- Advertisement -

In loving memory of those who are over the rainbow

Get real time updates directly on you device, subscribe now.

On June 12th, 2016, a terrible tragedy hit a gay bar in Orlando, Florida. A gunman burst into the venue and murdered 49 innocent, beautiful people.

The horror of this mindless event galvanized us all, gay, straight, bi, black, white, Hispanic. Gender and skin colour did not matter. All that mattered was that people were hurting, and we hurt with them. Our hearts broke on that terrible day, and a year on, the pain of it still lurks in our souls.

As a result of this, and feeling a desperate need to do something to help, I put together an Anthology of short stories, together with some stunningly talented authors, to create a charity book called Over The Rainbow. My publisher, the wonderful Extasy books, paid to edit, format and produce the book, and all proceeds from the book went to the victims fund to help those who needed it. We are all very proud of what we did, and that we were able to make a difference.

Over the Rainbow is no longer available, sadly. However, in memory of those beautiful souls lost to us, I would like to present you with the story that I contributed for the book, The One Ring. It is a funny, slightly naughty tale, and if it helps to being a smile as we remember those who are no longer with us, then all the better.

So let us remember the 49 victims of this terrible tragedy, not with a tear, but with joy and love, with a smile, and the knowledge that they will always be remembered in our hearts until we meet them one day, over the rainbow.

 

The One Ring by Sean Kerr

I woke up feeling pointy. You know how it goes, that thing between your legs has a life of its own, and first thing in the morning it’s always hungry. So I turned over to face Darren, and I pushed it into his back.

“Oh god, really?” he groaned, barely awake. How I loved to wake him up with a pointy greeting.

It was our first flat together, and we lived behind the Central Railway Station, which meant that every time a train passed by, our little flat shook like the local disco dancing to Donna Summer. Sometimes we just had to hold onto the bed and ride the waves, but sometimes it would happen at the most opportune moments, and add that little extra… frisson… to the proceedings. Know what I mean?

If I had any hope of releasing the Kraken, I knew what I had to do. Make him a cup of tea. What a great British tradition, a cup of tea, or in my case coffee, a cigarette in bed, then sex. Marvelous. I knew how to butter up Darren. So to speak.

I stood naked in the kitchen as the kettle boiled, anxious to return to the bedroom, because that thing between my legs had no intention of going back to sleep. Have you ever tried to have a pee with a hard on? You have to stand well away from the bowl and aim, and hope that you don’t miss. It’s an art form all of its own. Not that I am a big boy, far from it sadly, but as anyone who has ever had to do such a thing can tell you, it’s a challenge no matter your size.

So, tea and coffee made, pee achieved, I headed back to the bedroom.

What a sight greeted me. Darren, sitting up in bed with the duvet half covering his pert little nipples. I could see that he was raring to go, too. I may be average, but there was nothing average about Darren, I can tell you. They say that more than a mouthful is a waste, but I waste nothing.

So I handed him his tea, and we both lay in bed sipping our beverages. We shared a cigarette, naughty I know, so sue me. As I watched him suck on the end of that cigarette, I pressed myself against him, eager for him to finish, so that I could start.

“I haven’t finished my tea.” Cheeky sod, his eyes glittered with such mischief as he said that, so I dived under the cover and started my work.

Ah, youth, the first years of love. We have all been there, we have all yearned for them to come back. Funny, how in those first years of a relationship, we are willing to do those naughty things that in later life become but fantasies, or fond memories, and god we were good at making memories.

I could feel his growing excitement as it filled my mouth, and I knew if I persisted, it would be over before it even began. True to form, Darren flung me back onto the bed and worked his magic, his wonderful lips moving down my body until I could stand it no more, so I rammed his head between my legs and moaned.

Yes, I was loud. I like to be loud and verbal. Those walls were thin, so god knew what the neighbors thought, but at that very moment as his mouth slid down my length, I didn’t give a damn.

Oh, hello, I thought to myself as he parted my legs. Darren preferred to bottom, most of the time, but I could tell by his mood that a great big treat awaited me, so I bit my lip and braced myself for pleasure that awaited me. No amount of poppers could adequately prepare me for his size, and he knew that I would require some work before he went in—he was considerate like that.

I closed my eyes. I felt something wet and cold first, the chill of KY jelly against my eager opening. It made me flinch slightly, the shock of it, but I flinched all the more as Darren inserted his finger. It made me gasp. I was tight, what can I say? Without giving me the chance to welcome the first digit, he inserted a second, and I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks as my body gave in to the sensation. I made a noise—it might have been a yelp—because I felt his lips around me as his fingers did the walking, and boy did I see stars.

Any moment, I thought, he would withdraw those probing fingers and turn me around, and then the pillow biting would begin. Stars would explode above my head in celebration of the tremendous ejaculation awaiting me, crowds would gather in the street outside to listen to my cries of ecstasy, and flags would be raised in honor of my sexual triumph! True to form, I felt his fingers withdraw, and I awaited that gentle slap on my thigh as my signal to turn over, but nothing happened. I opened my eyes and looked at Darren, and I swear I will never forget that look for as long as I live.

“What’s wrong? Why have you stopped?” I asked through passion swollen lips.

“My ring.”

I looked at him for a moment, because I didn’t have a bloody clue what he meant. He saw the confusion on my face, and I saw the quilt upon his.

“My ring, it’s gone.”

I am not a stupid man by any means, but it took a while for the penny to drop. My ass tightened as I realised exactly what he meant.

“What do you mean it’s gone?”

He held up his fingers, glistening with lubricant, and I saw no ring upon his finger. It was a beautiful ring, a slender gold band with a small, single diamond set into it, the first big present I ever bought him. It should have been upon his finger, a golden band of territorial love that should never be removed, and it was not there.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I groaned, wondering what the hell I would do with a bloody diamond ring up my ass.

“We are going to have to get it out.”

“Oh, yeah, great, and how the hell do we do that.”

Darren got out of bed and rushed out of our small bedroom. I should have known better. Darren was a nurse, and our kitchen cupboards remained filled with weird and wonderful objects from his training days. In one of the draws sat a stethoscope, but that is another story.

A few moments later, Darren reappeared with a jug of water and a large, plastic syringe.

“What the hell are you doing with that?” I knew exactly what he intended, but for some reason I felt I had to say it anyway.

“Bend over.”

Have you ever had a pint of warm, soapy water squirted up your ass? No? Then you don’t know what you are missing. Squeaky clean inside and out. If I am going to be completely honest, and well, I’ve started this so I might as well finish it, I can’t say that the sensation felt all that unpleasant—in fact, to feel warm water flood your bowels had a slightly erotic edge to it. Is that wrong? Of course, at that point, I had not even begun to consider the implications of the homemade enema. Ah, the naiveté of youth.

“Clench your cheeks.”

“Sorry?”

“Clench your cheeks and hold it in as long as you can. I’m going to block up the toilet with paper.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because you are going to have to look for the ring when it comes out.”

I stood up. I clenched. Water dribbled down my legs and I felt like a fucking inflatable castle. Darren had the cheek to laugh as he minced through the bedroom door—he actually laughed, while I held the cheeks of my ass closed with my hands.

“I’m not sifting through it, it’s your fucking ring!” I bellowed after him, careful not to open the flood gates.

“It’s your shit!” I heard him shout, laughing at the same time.

The question remained—how to get to the toilet, walk down the corridor, down three steps, and into the loo without leaving a trail? We had two cats, Baby and Baron Harkonen—don’t ask, Darren was a huge Dune fan. When we moved into the flat, we’d given them worming tablets, and I awoke one morning to a perfect trail of shit that went all the way down the corridor, down the steps, and into the kitchen where the scratch box lived. I laughed, a lot, I could not help it. It was as if one of those paint liners used on football pitches had been filled with crap and pushed down my corridor, so perfect and unbroken lay the line. At that very moment, I knew exactly how those cats felt.

I waddled towards the bathroom, like a six-foot duck, clenching as I went. It felt like a scene out of Alien, that at any moment something truly horrendous was going to burst out of me, that I would release some unfathomable terror upon the world. Everything squelched, and as I placed each tentative foot before the other, something would dribble down my leg, something warm. When I got to the steps, I stopped, staring at the cliff before me, wondering how the hell my bowels would survive it. So I turned sideways, shimmying down each step like a crab, clenching, eking forward, feeling each tread with my toes, leaking.

Darren watched all of this with amusement, of course. I might have called him a few choice words, but then it was my ass about to burst, not his, so I felt justified in my choice of verbs. The bathroom lay before me, and a toilet stuffed with newspaper. I waddled in, and I closed the door against my husband’s insufferable smirk.

Oh, how to explain what followed. The entire world fell out of my ass. No sooner did my cheeks hit the pan than my body expelled everything it had ever contained. My stomach did the tango, as though it had a life of its own, and my god, my ass was on fire. Talk about ring sting.

I thought it would never stop. The first wave literally poured out of me, a constant torrent of nastiness that did not need any help to evacuate my body. I gazed longingly at the window, wishing I could reach to open it, but there was no way I could leave that toilet, no way that my cheeks could part from that plastic seat, so I just sat there, my eyes watering in that manmade hell.

The first wave stopped. The tidal wave of water subsided to a pathetic drip, so I thought I could risk standing up, that maybe that was it, the torture had passed. So I stood up.

I cannot begin to describe the sensation that hit my bowels. As I stood, it felt as though all my internal organs plummeted into my lower bowel, a tremendous avalanche of innards that threatened to rip my ass apart with an enormous fart. I felt it, my insides moving, as though some living person lived inside there, working out to a Jayne Fonda video. My ass hit the seat so fast that I nearly fell off, and not a moment too soon, because with the soapy water expelled, everything else that came out remained the stuff of nightmare.

The flat was small, very small, so you can imagine the size of the bathroom. Tiny, so bloody tiny it could not even house a full sized bath. It suited Darren fine, being a short ass, but I hated it. I liked to stretch out in a bath, with my body completely submerged beneath the water, but oh no, not in that bath, more of me stuck out of that thing than lay inside it. So you get the picture, a really small room, and I remained trapped within, cemented to the toilet as I deflated like a balloon. The air hung thick with an odorous smog so foul that it could strip paint, and all of it contained within those four small walls.

Maybe that would be how I left the world, I thought, like Judy Garland, found dead in the toilet.

Then it struck me. Once my body stopped falling out of my ass, I would have to look for that bloody diamond ring. Even the thought of it turned my stomach, and believe me it was already turning. How to do it? A stick? A spoon? No way were my hands going anywhere near that shit, gloves or no gloves, and Darren had been so thoughtful as to leave me a set of gloves on the edge of the miniature bath. I would show him exactly what to do with those gloves once my nightmare ended.

It must have been well over an hour. Every time I thought my torment to be over, my ass showed me exactly how much it could store. How could any human being have so much inside of them? It beggared belief. Over an hour of my life that I would never have back. My ring stung like a bitch, throbbing in time to my every heartbeat, and yet, despite all the pain, all the discomfort, the smell, all I could think about was that bloody diamond ring and the mining expedition I had yet to undertake.

Darren knocked on the door, tentative taps that struggled through the miasma of crap that filled the confined atmosphere.

“Martin?” he mumbled.

“I’m not finished yet! It’s still coming out of me!”

Then, Darren uttered those immortal words that will live with me for all of eternity.

“No, it’s okay, I have found my ring, it was in the drawer.”


Over The Rainbow is no longer available, but the love, and the compassion that went int its creation is still alive. Thank you to Extasy books, and to all those amazing authors who helped to bring it together. But most of all, to everyone out there make sure you love each other, because we now know that we never know what may lay around the corner.

Hi everyone, my name is Sean Kerr, and I am a 46-year-old gay man living in Cardiff, Wales, with my husband of 28 years, Derek. We have two cats, Rita and Harry, and a host of tropical fish.

By day, I am an Interior designer, and I have had a shop, Home Zone, in Cardiff with my amazing business partner Jayne, for eleven and a half years. .

By night I am an Author, and I am proud to be an author for Extasy Books. I currently have three books under my belt, with extasy about to release Dead Camp 3. I am also working on a secret project at the moment, something between book 3 coming out, and starting book 4 in the Dead Camp series. I love writing, so very much. It has always been my dream, and the wonderful Extasy Books has made my dream come true, and it is a world that I am totally in love with, and I hope to be a part of for a very long time to come.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/sgk69

FB Blog: https://www.facebook.com/deadcampblog/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6207037.Sean_Kerr

SparaSpara

SparaSpara

Leave A Reply

Your email address will not be published.

WordPress spam blocked by CleanTalk.

This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish. Accept Read More