My Fantasies... ...or...perhaps not.... I'll leave it to the reader to determine whether or not the stories included here are figments of my overly active sexual imagination or recountings of actual events. Either way, the names involved have been created for this occasion, for some no-doubt obvious reasons. One simply can't name names during the retelling of a sexual adventure. It simply isn't done. Even an American knows that.

How I Met Robert

My first impression of him was decidedly unfavorable. He was hanging on to the bar for support because letting go of it would have no doubt sent him spiraling across the room. He was tall, very tall. He would have been moderately good looking if the eyes hadn't been so bloodshot and bleary, the face flushed, and the mouth speaking. He spouted a monologue on American beer and his opinions were...negative.

My opinions on American beer were also negative but that was hardly the point. If one is a guest in someone's home - or country - one doesn't insult the offered beverages.

He was very, very British. I could have eaten the accent with a spoon. Non-regional, most likely educated, thickened with drink. He blinked a couple of times to bring me into focus and realized I was staring at him. I could hear the metaphorical gauntlet land with a thud.

"What the bloody hell do you want?" he snarled…or at least tried to. I think his tongue got a little twisted for a moment.

I looked him up and down with what I hoped was a "scornful look" and sniffed.

"I had wanted a Black and Tan," I said calmly, "but I think under the circumstances I'll have a Dos Equis."

He called me a cow.

The Americans in the room felt they had been cordial enough to the import and the bar fight that erupted was impressive. The Brit held his own until the cops broke it up.

I ended up back in my hotel room with a 6'4" British non-gentleman who spent a few minutes on his hands and knees on my bathroom floor vomiting; twenty minutes in my shower and emerged naked.

I froze. I had been putting ice in a hand towel for him to hold against his blackened eye. He took the ice bundle out of my hand, muttered something at me and collapsed on my bed.

I stood there stupidly for a moment or two then went to the mini-fridge, snagged a tiny bottle of bourbon and made coffee in the bathroom with the thoughtfully provided coffee maker. (I always bribe the maids for extra coffee.) Making coffee helps me think; drinking coffee calms me down. Especially if it has bourbon in it.

I took my mug back into the room and sat at the table. I sipped coffee and considered the situation. I had a lengthy, drunken, injured Brit lying naked on my bed. He had quite an impressive uncircumcised cock hanging between very long legs. He was muscular and tanned. His medium brown hair was streaked with blonde, the kind of natural streaking done by the sun. He spent a lot of time in a bathing suit, judging from the modest markings of untanned skin.

He'd neatly hung his clothes in the bathroom. I assumed his trousers still held his wallet, which would hold his identification. If I went through his wallet I'd at least have a name for him.

And I'd be the kind of person who went through another person's wallet.

No, instead I just sat there, sipping bourbon-laced coffee, staring at a naked Brit lying on my hotel room bed. Staring too much. I supposed that I could have covered him with something. I also felt that since I was being imposed on I should get something out of it, so I'd stare at his cock and heavy, hairy balls and imagine having sex with him.

Eventually I remembered to take the soggy, cold bundle off his pillow, empty what was left of the ice in the sink and hang up the towel. He continued to sleep and eventually I laid down on the other bed and slept, too.

I woke up around 3:00 AM when he shook my shoulder. I let out a mild shriek and he put a hand against his head, backed up until his legs hit the other bed and collapsed into a sitting position.

"Do you have any aspirin?" he asked in that same edible accent, albeit a bit shakily.

I had, and brought them to him with a glass of water. He downed four aspirin, then slid back to the pillow to lie down.

"Can you order some coffee and orange juice, please? I'll pay for it, of course. Anything else you'd care for, as well."

Apparently Naked Brit had morphed back into a gentleman.

I called down to room service.

It was surreal, but life so often is.

My life, anyway.

...to be continued, of course...


How I Met Robert, Part 2

The young man from room service was most discrete about my forgetting to cover Naked Brit when I answered the door. He rolled in the table and handed me the little leather folder. I simply signed for it, as gentlemanly Naked Brit was once again dead to the world.

I suppose it was wretched of me to lower my head and bellow "Coffee's here!" into the large, shell-pink ear.

His eyes flew open and even I could hear the slam the lids made when they connected with his eyebrows. He closed his eyes and breathed carefully for a few minutes.

"You…miserable…double-wide, redneck bitch," he said through gritted teeth.

"Drunken Limey scum," I replied cheerfully as I poured two cups of coffee and released the orange juice from their plastic wrappings. "I got some muffins and some crackers to help you settle your stomach."

He got up with difficulty, made it to the chair I'd placed by the cart, and sat down. He thanked me automatically and began to stir sugar and cream into his coffee.

"I apologize," he said after sipping some coffee and keeping it down. "I was horrid last night and worse this morning." He looked at me through glassy fish-eyes. "And again, my deepest apologies, but I've forgotten your name."

I chuckled.

"You never knew my name. It's Morgan. What's yours?"

He thought for a moment and I began to wonder if he'd forgotten it.

"Robert," he said finally. "I take it we didn't…um…weren't…intimate?"

I almost laughed but had begun to take pity on him. "No, we weren't 'intimate.' I brought you back here because you didn't seem to know where you belonged; you had a black-eye and a nosebleed; you were drunk out of your mind. I didn't have the heart to let the cops toss you into the drunk tank. You threw up, took a shower, came out nude and flopped on the bed to pass out. That's why you're naked now."

He flushed. "Oh," he said. "In that case, I feel quite awkward."

I waved what I hoped was a casual hand. "Don't worry. I've long since gotten used to you nude."

It was my turn to flush, so I did. We looked at each other and wordlessly decided we'd stop being embarrassed around each other. It's an interesting thing when that happens. We finished off the coffee and went over the room service menu again to order breakfast, talking the entire time.

He worked for a London newspaper writing travel features. He was on a working vacation in California, writing about and photographing some of the beaches. A raw sewage spill in Tijuana had quarantined the beaches and he was unable to work, and worse, unable to play. He was going to have to go home empty handed, article-wise, and couldn't get a flight back to England anytime soon. He couldn't snorkel; he couldn't scuba-dive; he couldn't even sun himself on the beach. A fit of self-pity led him into the hotel bar and too many drinks. I'd been present for the rest.

I explained to him that I was a writer who liked to occasionally check into a local hotel and bang on my laptop.

I don't think I had to tell him that I had a thing for Brits. Robert was a very intelligent, perceptive man who picked up on my none-too discrete entrancement with the sound of his voice.

I'd like to interject something here. Californians think they don't have an accent compared to other Americans. We also believe we don't have an accent compared to other members of the world's population. We're wrong, of course. It's just another one of our lengthy list of ethnocentric conceits. People from other countries can be just as intrigued by the way we speak. Robert liked the way I spoke. Judging from one or two glances I caught out of the corner of my eye - and one particularly searing one I saw reflected in the mirror - he'd found one or two other things he found tolerable.

I went and stared out the window so that he could get up and go into the bathroom to put his clothes on. He went back to his room to shower again and change. I did the same while he was gone.

Then we drove out to the desert.

...the really hot part is cumming...er, coming...