Dave and the Gloryhole

GLORYHOLE is similar in temperament to other stories of mine such as 'With a Band and a Flash', and 'The Death of a Modern Man', in that it is lighthearted. So, if you liked those, you should like this one. Bluey from TDoaMM even makes an appearance in this one. Whether it belongs in Loving Wives or not, well, that's debatable. I'm happy to refund what you paid for it if you object...

I sincerely hope this distracts you from the state of the world at the moment for half an hour or so. My editor, CTC, and I are frantically writing and editing for your delectation.

If some of you want to use your confinements to dabble in writing, believe me, if I can do it, anyone can, then CTC and I are here to help and encourage. Simply contact us via SemperAmare or CreativityTakesCourage as the feedback portal on my profile, she no work.

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OKAY, I'LL ADMIT, maybe it wasn't the most sensitive thing I could have said to my wife, "Um, if you're never going to feel like it, um, do you mind if I go elsewhere? I promise to be discreet."

Maybe a little background may convince you I wasn't being an absolute cunt to my wife of twenty-nine years, mother of our two grown and fledged children, and a better than average looking forty-nine-year-old.

You see, we'd had until our youngest fled the nest six months earlier, what I thought was an average sex life. Then the excuses accelerated.

I've got a headache. My period is lasting two weeks these days.

They coincided with Karen going out more with her best friend, Julie. Card nights at Julie's. Tupperware parties at Julie's. Charity fundraisers with Julie. All had one thing in common. They were usually on nights we traditionally fooled around.

I'll be brutally honest, I still worked a manual job at fifty, and was tired most weeknights; being particularly buggered on Friday. Yeah, I know it's not sexy to admit, but it's true. So, long story short, Saturday and Sunday nights had been make-the-beast-with-two-backs nights. Guess what nights my increasingly estranged wife was absenting herself from the family home. Come on, guess.

Who is Julie, I hear you say? She was Karen's best friend and had been since they'd met through work about five years ago. About a year into the friendship, Julie's husband, who I'd met a few times and quite liked, disappeared off the scene, ostensibly because Julie caught him fooling around.

Thus, Julie became an uncomfortable acquaintance. You know the type. The wife's friend who is better looking than the wife, flirts with you, and doesn't mind shoving her surgically enhanced tits in your face; bought with her first few alimony cheques. Someone who looks more and more attractive and occupies more and more of your dreams as the drought in the marital bed extends.

Finally, last month I'd forced a showdown.

"What the hell is going on, Karen? And how can we stop it? Stop it we must or our marriage is in jeopardy."

Despite me beginning the conversation as politely and tactfully as I knew how, hysteria prevailed for a while.

"So, after thirty years, it's 'on your back or on your bike', is that it? Put out or fuck off, is that to be my lot in life?"

I survived the shouts, insults, and threats until, finally, my calm repeats of, 'I just want to know what's going on' and, 'I just want to ensure our long-term future', sank in and Karen began crying. She'd been to the doctor, who confirmed that she'd followed in her mother's footsteps and the deadly 'M' word had struck early. Yes, Men-O-Pause. It certainly paused our sex life.

I was a shoulder to cry on as she explained the ramifications of this. Apparently, it meant a loss of libido amongst other things and was seen by some women as the start of a rapid decline into old age.

Some of this sounded familiar to me; some didn't make sense. I knew lots of guys in their forties, fifties, and sixties and while most complained they weren't getting enough, none had spoken of being cut off suddenly because of it. So, I did what all sane, working men do when faced with one of life's mysteries. I went down the pub to ask my mates about it. The three that were there at the time were no help, but, luckily, Sue, the bar girl was bored enough to be listening in, and bold enough to offer unsolicited advice.

I say bar girl, but she could easily have been ten years older than me. I got a concise, oft interrupted tale of what menopause meant to women. Apparently, not only did a woman's sex drive dwindle and she became terrified about her fading looks, but something more subtly evil was happening inside a woman's head. Menopause marked the end of a woman's fertility. At the end of the process, a woman wouldn't be able to have babies.

'You fucking beauty,' I thought to myself. No more worrying about the pill; no more condoms—I never could stand the smell of burning rubber—no more periods.

Why weren't women looking forward to it?

Sue set me straight, explaining the last one was a biggie. Every animal is on this planet for one reason. To have babies. As a species, we've learned to walk upright, have multi-thousand-word lexicons, and be so sophisticated that we can elect absolute morons to rule over us, but, at heart, we're still animals. Nowhere in nature is there a job description, 'grandmother', or 'grandfather'. Humans, like all creatures, need a reason to live. Apparently, Karen's was being removed from her.

According to Sue, Karen would increasingly feel unattractive, over-the-hill, and rudderless. I could identify with the last one; I was feeling rogerless, it having been months since I last rogered Karen.

Sue went on, she really was a wealth of information, this would be a time of self-doubt for Karen, coupled with difficulty in getting excited by a long-term partner, over expenditure on make-up, gym and/or yoga memberships, and increased flirting, especially with younger men. My wife would be desperate to feel attractive to virile men and crave their ogles.

Was she going out dressed to the nines? Was she craving the attention of young studs? Not from where I stood. She seemed only to crave her best friend and Tupperware...

When me and my mates expressed shock that the suicide rate amongst women of that age group wasn't astronomical, Sue told us what science was doing to help. There were these drugs that apparently could stop menopause in its tracks. Carefully prescribed, all that bad shit could be avoided for years, with a minimum of side effects.

So, what did I do? Rushed home to tell Karen the good news. There was a cure for my blue balls and all her doubts and fears.

I suppose I shouldn't have been totally surprised by Karen's reaction. She was an Aquarian woman, whatever the fuck that was, so she wouldn't be supporting the 'drug-company-corrupted-medical-profession' but she told me not to worry because she was following a course of herbal remedies (I think that's the vitamin she takes every morning that when you open the jar it smells like manure), meditating in front of pictures of the moon goddess, and communing with like-minded women. Her friend group were trying to help her with some non-scientific methods. That might explain why she always smelled like clary sage these days. She was always rubbing some on her temples, and would you believe, the soles of her feet. Go figure. Me, I preferred her old perfume.

Besides, was I trying to kill her? Didn't I know about the huge link between HRT therapy and dying instantly of breast cancer? Was I that uncaring?

I'd like to say that we had many rational discussions after that on the relative merits of this or that course of action, but I'd be lying. I was shouted down within seconds of raising anything to do with the dreaded 'M' word. I just couldn't understand it. Sue was saying Karen could lead a perfectly normal life for many years to come if only she broke a few bad habits of the last ten years and took some bloody pills.

Semen overload can affect a bloke's judgement as sure as alcohol. We all knew a guy that knew a guy that had a one-armed friend who'd chewed his own arm off rather than risk rousing what he'd woken up next to on a Saturday morning.

This particular stupid idea culminated this evening. In my defence, I haven't had a root in over half a year, and was just under the legal driving limit, having stopped at the pub on the way home this Friday night.

Sue was being helped at the bar by a new girl, who just happened to look like my Karen did thirty years ago, although Karen never dressed like that. Sue told me to roll up my tongue before someone tripped over it. Then my mate, Bluey, came in and told me about a sex club in the next town over that he'd been to the previous week. Some of the acts he described as having witnessed at the club sounded pretty exciting.

When I got home, Karen was, of course, getting ready to go to Julie's for... I can't remember what reason. Oh, yeah, another Tupperware party. How much Tupperware can one family use?

Call me insensitive if you like, but don't call me dumb. I wasn't stupid enough to raise the whole HRT and her refusal to get cured by western medicine thing again, so I took a more subtle approach.

"Karen, if you're not feeling in the mood anymore, would you mind, overly, if I got some relief elsewhere? It would just be fulfilling a physical function. I don't want to humiliate you or anything like that. I promise to be discreet, and I can't imagine loving anyone near as much as I love you—"

Quite frankly, I only got that much out because her mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish after the first sentence. She was struck dumb for a second there but regained her vocal cords in record time. And boy did she recover them. She "spoke", and I use that term loosely, for thirty or forty minutes. Below are some edited highlights.

"Fuck you for not being more understanding and supportive..."

"If you want to pay good money to get pulled off by some diseased skank in an alley, then be my guest."

"Good luck finding any girl who would agree to your constant, sick requests of sticking your puny cock up her arse or cumming in her mouth..."

Well, you get the picture. As she stormed out, I was relieved it was all over, and smiling. At no time did Karen say no to my request. Therefore, in perfectly good conscience, I rang Bluey, then showered before he picked me up.

As I primped and preened myself, I thought of the injustice of some of Karen's comments. Constant requests for kinky things? When we first started sleeping together, I suggested it would be nice if I finished blowjobs by cumming in her mouth, and maybe she might like to swallow. I was called all sorts of pervert and it never happened,

In fact, shortly after the wedding, my ring on her left hand triggered that well known switch, the lose-interest-in-blowjobs-altogether switch and they'd been off the menu ever since.

I didn't learn my lesson, though, because later, in a fit of adventurousness, I once suggested we try anal sex. Marital relations were suspended for an entire month as Karen exhausted the thesaurus of synonyms for the word 'sicko'. Now, apparently, those isolated incidents of decades ago translated into, "Constant sick requests."

As I sat in Bluey's car, drinking some Dutch courage from my hip flask, I wondered how far my conscience would allow me to go this evening. Bluey was explaining how the club worked.

There was a bar, of course, with an almost permanent strip show going on. Entry to that was a mere $10, but, not surprisingly, the drinks cost an arm and a leg. From there you could enter the inner sanctum, for a price. The legal standing of prostitution being hazy in our state, the set-up with prices was complex.

Fifty bucks bought you a yellow wrist band. That entitled you to watch the shows put on every hour. Bluey explained that there was a circular stage, surrounded by booths. On the stage, on the hour, a show was performed. It could be a woman masturbating; a couple going for it; two girls putting on a show, etcetera. Occasionally, the actors were obviously amateurs, an exhibitionist couple, for example, which was always popular with the crowd.

A few times a night, the glory holes became active, according to Bluey. When I asked him what the fuck a glory hole was, I was inducted to a whole new world. Apparently, there was a booth containing a girl or couple of girls, who offered their mouths, and other bodily openings, if they were athletic, to anyone with a red wrist band, which cost one-hundred smackeroos.

Around the booth there were a series of holes and mirrors. At dick level, in groups, there were sets of holes. In each set, one was designed to stick your cock through, the second, located a little higher, an arm, for whatever reason. At eye level, there was a small, one-way mirror. This allowed the guy to look in, but to remain invisible to the 'performer'. Bluey explained that the little windows were put in after one guy was sucked off, then bent down to thank the girl, only to find a guy staring back at him through the cock hole. He ran amok and did much damage.

He also explained that most of the 'performers' were professional girls, but, again, occasionally, an amateur single girl, an amateur couple, or a couple of single girls did it for a dare or just as a spicy adventure.

Fork out $120 and you got a white wrist band which got you a thirty-minute massage with hand relief. An extra twenty, oral relief.

From there it got a little complicated. A series of coloured bands bought you varying amounts of time with a hooker, and access to various orifices.

I was pretty sure that I wasn't ready to go all the way with someone other than my wife yet. Besides, I found the idea of paying for sex slightly nauseating. On Bluey's advice, I decided to take in the peep show and glory holes. Just because I spent the hundred bucks, didn't mean I had to stick my cock through the hole and cross the infidelity line. Unfaithful? I'm pretty sure some of the things my wife screamed at me earlier could well be interpreted as permission to explore. We'd see.

With all our chatting, the hour and fifteen drive to the town where the club was just flew by. The club turned out to be pretty much what I expected. Gaudy lights disguising peeling paint, and a couple of huge guys flanking the entrance. I handed over my one hundred; Bluey, after some internal debate, one-forty.

I probably should tell you about Bluey. I'd known him since Year 11 and we'd drifted in and out of each other's lives ever since then. He has flaming red hair, hence the name. He'd married a South American firebrand in his youth, who already had two kids. He'd given her two more and been happy until she upped and left one day, leaving behind all four kids.

He'd stepped up to the plate and worked his arse off to raise all four, now all gone. He'd never had a serious relationship with another woman since Lucille, preferring to pay for company when he needed it. He pointed out the half dozen mutual friends that had been taken to the cleaners in divorces and jokingly pointed out that even with his visits to women of negotiable virtue, he was still around fifty-grand up on the alternative.

Once inside, we each cashed in our voucher for a free drink, a watered-down rum if I was any judge, while we waited for the hour to come around. It did and Bluey led us into the inner sanctum, which was a dimly lit cavern.

I'm glad he knew where he was going as he led us to adjoining booths. I closed the door of mine and peeped through the little window. I was looking into a well-lit circular room. Spaced evenly around the room, I could see one-way mirrors looking inward, like mine. The interior of the room was minimalist to say the least, having only a stage in the middle with a mattress and base.

I didn't feel that self-conscious, knowing I was as anonymous as all the other people in their booths. An unseen speaker told us to welcome our act for that hour, Fiona and Cassie. Two obvious professionals entered and with little ado, accompanied by loud music heavy on the bass, proceeded to strip each other. Once naked, they got into a sixty-nine on the bed. Each action seemed mechanical, well-rehearsed, and, in my opinion, not the slightest bit erotic. Here weren't two lesbians, enjoying each other's bodies. Here were two girls from the wrong side of the tracks, making ends meet.

After some fake thrashing around, one strapped on a fake cock, held with some sort of harness thing, before presenting it to the other girl, now on her knees. There followed as good a display of deepthroating as I'd ever seen, however pointless. The standing one then pretended to cum before, with practiced efficiency, the other got on all fours on the bed and received a rough doggy-style rogering from the other.

At exactly thirty minutes after the hour, they both loudly orgasmed, yeah right, bowed to the unseen audience and departed. I wondered if they even cared whether there was anyone in the booths or not.

Bluey seemed to have enjoyed it, though, and he led me back to the bar, where, after a quiet word to the barman, we received some undiluted rum. I downed three of these to try to quell my screaming nerves. I was determined I was going to do this.

Sometime later they muted the music to make an announcement.

"Back by popular request in the glory hole booth are Betty and Wilma, the club's newest favourite amateurs."

Instantly, every red wrist band leaped up and headed for the door to the inner sanctum; a few guys with yellow bands, or none at all, started queuing for upgrades. I followed Bluey through the door into another part of the inner space. We stopped outside a door and he checked with me if I was ready for this. I assured him I was and he led me through.

I found myself in a room, within a room, with a room within it. Try saying that when you're pissed. At one end of the space, butted against a wall, was a small room or cubicle, about two-and-a-half metres along a side, with windows up high revealing a weak light shining from within. Between the outer wall of this booth and the inner wall of the room were two narrow corridors. The rest of the room was occupied by some chairs, at one of which sat a bouncer, and a large plasma TV screen.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could see that on the three exposed sides of the booth were the two windows-a-side and the holes Bluey had mentioned on the way over. All six sets were occupied by guys with their trousers around their ankles. More red wrist bands reclined in the chairs, and more were coming in behind us.

As I looked on, the mood of the room changed, and Bluey pointed at the screen. It showed a door opening, presumably inside the booth, on the left-hand side of a split screen. The right-hand side was a view from 180 degrees to the first. Two women entered the booth, dressed only in bras and panties. Both were pretty well stacked; one a redhead, the other a dirty blonde. Neither were spring chickens but both were slim. The sort of women, Bluey's would say of, "I'd kick them out of bed, but only to root them on the floor."

One went to the left-hand side of the booth, the other, the right. Both sank to their knees. The redhead immediately grabbed the cock poking through the first hole and shoved it in her mouth. From what I could see, she got most of it in there. The blonde looked up at the little window opposite her, said something, then grabbed her cock and followed her friend's lead. That left four free cocks awaiting their turn. Two arms appeared and caressed the girls' hair as they blew their respective cock or the one next door.

Not a minute later, a groan from outside the booth announced the end of one guy's stamina. Looking at the screen, I watched him obviously unload into the redhead's mouth. She sucked him dry, then made a great spectacle of tilting her head back and swallowing. The guys watching loved it and cheered her on.