This is a true story, but nobody will believe it. I wouldn't. They say truth is stranger than fiction. It's also much harder to believe, especially when I'm forced to leave out all the real names, places and year this happened.
It's silly, in a way, to so readily doubt that a famous person had a tryst or a sexual dalliance with a non-famous person. Hell, it happens all the time. A lot of celebrities are sexual fiends.
So, why then, when someone shares the gritty details of banging a celebrity with us, is the story so hard to believe?
A buddy of mine told me he was banging a famous director's daughter on their yacht in Newport. This was back in the early 1990's. I didn't believe him. I thought he was just trying to compete with my long list of sexual conquests.
Then, that next weekend, he showed up at my house in a yellow Maserati and took me to Newport to have lunch with her.
At Lunch she could not stop raving about my uncanny resemblance to a famous actor, but more on that later.
Many people who I have told my story to, who know me, who know what I look like, who know how attractive I was to women in my youth, and who trust my integrity, still find this particular story of banging one of the hottest actresses in Hollywood very hard to swallow.
I don't blame them. There's a lot to doubt. All I can say is I hope you enjoy the story, and that this did really happen. Of course, the conversations aren't exact. Neither are the blow by blow details on the sex. However, I resisted embellishing it, and it's pretty damn close.For instance, I wanted to add a sequence of her giving me head and drinking my cum, but that, unfortunately, just never happened. So, I'm proud of how this written version turned out. It reflects what really happened, and that's what matters.
In this account I will refer to myself as Harry Hofeeder. That ridiculous name is not my real one.
I will refer to the very famous husband of the actress I banged as John Doe, and I will call her Jane Doe.
I refuse to provide the timeline or the city. That info could reveal which Hollywood power couple I am writing about.
Good luck figuring out who they are. I don't think, somehow, it will be too hard, especially if you know me, and know what I look like.
First, let me give you some important background info that made this all possible.
I look exactly like the very famous actor whose wife I fucked. Yes, I have been plagued by this resemblance since he became famous. People on the streets would ask me for his autograph so often, I would give it to them to save time trying to deny I was him.
Until I drastically changed my appearance so as not to be mistaken for him, women would actually throw themselves at me.
I must have bedded fifty women over the years who thought I was him.
In my other stories on this site I have omitted every single conversation that started with, "Oh my God! John Doe! I'm a huge fan. What are you doing here?"
Each story I've written should have contained some reference to my famous looks, but I was too sick of those conversations to include them.
I saved them all for this story.
To be more precise, even though my face looked just like his, I am two years younger than the famous actor who I resemble.
I am also two or three inches taller. In my twenties and early thirties, around the time this took place, I was a bit more muscular than he was. My voice is slightly deeper. I speak with a Rhode Island accent. My hair and facial hair was darker and my eyes are darker, too.
Apparently, my penis is significantly larger than his, but I'll get to how I found out about that later.
There were times in my late twenties that I would shave my facial hair, leave the hats and sunglasses at home and allow people to mistake me for John Doe.
I especially enjoyed doing this when I travelled. So, on this one trip to visit my mom on the west coast, I was in John Doe mode.
I signed autographs, took pictures with people and said the same old stupid lines like, "Thank you. I put a lot of work preparing for that part. I'm glad you enjoyed the movie."
I may or may not have had sex in the airplane bathroom with a blonde passenger named Jill on that flight, but it could have been on the flight back home to New England. I forget.
Anyway, as I arrived at my destination, after grabbing my luggage and stepping out of the terminal onto the sidewalk, I heard a man yelling, "Mr. Doe! Mr. Doe!
He was in a limousine, driving, and yelling out the passenger window.
I approached and looked inside. He was an older black man wearing a chauffer's hat. "Did you miss your plane, Sir? Do you need a ride back?"
I laughed and began to tell him that I wasn't John Doe, but he put the car in park, jumped out and ran around the back side. "Did you miss your flight or just change your mind and decide to stay," he said, snatching up my suitcase.
Then he paused and looked confused. "This ain't your luggage."
I shrugged and said, "I got new luggage... err... in the airport." I suddenly wanted a ride in that limo.
He looked at me and grimaced. "You changed your hair and clothes, too? Is this for some kind of a part, or something "
I nodded. "Yeah, that's right. I'm role playing. Just play along, please. I like to really... Immerse myself... in a character."
He said, still studying me, "Oh you is immersed, all right, Sir. You is immersed. Y'all even look taller. Are you wearing some kind o' platforms?"
He inspected my sneakers.
I laughed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He laughed back at me and gave me a wink. "I get it. Play along." He shook his head as he popped the trunk and placed my bag inside.
Closing the trunk, he came back and opened the limousine rear door for me. "Now let's get you back to the hotel and the misses."
"The misses?" I said, climbing into the back, and realizing exactly who the chauffeur meant.
She was John Doe's beautiful young wife and one of the hottest actresses alive. My penis twitched a little just at the prospect of meeting her.
"You want to go back to the Ritz Carlton, right? Or do you want to go somewhere else?"
"No. No, that's perfect. Take me back to my wife."
The chauffeur dropped me at the entrance and handed my luggage to a bell-hop. The bell-hop looked confused for a moment and then seemed to shrug off whatever had perplexed him. "Back up to your suite, Sir?"
"Absolutely," I said, thrilled I had gotten this far.
"You can stop at the desk and get issued another room key, or I can grab that for you if you like."
Please do. Thank you."
When we arrived on the top floor of the hotel, as soon as the elevator door opened, I knew the jig was up. There were two men in suits, obviously security, standing in the hallway and huddled together, talking.
I figured they must personally know John Doe, and wouldn't be nearly as gullible as a chauffeur or a bell-hop.
I walked toward them and the door of the penthouse suite, fully expecting to get confronted.
Instead, they both gave me quick nods of recognition and continued chatting together in whispers.
They never even looked back at me again.
I opened the door to the room with my card key, and took my suitcase from the bell-hop.
Handing him a twenty, I nodded as he thanked me and I quickly shut the door.
"Who's here? John? Is that you?"
Jane Doe's voice was calling out from forty feet away in the master bedroom. Her head peeked out from the doorway.
In my best John Doe voice, I said, "Yeah. Missed my flight."
"That's a shame. I was hoping your plane would crash."
Jane Doe, her hair a mess and with no makeup on, marched out of the master bedroom. She had on a white silk tank top, no bra, white, baggy silk boxer shorts and pink ankle socks.
She stopped in front of the door to the bedroom, lifted a bottle of booze, holding it high up for me to see, and said, "Cheers, Motherfucker!" Then she tipped it up, and guzzled at least two fingers worth, swaying as she drank.
Jane Doe, the hottest actress in Hollywood, was standing - albeit, unsteadily - twenty feet in front of me, half dressed and, hopefully, too shitfaced to realize I wasn't her husband.
She dropped the bottle to her side, finished swallowing, and said, "If you have any more vile comments about my day drinking just keep them to..." She trailed off, and blinked at me. "What the fuck did you do? You look..."
Grimacing, she pulled her head back and said, "John?"
I smiled and said, "New hairstyle. You like it?"
She shook her head, blinking and looked at me again, slowly walking closer.
As she studied me she began to smile. "Holy fuck!" She said. Reaching out, she rubbed my shoulder, slid her hand down and squeezed my arm. "You look just like him. Even your teeth. I mean you're taller, and a bit hunkier, but, Jesus Christ!"
"So, you're not upset?"
She blinked and shook her head. "Upset about what?"
"Can I get a swig off that bottle?"
Jane chuckled wickedly, covering her mouth with her free hand. She handed me the bottle, watching me in giddy delight as I took a nice long drink.
"John would never do that," she said, a gleeful look on her face.
It was the smoothest whiskey I had ever tasted. I dropped it down, admiring the bottle and blew out a breath. "Whew!," I said, "That's the good stuff."
She nodded, still grinning broadly, and taking the bottle back. "Oh, yes it is," she said. Then she giggled, took a sip, and added, "John doesn't drink anymore. The stick up his ass is so long it blocks his throat."
We both laughed at that and I took the bottle back, taking another sip.
"So," Jane said, "Who the fuck are you?"
I shrugged and smiled back at her bewitching smile. "My name's Harry... Harrison Hofeeder, from Rhode Island, but I'm just a random guy. Your husband's chauffeur spotted me and he mistakenly picked me up at the airport thinking I was John."
"Dumb bastard," she said, snatching the bottle back. She giggled. "Well, he's fucking fired."
She took a long swig, her eyes studying my body as she drank.
Pulling the bottle away, Jane pursed her pretty lips as she swallowed, and stared directly at my crotch. She raised an eyebrow, looked up at me and said, "Hmm, you're packing quite a whopper there. May I see it?"
"Sure," I said, smirking, "If you have the balls to pull it out yourself."
Looking somewhat surprised and amused, Jane harrumphed and shot me an, "Oh really?" expression.
"Here," I said, snatching the bottle back from her. "Let me hold that for you. You'll need two hands."
I spread my feet apart, put an arm behind my back and thrust my hips out. Then watched her as I took a long sip from her bottle.
Jane shrugged, dropped to her knees, and, with her tongue sticking out like a toddler as she focused her efforts, she unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans.
She smiled up at me as she slowly pulled my pants and boxers down.
My hardening cock popped out like a Jack-in-the-box. Jane squealed, jerked her head back, and fell on her ass, laughing. Her eyes wide and still fixated on my cock, she continued laughing as she said, "You are definitely not my husband!"
