Interview with a Bad Man

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“So you’re going to interview Billy Bosman,” the editor said with disbelief. I was new at his magazine, a local publication that was what they call a ‘consumer’ magazine, i.e. not specialised in any way, just general interest. He had been encouraging me to come up with ideas, seeing things that the local people maybe didn’t see because they were too close.

I was trying to concentrate but random thoughts were flashing through my mind.


I had met Bosman at his boatyard, which he had turned into a tourist trap, with a restaurant and a small museum, and he just seemed like an interesting character. He was a big, bloated man in his 60s, with greying fair hair and a loud personality.

“Yes,” I replied. “Seems like an interesting guy.”


“He’s interesting,” the editor continued. ‘Caused a huge scandal by being caught shagging his niece in a public park, put a lot of people out of business during the recession. Among other things.”

“I didn’t know that,” I admitted.


“No. So what angle are you going to take?”

“I’m going to ask him about the state of the boating industry. I don’t have to go into his personal history.”


“I’ll have to have a good look at it before it’s published,” the editor concluded, and waved me away.

That’s the thing, you see. He was too close to things and couldn’t see an interesting story because of who was in front of it.

On the other hand, he had alerted me to taboo subjects, because somebody like Bosman would assume a journalist had done his homework and was out to stitch him up. That wasn’t my style at all, but he didn’t know that.

* * *

I met Bosman at his office after the day’s work had ended and it was just getting dark. He ushered me through the shop and back office into a small lounge with two dark red Chesterfield settees and a coffee table. I sat on a settee and he poured some drinks.

Placing my Bacardi and Coke in front of me, he sat opposite.

“So what do you want to know?” he began. He was leaning back arrogantly, his big stomach straining against his pale blue shirt, open to the third button and exhibiting a hairy chest. His dark, businesslike trousers sat uncomfortably below his belly.

“Reformed character? Or is he still at it?”

“I heard about your… trouble,” I said. “But that’s not what I’m interested in.”

“She seduced me, not the other way around,” he insisted, ignoring me. “I’m only human; what can you do?”

“I’m not here to talk about that,” I repeated.

“What are you here for?” he asked, his right hand entering his shirt to scratch a nipple.

There was something in the air, but I didn’t know what it was. He was testing me in some way. His hand emerged from his shirt and he scratched his leg, right at the top, near his crotch.

I sat back, involuntarily mirroring his position. I have since learned that is a sign of attraction, but I didn’t know it at the time. I rubbed my stomach.

Bosman looked at me intently, then picked up his drink.

“Cheers,” he said, brandishing the glass theatrically. “To water under the bridge.”

I joined the toast.

“How old are you?” Bosman asked suddenly.

“21,” I said.

“I’m Göztepe travesti 68,” he said. “You think by the time men reach that age they are finished?” he enquired. “They say most are impotent by that time. Can’t get it up. But not all of us. I am plagued with an unending supply of testosterone.” He stood up, crossed the room and locked the outer door, then the office door, and finally the lounge. That’s what you do in the evenings, I rationalised. You lock up. Nothing significant in that.


Bosman stood by his settee and looked at me blankly.

“I’m going to show you my dick,” he said, unzipping his trousers. The keys in the pockets shot them to the floor. He stepped out of them. He kicked off his boating shoes to reveal his bare feet.


He unbuttoned his shirt and flung it on the settee. He was naked except for his underpants. His body was old and soft and tired. And hairy and masculine.

And fascinating.

He pulled his underpants down and off. They were old fashioned white y-fronts.

Bosman looked at me steadily.

“You’re not scared,” he observed. I shook my head calmly, but inside a storm was raging.

“Do you want to smell my underpants?” he asked slyly. “It’s a kind of perverted thing to do, but as you know, I am perverted.”

He picked up the y-fronts and handed them to me. His cock was slowly swelling. Still hanging down, but thickening. I realised with surprise that I was looking at it.

I took his underpants and brought them to my nose. They smelled slightly of urine, but were not unpleasant.

I turned them inside out and put a finger underneath, where his arsehole would be.

I pressed them to my nose, took a deep sniff and the aroma of his crack wafted lightly up my nostrils.

“You’re as bad as I am,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “Most people are, deep down. We’re all fucking perverts. Some of us never act on it. don’t get the opportunity. Others create the opportunity. I’m an entrepreneur. I never waited for opportunities. I created them. My business. My personal life.”

His cock was now standing up, full of blood and intent. Mine, too, had swollen within the confines of my trousers.

“Do you think of yourself as gay?” Bosman asked calmly.

“No,” I replied.


“Not really.”

“But you want something to happen here, don’t you?”

I just looked at him.

“Why don’t you suck my cock?” he invited. “There’s nobody else here and I’m not going to tell anyone. It will be our secret.”

I could imagine the many times he had said this, made this proposal. To women, young women, men. Probably young men. Many times inappropriately, to use that cowardly word.

At that moment, though, it was not inappropriate, because he had assessed me accurately and knew what I wanted was to be propositioned by him. I was an adult, a man, there of my own volition and, if not depraved like him, willing to become so.



This bad man was driving me crazy with desire. How many anuses had that penis been inside? How many vaginas? No, anuses. He was probably bored with vaginas by his mid twenties. Bored with conventional sex. Bored with Küçükyalı travesti traditional relationships in which you crept up on people like a cat intent on catching a mouse.

He had had enough of that quite young.

Maybe he had been initiated in a non-consensual way. Maybe some man had shown him anal sex when he wasn’t expecting it, and he had realised he liked it, and that other people liked it.

And although he had never got in trouble with anyone – except that time with his niece – that was because he was adept at choosing people. And he had spotted me very quickly, divined a kindred spirit when even I didn’t know it.

I took off my shirt and my trousers and my shoes and socks. An finally my underpants.

I was naked with this man in a locked room and it was warm and comfortable and I wanted him so badly.

I knelt in front of him and looked at his magnificent cock and balls. He was hairy. His cock was thick and straight. His ball sac was smoky red and hairy. He knew I loved looking at him because everybody loved looking at other people’s naked bodies.

I took his cock in my hand and gently lowered my head. I took his bad, bad cock in my mouth and sucked it.

“Wank me off,” he urged. “I want to cum in your mouth.”

I had never masturbated a man before, but I grabbed his foreskin as I did my own and dragged it up and down.

I wasn’t getting him there fast enough, so he took his cock in his own right hand and jerked it briskly.

Within seconds Bosman was ejaculating into my mouth. I wasn’t sure what to do with this strange stuff he was pumping into my cheeks and onto my tongue, but I swallowed it eagerly.

When he had finished spasming, he shuffled his feet.

“I want you to lick my arse,” he said. “You like it, don’t you? Doing things for me?”

He was dead right.

He knelt on the settee and I looked at his hairy buttocks and his balls hanging down. I was his sex slave and very happy with that.

I parted his buttocks and licked his anus. It was warm and oddly fragrant in there, not at all like the repugnant thing of legend.

“It’s not that I particularly like being rimmed,” he explained as he felt me enjoying it. “I just wanted to see if you’d do it. Have you ever licked a man’s arse before?”

“Nope,” I replied happily.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“Yep. I love licking your arse.”

“Good,” he said. “And now I’m going to fuck you. You want that, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said, surprising myself. I had never been buggered but often wondered what it was like, and to have it done to me by this masterful man was absolutely what I wanted.

As I stood up, Bosman felt in the pocket of his trousers and took out a sachet. He ripped it open and squeezed it onto his fingertips.

“How about a kiss for an old man?” he said, pulling me towards him. This was the most challenging part of the whole experience. Doing sex things and having them done to me was one thing, but kissing a guy?

I submitted to it anyway and he kissed me expertly, his tongue all over my mouth and sending waves of increased lust through me, a feeling only increased by his wiping the lube in my crack. This man really knew what he was doing.

Suddenly he broke away from me and Avrupa yakası travesti took some cushions from a cupboard, placing them carefully on the floor. I had imagined he was going to fuck me from behind while I knelt on the settee, but he pulled me to the floor and arranged me on my back.

“Raise your legs,” he insisted, and I instinctively got into position to be fucked, my legs in the air and my hole exposed to him.

He certainly must have had more than his fair share of testosterone, because in spite of having just exploded his cum in my mouth he was rock hard again. I gazed in wonder at his cock, the cock that was about to give me what I hoped and expected would be the biggest thrill of my life.

Bosman’s eyes narrowed as he looked into mine and got ready to penetrate me. Then his cock touched my ring and I tensed.

“Relax,” he said soothingly. “You’re going to love this.”

And with that he slid firmly into me, my sphincter offering only token resistance on the split-second orders of my brain.

Bosman’s big, hard cock was inside me and he felt huge and mighty.

“You, my friend, are being fucked,” he said. Whether it was through instinct or experience, he knew exactly what to say to me as well as what to do.

“You want me to cum inside you, don’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” I gasped, as the sensational reality hit me. I was about to receive this man’s semen. The ultimate taboo was about to be flouted.

I wrapped my legs round him, my heels against his back, and watched his face as he pounded me. He had done this so many times, with so many people, and yet clearly it excited him as much now, at this at time of his life, as it had ever done.

He was looking into my eyes, locking me into his gaze, so I was attached to him in many ways: my arse clutching his cock, my legs and feet determined to keep him in there, and our eyes attached as it they were tubes that led into our souls.

Then I realised he wasn’t really looking at me at all. He was consumed with sexual thrill and energy, about to ejaculate into me.

I was waiting adoringly for his river of spunk, the cascade of cum that had been flitting through my mind all day.

Finally he groaned as he ground himself into me, his cock so deep within me that I thought his spunk would have nowhere to go.

But he was pumping it into my depths, in there where no one else had ever been. This horny old man. This controversial larger-than-life character, this force of nature, who had barreled through his life doing whatever the hell he wanted, had now emptied all his available spunk into me.

Afterwards I was embarrassed, to say the least. I went to the bathroom and wiped the spunk from my crack, leaving some paper in there to catch the rest. I splashed my face and looked at myself hard. And even as I was admonishing myself, the thought of what had just happened came back to me and it wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t shameful. It was exciting. And I wanted to do it again.

Not right then and there, but another time. In Bosman’s bed. Maybe tied up. Maybe wearing a dress and nylons.

I wanted to be on my knees, with him fucking me doggy-style.

I remembered only then that I hadn’t cum yet. And the moment had passed. I would save it for later, when I got home and in bed and replayed it all in my head.

“We didn’t get the interview done,” I said as I reentered the room.

“Another time?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Email me when it’s convenient. Any time. Evening if you like, I know you’re busy.”

We smiled and shook hands.

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