my way to the corner store for a pack of sweets. Maybe even flirt with the cashier a little while I was at it — he was a hot rod, that Johnny. But fate had something else in store.

Only a couple feet away from the orphanage was this red-headed bimbo who went by the name of Kyle — we all knew him as Queen Kate, of course, though never to his face. On the day I was to return the balloons, I ran into him standing just outside the entrance, as always. Except this time, he didn't descend with his usual greeting, which was to honk my dick ferociously. Rather, he pulled me in close as if to tell me a secret.

"I know what's in your backpack," he said. "Those are balloons, right? Well, rumor on the street is that there's a magic remedy for making them take you wherever it is that you want to go."

"Do tell," I said, with just a hint of horniness.

"Queefs," he replied simply. "Never you mind how I know, but I swear to you there is a magic man round the corner who has harnessed their power, and can replicate the effects of transportation for those who are worthy. Seek him out I dare say, but best do it quickly. He is not a man to be kept waiting." With that, he turned around and hurried in the opposite direction, not even giving me one of his customary dick-squeezes before leaving.

Thoroughly put off, I waddled off into the orphanage, intent on fulfilling my original purpose. All around me the crazies were singing, lulling me in with a chorus as sweet as a siren's song. I knew they wanted the balloons as badly as I wanted to get rid of them, so I dropped them at my feet and prepared to make an exit. Saying a quick, tearful goodbye, I was finally ready to leave my dark past behind me.

However, something was not quite right. I could sense it as clearly as I could sense my boyfriend's vaginismus, or my own hereditary alopecia. There was a stink on the wind, and for once, it wasn't mine. With the entirety of my hackles pointed towards the apparent danger, which I could tell was of the most frightening nature, I steeled myself for whatever was to come.

"Dylan, you get the hell away from them this instant!" To my chagrin, it was none other than my parol officer Ted, who happened to run the orphanage when he wasn't busy busting sycophants like me for petty theft and minor sex crimes.

"Oh, come off it Ted," I remarked, though not before hastily scooping up the balloons and hustling quickly out the door.

Outside, I glanced down at my longtime companions, who almost seemed to wink at me despite the unforgivable act I had almost committed. My heart skipped a beat. They never looked more fuckable than in that one moment.

"I can never quit you," I said, ready to do them right then and there.

Suddenly, I heard from afar the sound of police sirens, and nearly jumped out of my bedazzled sneakers. Cursing Ted, I ran away from my pursuers toward what I hoped would be safety. As I made my escape, I turned into a little culdesac of shops filled with an assortment of queer tricks and oddities, and reached out for the nearest door I could find.

Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that this was a gay porn shop. I soon felt right at home scanning the aisles of "fuck bench" and douchery, which I was more than familiar with as a submissive myself. My asshole clenched with the familiar pangs of excitement as I walked to and fro, content to examine the merchandise while the opps searched in vain outside. I could only imagine the frustration Ted would feel when he realized I had escaped.

"You sir, are you going to buy that?"

Startled, I looked up to find an old man staring lustfully after me, in full wizard garb and wearing spanx. He looked vaguely like Tilda Swinton, with a dash of John C. Reilly. Cute, I thought. But definitely not my type. Giving him a once over, I slyly stepped away from the all-purpose dildo I was eyeing and took a step towards him.

"Just looking around," I said. "Is there a reason you're dressed like a wizard?"

"Aye," the man said. "It is because I am one. And I was talking about the balloons in your hand. How do you intend to pay for them?"

Expecting a joke, I smiled at him, but he only gave me the same disgruntled look. Realizing he was serious, I said, "Why sir, I haven't the slightest idea what you mean. I came in with these."

Sneering now, the man ambled in my direction with a slow, winding gait. I briefly thought he might be drunk, then realized that the curvature of his penis (which I could clearly see through the outline of his pants) was affecting his coordination.

"You don't realize it, but you've been putting them up your whole life," he said, pointing to the balloons. "Here is a coin. I want you to flip it."

I could tell something was up, but couldn't quite put my finger on it. Either way, I reasoned, it wouldn't do me any good to stay here. Cautiously, I backed toward the door.

"I will not."

"You must, and you will. What is your call?"

Trying the door handle, I realized to my horror that it was firmly locked. As I furiously jimmied it, the old fiend started to levitate right before my eyes.

"Oh, do not fear," the crazed fool said. "I am merely harnessing the power of the queef. Now, what is your call?"

Whatever dark forces had conjured such a man, queef or otherwise, I could not stomach to find out. It was all I could do not to cry out in terror, or worse, ejaculate. I briefly thought back to Kyle, who was surely in league with the schemes of this sorcerer. It was he, after all, who had introduced me to the idea of seeking him out. Seeing no escape, I resolved to put this matter to rest once and for all, and silently prayed for the safety and good health of my beloved balloons no matter the outcome.

"Tails!" I shouted, perhaps against my better judgement.

"Tails, it is!" he shouted back, sticking his wiener schnitzel in my rear end in one smooth motion. As he pushed his curved member into my asshole, I could feel him digging into my soul and my prostate. With every thrust, it became clearer to me that I might not actually be gay. It happened in an instant, but it was as sure as anything I ever experienced. One-by-one the thoughts of a fit Al Gore, a spry RuPaul Charles, and a smoldering Anderson Cooper were erased from my memory. In its place came a flood of female imagery that nearly knocked my socks off. Large bouncing breasts swam into my field of vision as I imagined myself receiving a wet titty fuck while having my tongue devoured by another woman's pussy.

How could this have happened? Only moments before I was savoring having my ass railed by this old, well-hung sorcerer. But now, I couldn't wait to put my dick in the first pussy I saw. With a start, I realized what must have been done.

"Was this conversion therapy?" I asked, looking at my all-male cast of balloons in surprise.

"Why, of course," said the sorcerer, eyes twinkling merrily.

Wow! I had always imagined conversion therapy to be more subtle in its methods, but now I understood that all it took was some old wizard's meaty cock and some queefs. In spite of this revelation, there was still one question pressing on my mind.

"Who the fuck paid for it?"

"We did!" I looked down, mouth agape, at the balloon who had just spoken, and promptly fainted.

I awoke later in a hospital some two miles from there, and recounting my story was told it was fantastical, unimaginable and impossible. But I know what I saw. And in my heart, I know that my homosexuality has left me as surely as the balloons did. The sorcerer's queef, let it be known, is not to be reckoned with.