The James Franco Paradox


This morning, at four, he comes upstairs to wake me up, as we’ve had it planned since yesterday afternoon. Two hours is what we’ve got before the kids will wake up to start another school day. Because of the prolonged construction saga in our backyard, we seldom had a home-alone day this September and October. Every 7am come the workers, who leave at 5pm, long after the twins are back from their classes.

Filming Halloween themed porn at four o’clock in the morning is not new for me, but not usual either. When I descend to the disastrous kitchen (don’t ask) and turn left to look, the entire living room is turned upside down, the sofa out of its place, the powerful lamps literally warming the air (you can see the dust rising), and all three cameras positioned at different vantage points: left on the bookshelf, right on the notebook table, and middle on the tripod.

“Here’s your little witch broom.” Says Don handling me a brand new mini broom that he bought from Tesco, yesterday, for the filming.

“Where’s my hat?” Ask I.

“Right away!” He obliges to the back of the wardrobe. “And my magic wand?” He runs to a secret drawer to bring me the glass dildo. “Okay, we’re set. How shall I make my entry?”

“Wait!” Checking the cameras, he presses the play button on each. Not before informing me that this is going to be a French speaking snag film, titled ‘La Sorcière volante’ or ‘The Flying Witch’ and that I’d better do my ranting in French. Effective immediately. “You’ll fuck me on the edge of the sofa, as I’d be sleeping next to the pumpkin,” explains he, “and then I’ll apparently wake up and fuck you back on the sofa. Simple, eh?”

Any retard can do porn. I can speak whatever I want, in any language I desire. Or it seems to me that all the porn I’ve played in was directed, or haphazardly recorded, by hubby. Well, there were a few lines, not too often. And then there are the custom videos from fans’ requests. But I digress.

His ass is tense, I can feel it. More today than during other peggings. I’m a hubby pegger for over a year now. I learned to use oils (coconut or olive) aplenty, or else he screams. Lately, gaining a bit of practice, forgetting the jar or the bottle (it happens more than you can imagine, I can’t imagine!), I use my spit – which comes in lesser abundance. Today I realized (on his skin, on his ass actually) that my saliva is enough only when he is relaxed, willing and opening. Else, ouch! Huge onion eyes. Grimaces on his face. Lemon mouth.

Already hurting him, I stop and take a little step back. But he wants a ‘dick’ in his ass. So he plants it up there by himself. Then I begin pegging him. Tenderly. Wondering when I’ll allow him to do the same to me. Or not wondering at all. Better this way.

We do the porn moves with regard to each camera. We sixty-nine. We fuck like missionaries. We return to oral. I get an uphill orgasm then, before sitting on his face, I insist he gets that glass out of his ass or I won’t allow him sitting on the parquet. He obeys and I get to immerse in a new crescendo symphony, until I lose myself. For a short while.

Now he asks permission to fuck his ass again. I let him, admiring the wide squats he does to welcome the dildo in. Like a woman riding a dick. A hairy woman.

Continuing our love making, watching the end of the dildo flickering under his butt hole, I wonder again, remembering his ranting. “When you turn fifty, the system sends you to a stranger, usually a guy, whose job is to check your prostate by finger fucking your ass. Saving him, and yourself, the trouble, why not study and explore together with your loved one. I know that you can cook, that you can tease, and I know that you can fuck!”

Who knew? Let’s learn some new urban slang from the Google overlord.

What is a metrosexual man?
Metrosexual is a portmanteau of metropolitan and sexual, coined in 1994 describing a man (especially one living in an urban, post-industrial, capitalist culture) who is especially meticulous about his grooming and appearance, typically spending a significant amount of time and money on shopping as part of this.

Are metrosexuals straight?
Gay men can be metrosexual, too. … Better put, all gay men aren’t metro by default, as the term often leads one to believe. A metrosexual isn’t just a straight guy who dresses “gay.” That places the same pressure to look good on gay men that is placed on straight men not to.

I am wondering, again, is James Bond metrosexual?, is James Franco homosexual?
Or mainly a homo teaser – the way some ‘purists’ accuse him.

Reading through the writings and interviews of James Franco, I learned that stamina-loaded sailors – who look and act terribly straight – can be gay. There’s a fairly good explanation for this, even if society doesn’t tag them as such. Yet a dandy, or a hipster, or some sensible guy – who looks and acts awfully gay – can be nothing more and nothing less than a gay teaser, a man having hetero sex and gay fantasies – who doesn’t? Women included.

A French speaking snag film, titled ‘La Sorcière volante’ or ‘The Flying Witch’ and that I’d better do my ranting in French. – today in my Store at CougarBunnies, click on the photo.

At the end of the day, who cares about stereotypes. My sexy romance, day and night, with my gay hubby is magnificent. If you too are in your fifties, in a decades-long stable relationship (back in our days, they used to call this “marriage”), then your hubby may turn gay on you. Fuck him graciously!

Ruddy wrote to me “PS: Keep Don straight, please, if that is possible. Ha!”
Seems that my way of keeping him straight is by affirming how gay he is, or how gay I’ve turned him to be, if there was something to turn, which seems so.

A gay tease he is, the process is also known as homeopathy.

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