There are many times in a boy’s life when he makes that traumatic transition that takes him from one stage to the next. From infant to boy, boy to youth, youth to man and sometimes, man to whore.
And you know, we celebrate those times, those rights of passage, often with circumcision or firecrackers, parties and cake.
And so it came to pass that I too didst most recently make another transition, that which took me from my first demicentury into my second. Yes, I had a birthday of some significance and with it I lost any claim to still being young, my as yet clung-to innocence and my spit-roast virginity.
For apparently, it is written somewhere in some ancient text, that the only way to truly turn fifty is to be kidnapped and gang-raped by not one, but two strap-on wielding Dommes and to be spit-roasted by two enormous cocks of the plastic variety and one very VERY lifelike one. As tradition calls, the occasion was also accompanied by candles (gosh they dripped a lot) and cake, a cock-embalming fifty feet of wool and silky red panties.
I of course, inspired by Her Majesty the Queen’s immense sense of duty, felt it impossible to disappoint the crowd which had assembled and so, reluctantly, went along with the ordeal, deriving no personal pleasure from the experience, but sure in the knowledge that those present were getting their money’s worth.
During the course of the evening I learnt that apparently I have no rights of my own to my passage, they are, so to speak, of the people. Who knew?
Thankfully I am still entitled to my claim of being misunderstood, since I went out that night merely expecting to have a little nibble. As it turned out, I had more than one mouthful.
I have no idea if the aforementioned rights return to me after some prescribed period of time, I shall study the texts and then see what happens.