I don’t usually post stories that are this revealing, especially about my sex life, but one of the stories made my best friend laugh so hard, he made me promise to include both on my blog.
On a visit home to Texas this year, a close friend and I were driving to one of my favorite glam grocery markets where I always found my favorite kind of coffee (recently roasted to a light setting) and above-par ingredients for one of my favorite past times — cooking. As we made our way along the deserted six-lane highway at 9 pm, I began to list out loud everything I wanted to do while I was home.
“…cook Barefoot Contessa recipes, watch movies, organize the second bedroom, bicycle rides down the bayou, work out, game night at Steven & Grant’s, order clothes… AUGH!…I hate shopping, write two new posts for the blog, and…oh yeah! I’ve GOT to get LAID while I’m home. It’s been at least six…”
“Hours?” interrupted my friend.
“I was gonna say weeks!”
He laughed more than a giggle but not quite a belly laugh. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You don’t get laid at work? You’re naked, he’s naked… I assumed you took those opportunities to…”
“No! I don’t have sex at work…well, not usually.”
“Uh-huh. Like I said…” he interjected again.
“I don’t mind if my clients touch me everywhere. I celebrate that. But, I’m always…or, usually… the Master of My Domain. My sexual energy fuels my physical energy on the table which is why I never…”
(Interrupting) “T.M.I. T.M.I. !!!!” he protested with palms up, surrendering as if I were trying to rob him of his equable disposition.
“By the way, my idea of getting laid isn’t a quick handjob or the like. I liken gettin’ laid as in a big meal which includes aperitifs, amuses, appetizers, the main course, then dessert followed by a long ass nap.”
With some hesitation, my friend asked the obvious question.
“What about when you’re off work? Don’t you get laid then?”
I laughed out loud.
When I’m on the road, my body works like a fiend. And, the type of work I do is very physically demanding. It’s not uncommon for the phrase Cirque de Soleil-like to be used by my clients to describe the gymnastics they imagine are happening on top of them as part of the Wally Special — one of the sessions I offer. Several times a week a client will ask, “how many Wally Specials do you do in a day?” They expect an answer of around two or three. When I respond with four to seven, they are dumbfounded. This explains why my extracurricular activities are usually nonexistent.
However, every once in awhile, I have managed to carve out time for sex when I’m on the road. Usually, those times are on my days off or as I’m recovering from an intense work week on the road.
One of those experiences was memorable not just because of the hot sex and the hot man, but because it had a surprise ending (not what you’re thinking!) The other sexual experience left me with a situational challenge that I successfully overcame.
Pensacola, August 2017
The sexual experience that had a surprise ending was with someone I finally met in person after chatting with him for several years on a gay social app. And, during those attempts at trying to meet him in person, my invitation was not for sex, but for an invitation to come up to my hotel room and watch the news on the couch while both us remained cuddled up against each other.
“I’ll serve some snacks, we can both unwind in front of the TV and I’ll work on your hands and feet,” I’d say to make the offer more enticing. Yes, couch time rather than sex. Remember, I’m exhausted after a long day.
Because of our busy work schedules, we could never find a time to meet. But, I knew there was something between this stranger [Bart] and me and we continued to stay in touch long after I left his city.
When we finally met, it was on our day off. Our connection had grown very strong and we both expressed to each other that we wanted more than just couch time. We both craved a romantic night of passionate sex.
Bart is 5’6″, 185 lbs, and somewhere around 40. He is an amateur bodybuilder, has Irish smooth skin, piercing blue eyes, black wavy hair, and a jaw that is stereotypical of manly men scene on the big screen. When he enters my hotel room, he is sporting a three-day scruff that makes him look like a celebrity in hiding. He doesn’t flex intentionally, but when he bends his arm to scratch the side of his face, you can see the bicep muscle separate through his voguish tight-fitting shirt. When I removed him from his beige long-sleeved pullover, every ab muscle God gave us could be seen on him without him trying to flex. UGH! Was he an Angel? Or an American god?
After a lot of catching up on the couch, we moved to the bedroom to make out and where I eventually separated him from the rest of his tight-fitting clothes. While he watched, I pulled off my undershirt, dropped my walking shorts, and flicked my Puma ankle socks behind me. As I crawled onto the bed, he was lying on his back and I kissed him from head to toe while I waded in the waves of his gentle moans.
Soon after, I moved over him, and laid my forearms across his pecs and gently sought out any trigger points with my elbows. This was not a massage appointment, but my massage instincts were taking over, and I followed them. My forearms finished working on his pecs and the pectoral attachment sites. I continued upward toward his clavicle eventually anchoring my elbows into what most people call the shoulder area but are really named the trap muscles. He wasn’t expecting massage work.
I sat up in bed and reached for a very small Pyrex bowl of coconut oil that I had warmed a few minutes earlier. I began to oil up his torso.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” I whispered. I lowered my pecs onto his and let my chest absorb the excess oil on his while I barely moved from one side to the other.
“Ohhhh my God,” he exhaled, “no one’s ever…” His voice trailed off. Then I heard him whisper in surprise “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh my god.” I spread his arms outward and leveraged my body weight to keep them in place. My body covered his and he felt the giant human luffa slowly move in all directions.
Throughout the night, I incorporated very short-lived variations of what I do in my work (during the Wally Special.) I wanted my body on him as much as possible. There was no space between us until I left him in bed to retrieve condoms from my suitcase.
When I returned, he was still lying on his back but his feet were on the bed and placed shoulder-width apart. His hands were folded up behind his head exposing his beautiful pits to the world. It was the perfect position for a picture, or rather, a giant ceiling poster over my bed back in Texas.
I crawled back onto the bed and positioned myself between his legs. I raised his smooth soft pink feet to my lips and slowly kissed them on both sides. I placed them on my pecs. He reached up towards me and pulled my neck down to kiss me. But before he kissed me, he stared intently into my eyes and whispered quietly,
“It’s been a long time since anyone has been inside me. You’ll have to go really slow and be very patient.”
I nodded and sat up anxious not just to please me, but to please him. I aimed my gun at its target and made my presence known as I moved forward. I slowly pushed against him. I waited for his body to respond. I barely made it into the entry hall before his face grimaced. He pushed his calloused palms against my pecs. As as I started to back out, he grunted forcefully which seem to erase the tension in his face.
“Wait, wait…” he panted quietly. I waited. After a half-minute, he would give me the signal to resume and I would try again.
“I want you inside me bad,” he said.
My brain was in overdrive. I felt like a base-jumper just before their feet left the steady ground. It had been so long since I felt so completely carnal. I had become so connected to him and the fantasy of mutual desire was materializing. My anticipation only charged my desire to slather him with every pleasure. He ceded to my towering presence and I craved to be interwound with every part of him. I inhaled masculinity in every breath, kiss and groan. I had so much to give him.
I gently pushed a little more and his back arched upward as he moaned from the bottom of his belly.
“OMG. OMG,” and, then, “WAIT WAIT, PULL OUT,” he exhaled. “I’m sorry I’m so tight,” he said.
This scene repeated itself a dozen times until, eventually, I was halfway in. The thought had occurred to me that I might not be able to top this boy after all. We had already been in bed together almost ninety-minutes and I hadn’t even started sliding in and out yet. Once inside, I could only remain without moving. I felt like a shoe stretcher and these shoes were made of leather.
We took a short break and I tried again. When we tried again, in one slow movement, I was able to get in halfway before his hands met my pecs. He inhaled sharply. His eyes were as wide as saucers and his mouth was fixed open. He looked at me as if he was saying, “don’t move…don’t move…if you move, the bomb will detonate.”
I slowly pushed in a little further until suddenly he slapped his palms again my pecs in alarm. He whispered in a crescendo,
“…oh my godddHHHHH….OHMYYYYYYYYY GODDDDddddd! …i’m gonnnaAAAAA AUGGGHHHHH MMPPHHHHHH” he reached for himself and in less than three stokes covered much of his torso in ambrosia.
His entire body pulsed and contracted for a minute or two until finally, he lie there motionless. I was slowly pushed out and laid down beside him. We remained tangled up in each other’s arms and fell asleep. Neither one of us acknowledged that I never ‘took care of things’ for me, but, it was okay. It was late and we had been together for hours.
We awoke from our half hour nap, and he headed for the shower while I started to pick up the bedroom. I pulled the towels off the bed and threw them into a pile on the bathroom floor. I placed the now empty bowl of coconut oil into the kitchen sink. I picked up the condom wrapper off the floor and that’s when it hit me. I looked down at my now soft buddy which was bare. I pulled the sheets back on the bed — no condom. I retrieved the towels from the bathroom and held them into the air letting them unravel — no condom. I checked the bathroom trash can and the bedroom trash can — no condom. I illuminated the bedroom with all of the lamps and carefully checked around the baseboard of the bed. Still, no condom. I stood there trying to solve the mystery when suddenly, the answer materialized as my eyes moved from the floor to level.
I returned to the bathroom where my sexy bodybuilder was standing lathered up in this hotel’s modern shower featuring a thick glass wall. He saw me walking towards him and smiled. I pulled the heavy solid glass door towards me and before I could say anything, he leaned forward and kissed me deeply saying,
“That was so fucking hot. Thank you.”
I smiled for two reasons: For what he just said to me and for what I was about to say to him:
“Hey, uh, do you have a condom hanging outta your ass?”
It took an entire two seconds for him to register what I was asking because the acoustics in the shower made it possible that what he thought he heard was not what I said. Without speaking, he reached behind him. His eyes and mouth opened wide at the surprise of finding the navel of a condom sitting barely outside his ass. There was no slack in the condom. It was all the way up there. He attempted to pull it out, but it was stuck.
“It’s stuck. How do I…”
After a few very gentle sustained pulls, he said, “Ugh!! Got it! OMG, I’m so glad you (trailing off)…How did you know?”
“It wasn’t anywhere else,” I said with a grin on my face. We both laughed heartily. The masculine laughter of two men reveling in the presence of the other was amplified by the shower acoustics.
He finished showering, dressed, and I gave him a goodbye kiss at the front door. We still stay in touch and have seen each other one other time. When I think about that experience, it inspires me to go to the gym and work out extra hard.
I think it’s about time I make another trip to Pensacola!
December 2017, East, Middle, & West Tennessee
“What are you doing on your birthday this year?” asked my little sister.
“Well, usually, I’m so distracted by both holidays [Thanksgiving and Christmas] that I forget to plan something nice for my birthday. But, THIS YEAR I’ve decided to go to Nashville so I can visit the places I never get to visit.”
“Oh, is Amy [Amy Grant] having a concert?”
My little sister knows me well, but, she’s way off the mark on this guess. Way off.
I wish, but I missed it. Her Lighting of the Green Concert at Lipscomb was a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry brother.”
That’s just one of the many reasons Nashville is my favorite city on my massage tour. Just after Thanksgiving each year, Amy Grant invites her friends in the music biz to help her host a free Christmas concert at Lipscomb University. It’s usually paired with a Christmas market filled with trinkets, Christmas CDs, crafts, hot chocolate and more. And, not only do her famous friends sing in the concert, but, most everyone performing in the concert mingles at the concert afterward, including Miss Amy.
“I’m going there to spend two days getting up early for breakfast, then do some writing, then good coffee, more writing, then to songwriters’ nights at local pubs with friends, then get a massage, then eat fried Buffalo wings and drink good beer at Canvas — my favorite gay bar, shop for guitars out of my price range, maybe take a city bus tour — all the things I never get to do,” I replied.
There was something else I wanted to do in Nashville. Actually, it was at the very tippy-top of my to-do list: Get laid. Since I consider my little sister polite company, I omitted it from the conversation. Sharing it would be a T.M.I.
My family is always vigilant about where I will be on my birthday. I treasure that. We’re close and we love each other, but I don’t like being the center of attention even if it’s only for the length of the Happy Birthday song. I hate people singing Happy Birthday to me and I have no idea why. I also don’t like being told to smile in photos, especially during the holidays.
This past last year, I came up with a strategy that seemed to stifle repeated commands for me to s.m.i.l.e. During picture time, as members of my family (armed with their cell phone cameras) focused us into frame, a command soared above the excitement: “SMILE Wally.” It was always “Smile!” followed by “Smile Wally!”
I volleyed back to them, “I AM smiling.” It seemed to work. After everyone’s camera had been filled with pictures, we started to disperse when my mother orders everyone back into position. She always insists on being the last to capture our images on her cell. Declaring this intention seemed like she was reminding us of her position in this gathering — she was the resident Matriarch in this remote area of Tennessee. My siblings and I always giggled because as she was framing the picture she would slowly sway side to side with at least one movement forward to backward, and then backward to forward, then slight movements to the left and then to the right. As our silent giggles grew louder, my smile grew wider and brighter. My mother notices this but doesn’t know why I’m actually smiling like everyone else.
Victorious, she announces “Hey, (heh) I gawd it.” She summons the picture hurriedly to show my sister the picture she took in which EVERYONE is smiling (including me) only to find the entire picture is slightly blurred (including my smile.) The times when I have smiled heartily and naturally in pictures is when my best friend pretends he’s going to tickle me, or if I have a couple of beers or drinks. After one drink, I get sleepy. After two drinks, I am very affectionate. After three drinks, I start showing off my tan lines.
Later on in the evening, I shared with my father that I was going to Nashville soon. I asked him if he had ever considered moving there instead of where our family landed. He told me that Mom got dibs on where we were gonna live since he was making her leave the safe confines of her birthplace which was inhabited by her twelve brothers and sisters.
“I wish we would have moved to Nashville,” he said.
Later in the week, I loaded into my SUV and waved goodbye to my family. I pointed my car in the direction of Nashville and traded one Tennessee city for another. A few hours later I was driving through the quiet outskirts of Nashville. The topography is unparalleled in this part of the country. It’s so beautiful.
I checked into the hotel, unpacked the car and settled into my hotel room. The television was powered on and I began opening crates to retrieve the individual pieces for my extraordinary coffee bar: The hot water kettle, the plastic pour-over filter basket, #4 coffee filters, freshly roasted & freshly ground coffee, bottled water, and my favorite coffee mug.
The hotel television was queued to the weather channel and forecasters were alerting viewers of the upcoming storms that would pummel most of Tennessee with very cold rain before it continued eastward.
“Fuck,” I mumbled under my breath. I quickly caught myself and momentarily repented: “Let’s stay grateful and thankful for the time off…it’s okay,” I said out loud. I was completely disheartened to see that heavy rain and cold weather was in the forecast for the next three days. Normally, I check the forecast before I plan time off. But, the sun and the ocean weren’t part of this itinerary, so I didn’t check.
After I unpacked, I drove to one of my favorite Mediterranean eateries and arrived long after the lunch rush. I managed to find a table located near the giant bay window alongside the wide modern sidewalk. I unloaded my ginormous backpack containing my laptop, a wireless mouse, writing pads, a small bag of ballpoint pens, phones, phone cords, a charging station, and a stack of notes for my book Face Down.
I was very thankful I could feel the sun’s rays on me during the entire two-hours I took to eat and write. It was going to be days before we’d see the sun again. I took my leisure eating fresh cucumber/ tomato/red onion/oil & vinegar salad, hummus and pita bread, a meat dish laid on a bed of perfectly cooked flavored rice and drank five or six glasses of freshly brewed peach mango tea. Every once in awhile, I saw the manager peek around the corner at her customer wondering if I was finished with my meal.
A few years earlier when I first visited this restaurant, I forgot that I was wearing my Wally work shirt. My Wally work shirt was a tight-fitting t-shirt that featured my logo prominently over my left pec in big orange letters contrasted against medium blue t-shirt fabric. My logo was my website spelled out, WallyMassage.com. I only wore the ‘Wally’ shirts to the gym and in my hotel room, but, never intentionally in public for obvious reasons. Should anyone who wasn’t my target market visit my website, they would see my sessions described as Just A Massage, Naked, and Wally Special. And, the description for the Wally Special is one that would make any Southerner blush.
On this first visit, the hostess/manager/chef was enjoying the lull in business after a busy weekday crowd filled the space with ladies who lunched, the other retail employees who worked in the shopping center, and very low-key music biz PR meetings. She spied the logo on my shirt as I made my way down the long entryway. As I stood there surveying the menu, she asked in her mildly detectable Greek accent, “WHAHT eeeezzzz WAH-lee mah-SAHG?”
“Crap!” I thought. My embarrassed red face was staring down at the menu — she couldn’t see my facial expression. Finally, I blurted out “Well, my name is Wally and I do massage.” She processed my answer as one she was not expecting. Her head bobbed backward and her mouth executed an affirmative expression as she replied with,
“AH!! makes SENse.”
On another occasion when I forgot to take off my Wally shirt before venturing out into public, I had to make a last-minute emergency run to Whole Foods in Austin, TX. I was standing in the checkout line lost in thought and trying to mentally organize the rest of my day. A soccer mom stood behind me in line patiently and adoring her three-year-old who sat contently in the grocery basket filled with lots of yuppie mom snacks, baby snacks, fancy body lotions, and lots of paper wrapped seafood and meats. She caught my eye and hollered,
“Hey, how much do you charge for massage?” I looked down to see if there was a logo over my left pec. There was. “Fuck!” I thought.
I was frozen to respond, but finally managed to say “$85 an hour.” As my words floated through the air she had already retrieved my site and had started reading the text description of my sessions. She never said another word to me during the remaining minutes in line.
Halfway through my two-hour lunch, I remembered that I forgot to activate several gay social apps on my personal phone. Activating these apps is kind of like firing a gay flare gun into the air signaling my availability for sex. I spoke to dozens of candidates but eventually filtered out one as the lucky winner. The time was going to be at 7 pm at my hotel. During this search process, several of my clients recognized me from my personal profile and asked if I was available to work on them while I was in Nashville. This was going to allow me to pay for my little vacation by working on one or two clients a day. I didn’t mind working on my birthday weekend…there wasn’t any pressure organizing one or two clients a day — it was a breeze compared to my usual work schedule.
Cole, my 7 pm rendezvous, was prompt and was hotter in person than his profile picture. A buddy of mine always says to me,
“Never upload your best picture. Under-promise and over-deliver!”
Wise words. Cole certainly over delivered. Almost immediately upon entering, he noticed my massage table that was set for tomorrow morning’s client.
“You do massage? Man, I’ve been trying to get a massage for weeks. What are the chances of you working on me before we have sex?”
I queued my website on my laptop and let him read about the sessions and my rates. Finally, he stood up and started pulling off his clothes. “Do you feel like doing the ninety-minute Wally Special?”
“Hell yeah!” I replied. I was so excited to spend the next few hours with this hot man who seemed to be incredibly sweet. And, unlike my regular client sessions, I turned up the volume on the sensual tease factor. We met under the premise of having sex — not massage — and since we were gonna have sex anyway, why not make the massage the appetizer?
The length of the session may have been two hours because he loved to work on my body while I worked on his. He had an intuitive touch, or maybe I was just tense everywhere. In addition, his grip and pressure caused me to think he might be a massage therapist. But he wasn’t.
After the session, we moved to the bed. Over the next hour, we kissed, made out, spooned and wrapped ourselves around each other. Suddenly, he sat up and kneeled between my legs and lowered his lips to mine. I could feel ‘it’ pulsing as it rested between my legs. Then he looked at me with a determined gaze moving the tip of his gun lower until I realized that he was about to do the deed.
“Wait,” I whispered.
If he had chosen to ignore me and move forward anyway, he was in the perfect position to do so, but, he was respectful.
“I have condoms,” I said quietly, hoping not to kill the mood.
“Of course…” he whispered back quietly. I left the bed and walked to my suitcase to retrieve the shiny gold plastic squares. As my hand grabbed the lid of the suitcase, a feeling of shock pulsed throughout my body.
“F.U.C.K.!!” Cole sat up in alarm.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You’re not gonna believe this. Guess what I did this morning?!?!” I said in disbelief.
“I ordered condoms…because I was out! I was so excited about tonight I completely fucking forgot to go to Walgreens to restock.”
I stood there staring at my suitcase and rotating my head from left to right in disbelief.”
“Fuck!” I whispered.
The number one item on my list was to GET LAID. How did I screw this up?!?! I walked back over to the bed and laid beside Cole. I was the little spoon. As his arms wrapped around me I could tell his quest was not going to be derailed.
He was perfectly positioned for entry but was waiting for me to wave the green flag. My mind raced for any place condoms would be. Then, suddenly,
“I GOT IT!!! I shouted.
I sprang out of bed and trotted to my utility crate. In that crate were approximately fifty items I use on my travels, including, but not limited to:
Mrs Meyers Cleaning spray
pump bottles of hand soap for my clients
extra-large garbage bags
massage table repair kit
essential oil diffusers
condom friendly lube
and many more items.
But, the most important item I needed to retrieve was a box of CostCo brand large latex gloves.
I retrieved a single latex glove from a freshly opened box and climbed onto the bed with my knees.
“I think this will work.” I handed him the latex friendly lube and the flimsy grey colored glove.
He dangled the glove between his finger and looked at me with an inquisitive expression. He looked back at the glove and unraveled it eventually revealing all five digits.
“Well, what do you think? Which…uh…” he gently stretched out each digit assessing its potential. I interrupted his train of thought.
“Use the middle finger, it seems to be the longest,” I said.
He loaded the middle finger on to his banana. It was as big as one. The length of the latex digit covered only half of his length. But there was so much slack in the palm section that it acted as a safety net should the glove start to come loose.
As he started to lube up, we both looked at the other unfurled fingers that dangled lifelessly between his legs. We both cracked up at the sight, but it didn’t kill his desire to get me back into position. For the next hour, our bodies were inseparable. It had been so long since anyone touched me as Cole did. And, I was so thankful to be there.
Finally, the moment of truth came and he collapsed on top of me. We separated our bodies to let them cool off and then eventually ended up in a spoon position. An hour or so passed when both of us awoke and I sat up on the bed. I pulled his hand to my mouth and kissed it.
“You know, in the half dozen times over my lifetime that I’ve been flipped off…no one has ever given me the middle finger like you did tonight.”
As I retrieved the make-shift condom, the site of the five-fingered glove on him made me start to laugh.
“Do you have any idea what this would have looked like to anyone standing behind you — not that there’d be any casual bystanders without our knowledge of course, but, still. We both started howling.
The next day I told my best friend what happened and he laughed so hard he couldn’t speak. It’s rare that I can make him laugh that hard. I could hear him getting choked up because he couldn’t breathe. He’s a tough crowd. He is the second funniest person I know.
“OMG!!! (panting) OMG!!!! You HAVE to write about that! OMG OMG!” he gasped.
Several weeks earlier when I was home for Thanksgiving, my siblings and I were all out hurriedly finishing last-minute errands before everyone arrived for the big meal. My little brother and his wife always host our family at their beautiful home. He is fifteen years younger than I. He tends to be conservative since he’s always around children or polite company. But his politics are definitely Democrat. He reminded me not long ago, that he and I have never had an argument between us. It was an A-ha moment for me.
He rang me on the cell. “Wally, I’m on the way to Costco. Do you need me to pick up anything for you?” he asked.
Almost immediately, I blurted, “Augh! Yes! I’m completely out of large-sized latex gloves. Can you pick me up a package of ‘em? They’re in the pharmacy area.”
He did not respond. I wasn’t keen on his silence. “Brother? Are you there?” I asked. No response.
Finally, I heard him exhale a deep sustained sigh on the phone. And, then I started belly laughing. I knew what he was thinking. And, every time I tried to speak, I laughed even more hysterically. My little brother is the most clever in our family in most every category. He never misses an opportunity to point out the obvious or the humor in situations unseen by anyone else.
It took a minute or two before I could verbally address the visuals I suspected were in his imagination. Finally, I said,
“Oh my God, Brother, do you honestly think I use these for anything other than Cloroxing my room? Or to stretch over the openings of screw-top bottles that contain liquids on my flights home to massage school?”
He remained silent. At this point, I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.
I finally told him not to worry about the gloves, just in case he was serious. Later in the afternoon, I arrived at his house for dinner. He was looking out for my car and came out of the house to meet me on the driveway.
He greeted me with our traditional straight brother/gay brother hug — no touching below the pecs.
“Walk with me to my car,” he said. He opened the hatch on his SUV with the remote barely held between his fingers. He leaned into the cargo area to retrieve the contraband, a box of large-sized latex gloves.
“Uh, I didn’t want any questions from the wife, so I left these out here,” he said with a solemn face.
“Brother, about these gloves…” Suddenly, a large smile appeared on his face.
“Gotcha!!” he blurted. We both laughed and he reveled in the victory of making his big brother sweat. But, now when I think about asking anyone to pick up a big box of latex gloves from CostCo, I imagine that one time I used a latex glove for a steady purpose instead of it’s intended use.
Whether it be in my personal life or in my work life, my friends know I never kiss and tell. And, that will always be the rule. It should be said that when I consider stories to include in my writing, I omit names, specific locations, or any other identifying details. If the identifying details are present, it’s because I have permission to do so.