I enjoyed the writer's conference.  I really did. I'm just not sure what kind of writer I am, because the highlight came when I spied a face and body of a man standing against the wall that made me whisper breathlessly--"Whoa!"  I'd seen that face a thousand times before in magazines and films. It was the infamous Scott O'Hara, my hero.  He was, I admit, fully clothed; but I could still see it in my mind-- the enormously large cock (long and thick) with pump attached.  And this part wasn't just in my mind.  There was that red hair, object of an ever increasing fantasy.  One that I've acquired over the last few years.  I could see the freckleless skin, and yet the skin had that tantalizing hue only red heads have.  I knew he was short and he is, but his shortness put no damper on those incredible thighs, calves, and buns housed in those tight jeans.  The jeans were rolled up several times, 50's style.  His boots were perfect accessories for those feet that I sware if they touched me anywhere, I'd blow a wad so thick, I know I'd faint from the exertion.  I wanted so badly to say hello, to thank him for the hours of pleasure he'd given me, but I wouldn't allow myself to do it.  I was afraid; not that he would sexually reject me.  I had no real hopes there.  No, I feared that he would burst my bubble by not caring that I found him so sexy.  We all need our heros, so coward that I am, I held on to mine through silence at the time.  But, I'm a writer after all, because without writing, I couldn't survive my chicken shit mentality. And the truth will, somehow, find it's way to paper.

Tim Elliott