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  • Tranny Tales Ch. 03

Tranny Tales Ch. 03

12

Maxie: Anal Vaginal Saga and an Exploding Penis.

Maxie: The Tale of the Exploding Penis

The word Tranny is used respectfully, although not politically correct at this time. This story takes place in the 1990s. The story is based on actual events, but the names have been changed to protect the guilty. Dear readers, in this life, shit happens. Writing that is meant to be truthful and serious can sadly turn into a comedy, so here goes, and God Bless Maxie's old man, who is no doubt fucking his way through the bevy of angels on high.

*****

Did you ever see the film "The Tattooed Man?" Maybe it was called "The Illustrated Man?" Rod Steiger was the star, but I can't recall the plot, only how the tattoos came to life and foretold the future? I only mention this because my brother-in-law Maxie looked like the guy in that film, covered with tattoos; he even had his cock and balls tatted!

Maxie was a celebrity in the world of "tattoo-auge," if that's the word? When the professional tattoo artists, I gotta laugh, but that's what they call themselves, "artists," would have tattoo festivals around the state and beyond at convention centers, Maxie was invited and paid real money to sit primarily naked on a chair to exhibit himself. In private, I think he charged extra to show off the family jewels, mostly in red and blue, which he usually covered with a yellow hand towel.

Maxie was covered with more "ink" than an old-fashioned school desk, the kind of desk with an inkwell built in it. I am dating myself, but when I first went to school, those things still existed, and some moron student was designated the 'ink monitor.' It was his job to fill up the inkwells. I often got ink all over my fingers and slopped the ink all over the desk. As soon as ballpoint pens were invented, these old desks went the way of the dinosaurs.

But I digress; Maxie was the original tattooed man. Well, maybe not the original, but he was one colorful character. A few years out of high school, he became obsessed with tattoos, and I never understood why that was his thing. Once he was inked entirely, a sponsor took away the chair and began to exhibit him at Tattoo Conventions inside a makeshift cage wearing a leopard print thong that covered his big cock and balls that were quite grand in themselves.

I was amused when he told me that his most frequent request was from women, mostly housewives, who would pass him notes asking if his cock and balls were tattooed. The curious gals would add a phone number and the time to call when their husbands were not around. Being a bit of a devil, Maxie would make arrangements for a private showing sometimes later that night at his motel. Obviously, there was more happening in his motel room than a simple show and tell.

I know his dick was tattooed, he said it hurt worse than any other needling, but I haven't seen him pee since we were kids. Cock peeking isn't a thing for adults except those who frequent train station bathrooms. When we were kids, out on the baseball field, we'd whip out our dicks, hold it in hand, and spray, maybe see who could piss the furthest?

As I've said, I have known my brother-in-law since Elementary School, and a few years after High School, he started dating my younger sister, Rosie. Maxie and I were in our senior year when his Pop got sick. The old man didn't last too long. I was in the hospital room a few days before his Dad died of prostate cancer and on his last day alive. I'm told Pop waited too long for the Doctors to do something about his condition.

Pop, like Maxie, was a notorious cocksman. He'd worked most of his life as a traveling salesman for a factory that made custom bathroom shower doors. They were one of the biggest factories on the West Coast, located in Burbank, where all the old airplane factories used to exist. They worked in aluminum since it was rust-free, having converted to the domestic industry when the Second World War was over. During the war, they had made airplane window frames out of lightweight metal for those old prop bombers. Later they developed those escape pop-out canopies for jet planes.

Pop traveled everywhere. From his stories, it is fair to say that there was no city within 300 miles where he didn't spill his sperm in more than one pussy. Young gals, old ones, married or divorced if they had a pussy, and even if they were seated in a wheelchair, Pop was into them like a bear climbing a honey tree or like a hummingbird spreading pollen. Pop loved women. He loved fucking women. He loved fucking. If he couldn't find a woman, he still made do with whatever the alternative was. He felt like a dead man unless his cock was stuck inside some new paramour. I was holding his hand in his last moments in the hospital over on Main Street when he turned his head with difficulty, looked at me, and said,

"It's up to you young guys to fuck for me. God damn it, son, I can't fuck no more. I'm ready to die."

And with that remark, his spirit took leave and left him a cold white corpse right in the hospital room, just as Johnny Carson came strutting out onto the stage on that little TV hanging from the ceiling. I confess I watched the monologue before alerting the family to Pop's demise.

Even though Pop was busy fucking half the county in his day, he still serviced his wife a few times a week. We knew this because we could hear her loud climaxes right after Pop left us while we were watching TV with a beer can in our hands, saying,

"Shit, boys, I gotta lay some pipe before I go to sleep."

Then he'd add,

"If'in she's got the rag on, I'll have to roll her over and get the job done backward."

Clara, Maxie's Mom, was so used to having sex that she could not do without it. It was no surprise that she soon became a fuck cushion for any guy who approached her within weeks of Pop's death, including the Wilke's brothers, who ran the local mortician shop. Clara was so used to being plowed that she could not live without a cock jamming up her receiver.

I think the local parish priest was the first one to "widow-fuck her." I'm told that this is the time most women are especially vulnerable. "Widow fucking" was Father Pete's specialty. It is better to have priests "widow fucking" than molesting little kids. In all fairness to the church, I must say Father Pete did an excellent job officiating at Clara's second wedding several years later.

Once his Dad had passed on, I think Maxie saw more of his Mom's foot soles and her naked ass with her feet up in the air than her face. Clara was still a good-looking woman. About five-three, blond dyed hair, a big curvy ass, big 40 inch tits, and a wet pussy that needed fucking the way a gas-guzzling Hummer needs gas. All the guys in town were busy pounding her home base on the living room couch.

When Maxie would get home from football practice and for a few years afterward, when he had a paper route before the Mattress Factory job, he'd walk in on his Mom and the guy of the day going at it on the living room couch. His only comment when he opened the door and saw them was,

"Could you guys please take it to the bedroom?"

For some reason, the bedroom was still sacrosanct, or maybe it was just because his Mom was such a lousy housekeeper that she preferred sex in the living room. Maxie said he once found her and some stranger fucking on top of the kitchen table.

If you ask me if Pop's stories of his conquests were true or if he was just a blowhard, I can tell you he wasn't a liar. He took Maxie and me with him many times, and we both got sloppy seconds off his out-of-town girlfriends; Maxie's Dad was the real thing. We even got chased out of some married bitch's apartment down in San Pedro when her longshoreman husband got home that night an hour too early. I was halfway finished fucking his sister-in-law against the front door when the bastard pushed the door open, knocked us over, came in, and started shouting.

Just before I began falling over, when my cock was unexpectedly yanked out of her tight cunt, my dick exploded with a high-flying cum shot that stopped him in his tracks. I don't think he cared about me fucking his wife's sister, but when he looked down and saw my cum dripping down his pant leg and saw Maxie and Pop had just finished double teaming his wife, that bear of a husband let out a huge roar. He tripped over my leg and crashed head first into the wall as he ran forward. Hubby seemed half knocked out. We three took that occasion to run like hell out the door.

When Pop was driving us back to the hotel, he asked how I felt. I said,

"I am still horny after being so rudely disturbed in the middle of my passionate endeavor."

"Well said," Pop added, "That's called coitus interruptus. That's not supposed to happen, that's no good, it can give you blue balls, we gotta' set that right."

The next thing I knew, Pop was driving us over to the south side of town, where he knew there was a group of hookers parading around like bats under a street lamp.

"Pick anyone you like, my treat," said Pop.

Maxie had fallen asleep in the back seat. He wasn't interested in the proceedings, but I certainly was. I picked out a young girl who looked like a famous French actress, with nice tits, full lips, long legs, and a short mini. Her face was pretty until she started to smile.

"Buck-teeth makes for a good blow job," said Pop, "open the door and let her in, boys."

Maxie woke up long enough to open the back door, and I was seated next to Pop in the front. The whore got in, filling the car with the smell of cheap perfume. I looked back where she was sitting, observing her sexy fishnet tights were ripped, and a bit of her plump thigh was visible. At the same time, I realized she was grabbing for Maxie's cock, but he shook his head and pointed at me.

Pop asked, "Sweetcakes, do you have her a room?"

"No, but we can get one for $25 over on Broad Street."

"No need. This young sprout will fuck you standing up with you leaning on the car trunk."

"What's your name, honey?"

"They call me Taffy."

"I'll bet they do," said Pop.

She directed Pop into an abandoned parking lot. It was pitch black except for a lone street lamp. I got out with Taffy, and we walked behind the car. She rolled down her torn fishnet tights halfway and lifted her mini skirt. Taffy leaned forward, her hands on the car trunk, lifting her naked ass into the air.

"What are you doing," I foolishly asked.

"Sweetheart, don't you know, I'm a Tranny, and this is the way we fuck."

At that, she turned around, knelt, and unbuckled my garrison belt, unzipped my pants, but my erection had shrunk in the cool air,

"I think you are going to need a starter," she said, giving my soft cock a few jerks as if it was the hand crank on a Model T. When my dick came to life, she started to blow me, then she stopped,

"Ewe, who have you been fucking? Your cock tastes like pussy."

I didn't answer.

She turned around, still holding onto my swollen cock; with an odd expression on her face, she grabbed a condom from her tiny gold vinyl purse and rolled a rubber over my stiffy. Taffy leaned on the car trunk with one hand as she guided my dick right into her well-lubed ass hole.

I'll have to say, that tranny was the best fuck I'd had up to that age. My sperm production was so plentiful that my dick looked like a running faucet back then.

When I completed the task at hand, a little too quickly to suit both of us, I pulled out. The condom was brim-filled. I turned to see Maxie and his Dad grinning at me. Pop said.

"Well, you made up for the one that got away. Pussy is pussy anywhere you find it."

By this time, Maxie had worked up a full stroke hard-on by jerking off while watching me and the whore going at it, and for a few bucks extra, he got to go second.

"Boys," said Pop, after Maxie finished and we were back in the car headed for a late-night hamburger joint,

"Remember this, when you share the same pussy, you are brothers forever. Don't ever forget that!"

I guess we never did. My brother-in-law stayed married to my sister for almost twenty years, enough to raise two daughters. When Sis started having an affair with her boss, Clive, in a Real Estate office, I mean right there in the office. Maxie walked in on them one afternoon when Rosie was bent over a desk, her dress over her back and the boss' cock buried in her snatch or her ass; we never knew for sure.

Maxie and Sis divorced. Sis is still working in the Real Estate office for Clive Benson. Rosie says she's waiting for Benson's wife to die. Fat chance of that happening any time soon. I remember Florence Benson when she was Florence Upchuck in high school. That bitch was built like a fullback, but her Dad was the local real Estate Mogul. Clive worked himself right into the office and Florence's pussy. Clive only married Florence to secure his place in the firm. If it weren't for her Dad, I'd bet Florence would have ended up a Nun with nothing in her puss but a candle or some old priest's bible bookmark.

Of course, Maxie and I remained good friends through all this upheaval; why not? I had known him since we were kids, and he still tried to be a good father to my nieces. Maxie contacted my nieces and frequently called them to advise keeping young guys' cocks out of their vaginas.

Meanwhile, I was surprised when Maxie's health deteriorated rapidly, and he found he could no longer keep up with the other guys in the shipping room down at the Mattress Factory. After so many years of sewing mattresses, he was fired. Enough said for the fair labor practices of our dear American Industry.

About that time, Maxie had little to show for all his work efforts, having blown most of his earnings on tattoos, booze, and sex, so he moved in with his Mom. There was an empty room as Clara had buried her second husband.

Maxie was a welcomed guest. He did what he could to keep the place up; painting and repairing the leaking plumbing as best as possible, sweeping the leaves, mending the broken concrete, and doing what needed attention. Maxie worked slowly, but he meant well. He'd often drop by my place to grab a beer and borrow a ladder or tools, which he took forever to return, and he loved to talk about old times, especially our adventures with his Pop.

I guess my Sis was entitled to getting her sex on the sly. Like most married couples, the desire to fuck your spouse dries up after the first ten years, and Maxie was getting lots of fresh snatch back then with his tattooed cock and was ignoring his sexual obligations to the wife.

I have to admit the gals in my family are a good-looking bunch of women with big tits, narrow waists, and long legs. They also keep fucking even in their old age because they like being fucked, unlike most other women over forty that I've known.

But, as fate would have it, before Maxie hit fifty, the same pox that beat his Dad came after him, except 15 years sooner. Talk about the "Hand of God" or, more appropriately, "getting the finger?"

By now, the Doctor's had somewhat of a handle on prostate cancer and a cold finger, but his tumor was so fast-growing that they had to remove a lot of his gumbo just to keep him alive. When they were done slicing him up, he had no chance of getting a hard-on, even with Viagra? The pump was no longer pumping.

But the Docs did have one trick up their sleeves. They installed one of these high-tech penis pumps inside Maxie's empty ball sack so he could pump up his dick by filling the silicon tube they inserted from one end of his penis to the other. His ball sack served as a reservoir, filled with liquid silicon or some damn fluid and vola'; he'd squeeze his balls and make himself a boner!

My sister called it divine intervention and laughed at his

"pre-dick-a-ment," as Sis called it, especially when he got amorous late one night when he was invited to share dinner with the kids. Maxie asked her,

"For old times sake, please just let me fuck you one more time."

"And pump you up too?" she added. She peed right down her legs, laughing at Maxie, adding,

"You've fucked yourself and now live with it. You ain't fucking this pussy no more," and Sis lifted her dress to show she wasn't wearing panties. Where her unshaved cunt used to be, was a neatly shaved cunt with a tiny tattoo inscription, "Clive's." Sis could be so cruel.

When Clara's second husband passed, the old gal inherited his house. According to the Probate, her interest in the home described as a Life Tenancy means Clara can live there the rest of her life, but on her death, the land, furniture, kit, and caboodle would revert back to the Old Guy's kids.

I met the Old Guy, Joe, for the first time when he married Maxie's Mom. They had a reception at his home after the church service. I recall him saying that he'd raised four kids in that house and wondered aloud why the kids had not come to the wedding.

Joe seemed a nice enough guy, told a bevy of fart jokes, and to tell the truth, and he farted a lot. When he keeled over not long after at the old folk's home, it took four of us to lift him up and rush him to the County Hospital. Joe croaked the next day.

When Joe died, Maxie's Mom made out like a bandit, which was her specialty, getting the house and a bunch of money from his bank account. I still don't think she ever put a headstone on his grave.

When I say Clara made out like a bandit, that was her specialty, taking advantage of older men. By the time she married Joe, she had started to slow down a bit with the fucking. Maybe that the Old Guy weighed over 340 pounds was part of the reason, and it was about time. How would you feel if you were Maxie and everywhere you'd go in town, guys would poke other guys in the gut and whisper, "I fucked that guy's Mom," usually loud enough for Maxie to hear it.."

Once the Old Guy was dead and buried, Maxie got the idea that they should rent out the basement and use the cash to pay the utility bills and others that papered up the mailbox. That was when Gwendolyn showed up and became a tenant, and I use that word loosely. I observed her when I'd come by to reclaim some tools Maxie had failed to return. She was a sexy twenty-year-old, tall and thin girl, but with a good set of tits, cleavage showing, wearing a very short black skirt with too much dark makeup. Guendolyn's straight hair, dyed jet black, was tied up behind her head but still ran down to her waist in a long ponytail.

Guen, as Maxie called her, was a Goth; when I asked Maxie what a Goth was, he said,

"Goths are kids who hate the world but are deep into sex, drugs, and booze, and they love vampires."

I came by in October, and she was wearing red Vampire fangs. The nice thing about her was that Guen always wore a tight transparent top with her tits showing. There was something funny about the way she talked, she kind of swallowed her words, maybe it was her bite, but I had to admit she had some great pair of bassoons. You don't worry about a lisp when a girl has tits like that!

Maxie was the one who took her rental application, but before you knew it, she was living there rent-free. I never saw a penny collected from her, which didn't please his Mom very much. Even though Maxie's prostate was long gone, probably sitting in some jar in a medical school, he still found fucking was pleasurable, and Maxie was a good time Charley. Come to think of it, Pop's name was "Charley."

Since Maxie could longer produce sperm, there was no way he could get Guen pregnant, so he began a fuck marathon; every morning and every night, Maxie fucked that Guen Goth raw. He even had to buy her special vag lubes and crèmes that a woman her age shouldn't need. But there is no question; Maxie and that pump-up dick were working overtime.

Finally, on the day of the Super Bowl, Maxie got this crazy idea he called "A Super Bowl Fuck Day," where he would fuck Guen every time a team scored a touchdown; that is to say, Maxie would pump'er up. That day the score was 23 to 28, and he fucked that poor girl silly during those 2 ½ hours the game ran.

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