I'm so tired of the standard conference affair. The requisite drinks, dinner, gossip about the field, followed by a roll in the sack, and he, whoever he is, either spends the night and sneaks out in the morning, or sneaks out sometime in the night. Sometimes it's guys I've slept with before, sometimes they're new. But it's all so earnest and boring, not at all thrilling like it was when it all began years ago.
At this year's annual geography conference, I decided to challenge myself to do something different to spice things up. I would try to have sex, of some kind, by hook or crook, hand, mouth, pussy, or maybe even anal, with someone from each continent on the planet. With the exception of Antarctica, I allowed myself, unless I got really lucky and found someone who came from there, too.
-Australia-
Is Australia a continent? Or an island? Or a continental island? Ah, debates in geography.
Luckily, I found a way to check that one off quickly, so I didn't have to worry about justifying to myself that it is an island and not a continent if I couldn't score with an Aussie. It turned out the guy I sat next to on the bus from the airport to the conference hotel came from Sydney.
"Well, g'day!" I said. "Today's your lucky day."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
He was cute, in that Aussie outback kind of way, so I told him straight away about my conference challenge. His eyes got big and then bigger as I put my hand on his thigh. It was late on a rainy night and the bus was dark. We were sitting toward the back. The couple across from us were slumped on each other's shoulders sound asleep.
I moved my hand up his thigh. He was already getting a woody. I could feel it hardening in his khakis. I rubbed the length of it. Not bad. Then squeezed the tip. I leaned over and gave him a kiss, and slipped my tongue between his lips. I unbuckled his belt and zipped down his pants. His tighty whities shone in the passing street lights. No surprise there. I reached in and pulled out his hard-on.
It was a nice one, especially when it quickly reached full length at about six-and-a-half inches, I'm guessing, circumcised, and standing straight up from a thick thatch of pubic hair covering a tight sack of warm balls. He moaned softly into my mouth when I squeezed them.
I got my hand good and slick with saliva and started stroking him nice and slow and deliberately, paying particular attention on each stroke to circling and squeezing the helmet at the tip. It really felt like a helmet, too, smooth, slippery slick with precum and saliva, with definite hard edges, just a wee bit wider than the shaft of his cock, standing at attention like a soldier on a wet night.
I swirled my hand around the tip and rubbed the underside with my thumb. And then quickly ran my fist up and down his shaft fast and hard while sticking my tongue deep into his mouth. He groaned and got suddenly harder and bigger. He wasn't going to last long. I went faster back and forth right at the tip, and then down the shaft, then back up around the tip.
The edges of the helmet got even harder and he arched his hips up from the seat. I could feel it coming up from his nut sack, up the shaft, so I leaned over and took his cock in my mouth and suctioned the head, as I stroked the shaft, and squeezed his balls, and he blew a sweet and salty load. Three big shots, one after another, filled my mouth. I swallowed all but the last, which I swirled around my tongue, savoring the taste as I vacuumed his dick clean.
I sat up and shared a sloppy kiss with him. I wondered if he had ever tasted himself before. He leaned back with his head tilted to the roof of the bus.
"G'day, indeed," he laughed.
He put away his cock and zipped his pants just as the bus arrived at the hotel and the driver turned the lights on and the couple across from us shook themselves from sleep.
-Europe-
My next conquest was Europe. It was easy, at first.
After checking in to my room, I went down to the bar for a nightcap. A Frenchman was sitting alone at the bar. I sat next to him and ordered a bourbon on the rocks.
"Good evening," he said with a French accent. "Are you a geographer? Here for the conference?"
"Bon soir," I said. "Yes, and you?"
"No, I am here on business," he said. "But everyone else seems to be a geographer."
"A lovely profession," he said. "I am cartographic curator myself. I'm here to complete the acquisition of a major collection of historic maps for a Paris museum. Would you like to see some of them?"
This is going to be too easy, I thought to myself.
"I'd love to," I said. "I'm a historical geographer myself."
"I have the high resolution images on my computer in my room. Shall I go get it? Or would you like to come up to see them?"
"I'm happy to come up to your room to see them if that's easy," I said.
"Wonderful," he said, finishing his glass of red wine. I drained my bourbon.
"Let me get that," he said, leaving a $20 bill on the bar.
In the elevator up to his room, Pierre introduced himself formally, kissing my hand, and then informally undressed me with his eyes, while we traded impressions of some of our favorite museums in Paris.
Inside his room, he opened a folder on his laptop filled with images of historic maps of California, drawn as an island off the coast of North America.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Beautiful," I said. "I love these maps. They tell such a story."
He picked up the phone and ordered a bottle of red wine and a bottle of bourbon and some ice from room service.
As I was leaning over the laptop on the desk, flipping through the maps, and examining them in high resolution detail, he came up behind me and put his hand on my lower back.
"You're beautiful, too," he said.
