CAR SEX & BEYOND: HOLLYWOOD VALET'S SEX LIFE
I'm a Valet in a fancy condo building that sits like a tall erection on the sunny side of Wilshire Blvd in Beverly Hills. The address is Los Angeles, but the City of Beverly Hills, much like the state of Texas that usurped parts of Mexico, has dominion over the Wilshire Corridor, known formally as Millionaire's Row. That is an outdated name currently called Billionaire's Row; as a hooker once said in the elevator, "everyone here has a million clams."
The women who know me don't call me Richard. They call me 'Big Dick.' Some folks call me 'Valet.' Others in the know described me as 'Val-laid.' This area and my building are for the ultra-rich. You will find super wealthy people here and high-grade sex. Some pussy and gay boys are for sale, but lots of sex is free. You can't always tell the pros from the amateurs, but I never pay for my dalliances.
Many women in the highrise have their hands out, and it's usually reaching for my cock. Why? Their husbands are older men in their 3rd, 4th, or 5th marriages. Like old mechanics, their grease guns are too worn out to lube their young wives' axles. I shouldn't complain, 'cause' that's where I come in, and I mean 'IN.'
Talking of cock, I am one lucky fellow. My marauder is at least seven and one-half inches long measured from my balls, longer if measured on the top, and one and a quarter to one and a half inches in diameter. I never measured myself, but Olga laid me down and said,
"Your dick is a perfect size, nicely long but not too slender. The head is proportional to the shaft and won't scare away the bride. After sampling the first few inches, no one of either gender will refuse to take all of it inside. You've got a very pretty cock."
That's Olga's take, and she's a pro, but I only penetrate the fair sex. Working close to West Hollywood, deciding who are real women and who are in drag can be challenging. On a dark night, a good tranny can shift your dick into her asshole before you realize where you have landed ain't pussy.
WHAT AM I DOING HERE?
When I graduated from an Ivy League College, cock size was the last thing that interested me. I came to La-La land, hoping to write screenplays. Instead of 'La-La,' it's been 'Ca-Ca,' but you can't give up hope.
They say it's hard to break into the movie industry without a sugar daddy, and I'm certainly prepared to bend over or buck up if necessary. Several big stars have succeeded by giving up ass blood or have strained their groin pushing a dick up a big boss's kazoo.
Several of my story projects have found a welcome and a few invitations. My agent says,
"No cocktail parties until we have a signed contract. Once they break your ass, the guys in power will treat you like a whore and pass you from one 'assing' couch to another; I mean casting couch."
I hope the inevitable won't take place. My agent says it's just time before some agency purchases my story treatments. Meanwhile, I work as a valet, three afternoons from 3 PM-11 PM and three late nights from 11 PM - 7 AM to pay my rent.
I wonder if giving up some ass skin would be easier on my body than this work schedule, although I'm not too enthusiastic about bending over. My asshole is tight, and I'd like to keep it that way. Many girls I've fucked in the ass say anal provides the most extraordinary sensation in the world. If it's the difference between parking cars or selling my screen treatments, my virgin butt hole will have to go.
I prefer late-night gigs. After 2 AM, the job slows down. I sit in the cubical, waiting to ferry a few late arrivals to their parking spots. With my laptop on the tiny desk, I rap out a few pages of script. If a car pulls in, I stop what I'm writing and jump up to park their vehicles. The people here love their service. In the meantime, I get a few extra hours each night to write.
The exception is Saturday nights when things get busy. People throw parties and invite a few lookers or hookers or escorts to liven things up. The girls arrive with their tits visible, and you can smell their perfumed pussies.
Sometimes the girls invite me to a party, but I say,
"The management does not permit employees to fraternize."
Then the overstuffed doll lowers her elastic tit holder, and out pops a nipper.
"There's more to see. It would be best if you came up," the lady says, winking at me with a third finger in her mouth.
"I know," I say, trying to keep my eyes glued to the floor.
A few hours later, the girls come down in the elevator, and the bloom is off the rose. They no longer wear panties, and the elevator floor has drippy cum spots.
To change the discussion, you might wonder about the economics of working as a Valet. The management learned a long time ago to deal with employees, and they don't. They hired most of us as security, making us private contractors. We pay our taxes, and the building has no responsibility for our retirement or health benefits. If we die on the job, they sweep us out the door, and our corpses lie on the curb waiting for the street sweeper. Yes, I exaggerate.
On my slim salary, management does not allow us to take tips, we may accept if someone puts money into our hands, but the residents take advantage of the no-tipping rule. On my meager salary, I share a cheap, tiny rented apartment in a Hollywood slum, a distance away from the golden zone. I can't afford a car, which would add a garage and insurance to my monthly accounting. I can't do it!
My roommate is perpetually goofed on marijuana, but his mom's checks still arrive like clockwork. Richie is a college dropout whose only chore is driving to the Green Cross store to buy fresh grass. Empty Trader Joe's frozen entrees overfill the trash can. He watches a lot of porn and jerks off into tissues he throws on the floor. His room smells terrible.
(Back to the work site)
The people who live along the Wilshire Corridor tend to be wealthy. Many own apartments were purchased 25 years ago when the cost was one-third of what it is today. Now you need $650,000-$700,000 to buy a one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen-living room. Rents run $3500-$5000 a month for tiny condos. I can't understand how the tenants afford it. They frequently move in and out.
.
My job as a Valet is to park whatever cars pull into the driveway. There are many Mercedes, Porches, Teslas, and an occasional 'Lambo,' Ferrari,' or Rolls Royce. You can count the Royces on your scrotum sack. Some schmuck even has a new Corvette with the rear engine. It's a beauty for as long as it's under warranty, but it doesn't cut any ice with the snobs who turn up their noses, especially at generic Toyota's. Kia's are a joke, and the big Honda's get a pass for Ubers.
The few young married guys have wives, and the single guys have girlfriends who look like 500-dollar whores. Some are. The guy heading to Point Dume in Malibu doesn't carry the surfboard on his shoulder but fits it into a custom case. We have a 'Dillon' who doesn't even drive to the beach. He has a driver.
I don't intermingle with the snobs, but I will dabble my dick in their favorite pussy pies when the opportunity presents itself. My preferred targets are the younger wives of the older gents. If the husband is 75 to 85 years, he may feel the effects of old age: incontinence, dementia, Alzheimer's, or Parkinson's, all of which cause impotence and put their dicks out of business.
Hell, I'm doing the husband a favor. If their randy wives, aged 40-50, can snag a dick between their legs, then these women are content to put up with grandpa, whose calculated longevity was the reason they signed the marriage contract.
The popular myth is that most women over 40 are not into sex. If so, why are these broads wearing tight leopard cat pants that offer a see-through view of their behinds? Why are their tits hanging out and their hands reaching for cock? Maybe it's the nearby ocean breeze?
You might think a woman with these economic perks would not risk her security by spreading her thighs for a Valet fuck, but you'd be wrong. These broads believe they can get away with anything, and they do.
Most of the time, I sit in a small cubicle that faces the driveway entry. I jump up and park the Snodgrass' Bentley when the cars drive in. If Mrs. gives me a 'come hither look, I might rub my dick through my stretchy spandex jeans. The girls seem to notice the swelling right away, also the gay guys, but the guy carrying the surfboard is oblivious. I hope he maintains that attitude when he comes home early and sees my naked ass doing bedroom push-ups over his wife's torso. When I say 'torso,' I'm being polite.
The logistics of Valeting; Some buildings have underground parking, and some have a garage alongside the building. We have underground parking and parking on the second through the fifth floors. With all these spaces, we still need more parking places for guests on a busy day. Then we have to put that yellow 'All Spaces Filled' sign. We have a few extra spaces behind the building, but that's our secret.
I admit I don't perform my duties alone. My helper is Charley. I try to control him, but the chances of keeping a leash on Charley are out of the question. He's his own boss. Who the fuck is Charley? That's the name I gave to my dick!
WIVES NEED CHARLEY
For example, Gretchen Dorchester, aka the Ravisher, is married to a lawyer you see on TV. Their parking spot is up on the 5th level. It's Monday morning, and she and her hubby are returning from a fun and frolic weekend at the Malibu's family estate. Mr. 'Dorch' is late for arrival at his law firm. He parked his Porsche outside the front entrance, but Mrs. 'Dorch' was still inside the car.
The husband drives his Mercedes to his law office. Hubby gets out in the motor court and tells me to park the Porsche in his fifth-floor parking spot while he waits for Jose to fetch his Mercedes parked one level down. Gretchen, wearing tight white shorts and a matching halter, is doing a poor job of keeping her overstuffed boobs under wraps. She says to hubby,
"Hon, I'll ride up with the Valet. See you tonight."
Jose brings up the Mercedes. Lawyer Dorchester gets in his Mercedes, and I get into the Porsche. I drive Gretchen, winding our way up the ramps to the 5th level.
"How come you don't have your parking spaces closer together?" I ask.
"The place came with three parking spots, but dipshit has to keep his old college sports car in the extra spot," says Gretchen.
By the time we get to level five, Frank is singing, "the air is rarefied," Gretchen has her halter off, and her two big tits are staring me in the face. I glide the Porsche into the parking space, hit the off button, and turn toward Gretchen. Before I can say a word,
"A fast fuck will do me," she says.
Neither of us speaks. I move in like a shark and grab those nips; I press her tits together and get both nipples in my mouth. She's fumbling with my jean zipper and seizes the object of her desire, my swollen cock.
She says,
"I love the sound of a zipper going down when I know a big red dick is on the other side."
Gretchen does this odd thing with her legs when ready to get fucked. It's like a frog squatting, her legs at angles rather than straight out. It makes me think she's used to getting fucked by big cocks, bigger than mine, because that position stretches her vagina wide open like a door to the fourth dimension.
Her soft hand grips all of Charley and guides him down the hatch. Her hips are going like a jackhammer, and I'm sucking tit like a hydraulic milking machine. Her white shorts are somewhere down around one ankle.
