I remember thinking, at the time, that my life could not get any more bizarre, or at least unpredictable, than this moment. Boy, did I turn out to be wrong.
Phoebe, who was, and still is, my best friend in the whole world, had the entirety of my cock down her throat, her lips touching the skin around the base. This was no mean feat, given its significantly above-average length and girth. Her hands were gripping my butt cheeks for leverage, and she had kept the tip of my cock lodged far down her esophagus for about thirty seconds before slowly withdrawing. My painfully erect penis sprang up as it finally escaped her lips. I immediately began to worry that she was getting tired and about to stop, and was relieved when it became clear that she simply wanted to clarify a point of order.
"I forgot to tell you, I can handle it just fine if you can cum straight down my throat, but I'd prefer if you go in my mouth instead the first time," she said neutrally. "I'm curious about the taste. Also, can you tap my head to let me know when you're ready?"
I nodded mutely and she impaled her face again. Within two seconds, the tip of my penis was all the way down her throat once more. My mind reeled and goosebumps covered my flesh. Her soft mouth and throat felt better than words can adequately express. I put my hands on the back of her head, where her sandy-colored hair was cut to crew-cut length, and held lightly, although I hardly needed to as she was keeping a firm grip on my backside. After a minute she began to move her head back and forth, bringing the tip all the way into her mouth at one extreme, and mercilessly pushing her head as far forward as possible, at the other. As she did so, her long tongue flicked across the bottom of my shaft, or, when it was nearby, the head of my cock. It took all my concentration to hold off cumming. I wanted to enjoy this sensation for as long as possible, unsure if it would ever happen again.
A few minutes later I tapped her head, and she pulled back so that I would be able to cum directly inside her mouth. Her lips were sealed immediately past the head of my dick. She struggled with my bucking penis but managed to time her swallowing, and while a small amount of sperm leaked from her nose, the rest she kept down, without any dribbling out of her mouth. She allowed the last few ejaculations sit on her tongue and looked up as she tasted.
"Hm," she said, "Decent... tastes better than Joey's but maybe a little more, uh, astringent than Carlos' or Ruben's?"
My curiosity got the better of me. "How did you learn to do that? I think I can say I may never have as good of a blow job for the rest of my life."
"Well, if you want more just ask," Phoebe said flatly. "It's all the same to me either way; but if you ask me, I don't think only one's gonna get your mind off Meg."
She was referring to my girlfriend of many years, who had broken up with me in dramatic fashion. It had been like a scene from a movie: I came home earlier than expected, only to find her in bed with another man. They were being so loud that they did not hear the front door closing, and even when I opened our bedroom door they failed to notice. Meg was in the middle of an intense orgasm, and her partner did not seem far behind her, based on his raspy breathing. He was a short, stocky, muscular fellow and seemed to be giving her a much better time that I had, at least in recent memory.
Sadly, I was not even that upset about this discovery, although Meg and I went through the motions of having a big confrontation. I shouted at both of them, and her partner scurried out, clutching his clothes in front of his nakedness. He was shorter than either of us, but he did also look like he could handle himself in a fight. Although I'm over six feet tall and work out frequently, I don't think he was intimidated by me; rather, he was simply embarrassed. Meg yelled at me, too. The words did not matter; I do not recall what either of us actually said. In hindsight, I am confident I would have ultimately forgiven her, had our relationship not been deteriorating for the past two years. At the time, though, I was less mature, and half-subconsciously decided to use her infidelity as an excuse to end things. And, if being honest, Meg would have admitted to engaging in the same type of deception. Either way, our long relationship was over.
That had all happened two days ago. I had confided all the details of the painful episode to Phoebe. She was sympathetic, and avoided saying that she thought Meghan and I never should have gone out in the first place, and that I was better off without her, even though I knew that's what she thought. She was right, too, but the breakup hit me hard nonetheless, and I must have looked as depressed as I felt. Meg and I, at one point, had planned to get married, after all. Out of concern for my mental well-being, Phoebe surprised me, at last, by suggesting that she give me a blow job, in order to take my mind off of things.
"But I didn't think you had sex with guys?" I asked, puzzled.
"It's not a big deal," she said, shrugging, "And also kind of interesting, even though there's nothing sexual about it for me. Mainly I just like helping a friend."
Phoebe worked as a physical therapist at the same university where I was in grad school. I was working on my master's degree in the Sports Medicine department. Part of my curriculum was to do rotations in the physical therapy department at the university hospital. As the best PT there, she'd been assigned to be my mentor. We hit it off right away and had become close friends after a few months. By the time I broke up with Meg, I had long since come to the realization that Phoebe was the closest friend I'd ever had.
* * *
Our friendship started on that first day of PT rotation, two years ago. We were cordial with each other all day, as I shadowed her appointments with her patients. It was pleasant enough working with her, but it was not until after work that we started to connect. We had both changed out of our scrubs and, by chance, wound up in the same elevator going down to the parking garage. She had the same haircut as always, longer on the top and fading to a crew cut in the back, and was wearing brown hiking boots paired with khaki cargo pants. What caught my attention, however, was her Washington Capitals jersey. I was, and still am, a rabid fan, and had never thought I'd meet another one this far from Washington, D.C. Our city was well over a thousand miles from the nation's capital.
"Whoa," I said, "You like the Caps?"
"C-A-P-S!" she started to chant, rather than answer directly.
"Do you know somewhere I could catch games?" I asked. "We can't afford the right cable deal to get NHL games, and I can't find a sports bar that shows them either."
"I do know a place," she said, furrowing her brow in thought, "Although you'll have to go with me; they won't let you in by yourself. I was gonna go on Friday for the Bruins game anyway though; wanna come?"
"Oh my god, yes!" I said.
That Friday, clad in my red Alex Ovechkin jersey, I met an equivalently decked-out Phoebe outside the bar. For a variety of reasons, which will become clear later, I won't provide its real name here. It was in a run-down industrial area that I hadn't before realized even had any such venues. Based on Phoebe's appearance, and her earlier hint, I wasn't too surprised to see a big rainbow flag in window facing the street, and a tall, imposing female bouncer outside. She definitely lifted.
"He's with me," Phoebe said, unnecessarily, as she and the bouncer, whose name turned out to be Traci, executed a fist bump.
Inside, to my immeasurable delight, was the largest group of Capitals fans I had seen outside D.C. itself. The interior was dimly-lit and crowded, but even so I managed to count at least seventeen different women wearing white or red Caps jerseys. No men were present, other than myself.
Phoebe and I both knocked back a few beers before the game started. She had a broad, freckled face that matched her open nature. I felt I could tell her anything, even though I did not yet know her well. It turns out we had other shared interests beyond hockey. In particular, we were both avid woodworkers, and, unlike me, she had a shop in her garage. Before the game even started we had made plans for me to swing by in a few days to check out her gear.
Then the game began, and I, along with Phoebe and a bunch of other women, began screaming our heads off. As usual for me, my emotional state swung wildly on every play. I was relieved to see Phoebe, and many of the other patrons, get just as wound up. By the end, a tense overtime loss, both of us were hoarse and drenched in sweat.
A few days later I swung by Phoebe's house, a two-bedroom bungalow in one of the city's older neighborhoods. She lived there with her wife, Rosalind. Phoebe had described her spouse as beautiful, but that was not doing justice to her radiant glory. Slightly taller than Phoebe, she had long, wavy black hair that was beginning to show early streaks of gray, tied into a long, thick braid that cascaded over one shoulder. She was wearing a tight-fitting blouse and skirt that showed off her curvy figure.
"Dude, lift your jaw off the ground please and say 'hi' to my wife," Phoebe said, punching my arm.
Rosalind greeted me warmly, despite my evident ogling, giving me a big hug.
"I've heard a lot about you," she said. Her low, smooth voice sounded like a DJ on a Jazz FM station.
Rosalind, despite appearing in every way softer than her wife, turned out to be the more dominant of the two within their relationship. Phoebe acted, frankly, just like I would in an equivalent situation: a big puppy dog hanging on her spouse's every word, and spoiling her at every opportunity. Even though the putative reason for my visit was to check out the woodworking shop, no mention was made of this until Rosie had shown me around the house. While this impromptu tour was going on, she had Phoebe prepare lunch, and only after post-lunch clean up did the two of us finally head to the converted garage.
The shop was well-appointed, and I ooh-ed and aah-ed over Phoebe's various works-in-progress. Phoebe suggested I could come by and work there any time, which I readily agreed to. There was no way I could afford something equivalent on a grad student's salary, let alone find the space. I ended up spending a lot of time there over the next twenty-four months, building a coffee table, lamp, and two side tables for the bedroom. I also helped Phoebe with her several projects, including a massive, solid oak dresser, and an upholstered leather ottoman.
* * *
Over those two years, there had never been sexual tension between Phoebe and me. She was attractive and kept herself in good shape, and even her mode of dress did not fully hide her large, low-slung boobs and beautiful, wide hips. Nonetheless, I had never entertained sexual thoughts about her beyond idle speculation about what she might look like naked. Equally, I had never picked up on even a slight hint of her being bisexual, and therefore interested in me. She had also made it clear that Rosalind was, for all her wonderful qualities, a naturally jealous person who insisted on strict monogamy. This was one of the few contentious points in their relationship, something Phoebe had brought up over beers at the Caps bar more than once.
So when Phoebe casually offered to suck my dick, I was truly taken by surprise, so much so that even now I clearly remember thinking nothing weirder would ever happen to me again. And I also recall that, after she had just finished performing the first blow job, one I would not have considered to be anatomically impossible before, I was intensely curious about how she developed such a skill, given her clear sexual preference for women only.
"If you don't mind my asking, I was really wondering where you learned how to do that?" I repeated my question from earlier.
"Oh right," she said, remembering that she had not answered me before. "It was kinda in a similar situation to now, actually."
"How so?"
"Well, just like you, my bud Joey had just split up with his boyfriend, and was all in the dumps. So after seeing him be all mopey and shit, for like a week, I finally offered to suck him off."
"Didn't that seem, I dunno, against your principles or something?"
"You mean 'cuz I'm gay? I guess some people might think that, but I don't really care. I don't mind putting a friend's dick in my mouth, if they like it, even if it isn't erotic. It's just parts."
My dick, still exposed, made a little jolt at this admission. Phoebe looked down but did not say anything.
