A small group of men entered my room at The Works bathhouse in Indianapolis last Saturday evening during CumUnion. I could tell it was a group by the sound of the shuffle of their feet, by their breathing, by the way the echoes off the walls of my small room shifted, by the play of the shadows around me. I took a light popper hit to loosen my ass, and it amplified my senses. My ass was up, facing the door (naturally) so I didn't turn to look at them. I never do. I'm a cunt. Why would I need to look at them?

They were talking to one of their members:

"What do you think?"

"Like the look of it?"

"Fuck yeah."

"_____ used him earlier, said he was the shit."

"OH yeah."

"You gonna fuck him, fuck that white pussy?"

They would be black, then. I didn't even bother with a mental note; I don't care what color a man is, I never have. Sometimes I don't even notice. Call it one of the few perks of being somewhat autistic. His color signified nothing... except... and this has nothing to do with stereotype and everything to do with my personal, intimate experience of fucking many black men... it meant greater odds on him having a big cock. Sorry, that's just the way it's been for me.

"Yeah. I'm gonna do it. That looks like a nice pussy."

Here again, no stereotype drawn from, just my actual experience: the black guys who have fucked me have almost always called my ass a "pussy" if they don't call it an ass. They never use "cunt". I don't know why.

The man sounded young, perhaps shy. I decided I would take especially good care of him. His friends left him and he closed the door behind them. Okay, not an exhibitionist like they had been earlier, if they were the group I was thinking of. There had been eyes on me getting fucked earlier. Eyes on my face. Eyes on my face when my own eyes were rolling back in my head. Eyes on me when they left me lying like a rag doll after their rough-fucking.

Good times.

I could hear this man fumbling over by my shelf, amongst my lubes. "Try the coconut oil," I said over my shoulder.

"Oh. Okay," he said. I positioned my ass for easy entry.

When it came, I was mildly surprised. He didn't have a big cock, just average. But as is sometimes the case, I would rather have a craftsman in possession of simple tools than a novice equipped with an arsenal. This turned out to be a craftsman. I didn't need to take care of him. He took care of me.

He started slow, sped up, went to ramming speed, back and forth. If he paused, I couldn't help fucking myself on him as though he were a stationary object. I was wearing my solid-steel chastity device that covers my whole cock, and he fucked three loads out of me that filled the inside of it and left my cock swimming in my own seed.I know the clock continued moving, because by the time had finished, 45 minutes of continuous fucking had elapsed, punctuated by long, long, long moments where he found that particular point where a Top's cock feels as though it has hit the absolute bottom of you and your ass involuntarily clamps down in a death-grip along the full length of his shaft, and we would stay that way for eternities at a time, welded together into one body while our minds unspun.

At last he pulled out of me and ran a finger slowly, gently, over, into and out of my hole. "That is good pussy," he said. "Good pussy is hard to find."

He said it in a matter-of-fact way, like a man of experience, a man who knows whereof he speaks. "That like to have worn me out," he said, sliding off the bed to gather his towel. "I would have like to have done more of that, but I'm old."

I blinked. I turned over at last to look at him.

Not young... but surely not old...

"If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

"Fifty-six."

"Then I guess I'm old, too, since I'm 51. An old man couldn't do what you just did."

He smiled shyly, opened my door, and left.

Friends accuse me of trying to find meaning in everything, even where there isn't any to find. This man of 56 called himself old not because his looks convinced him that he was - I would have guessed early 40s, in fact - but I suspect because his life's experiences had the weight of an older man's. He bred my ass as a man of experience; and when a man of experience says something, his words have weight.

If he tells me that good pussy is hard to find, I have to believe him.

If he tells me my pussy is good pussy, it makes me want to share it all the more.