I drove home from Nashville Sunday morning - a 90-mile drive - having spent the last night taking cock in a hotel room. I still had nine loads inside me as the result of my night of service.

I don’t know anyone in Nashville, but an acquaintance from Chicago I met at IML last May had had come down to visit family, so I made arrangements to come down and take a hotel room so he could fuck me again. He also offered to be my doorman as I hosted.

It was a successful night of hosting, especially for a Saturday - I usually avoid Saturdays because I find I have less luck then than any other day of the week, but this was the only day my acquaintance could meet. Aside from him, nine other complete strangers showed up to breed me. Between them all, I ended up being loaded nine times.

As I drove, the number stuck with me for some reason, and I couldn’t shake the realization that my body now contained - and was actively absorbing - the reproductive fluids of nine other men, eight of whom I had largely not even seen, and one of whom was a mere acquaintance. I had, essentially, allowed nine strangers to insert their penises inside my body and ejaculate. (The first of them had a cock roughly nine inches long - I could tell by the way it threaded through my second ring.)

In a general public sense, a man’s penis is considered a feature to keep hidden, at best a private, intimate thing; at worst, a thing considered unclean because of the fluids it produces. We don’t walk around in public with them hanging out (for the most part) and anyone who does is usually arrested because it isn’t considered decent.

Of course, countless tomes have been written on the nature of the phallus as a designator of power and influence, and undeniably so. It is the single most defining token of masculinity. For all the protestations that a bottom isn’t any less a man because he receives cock, there is persistently, undeniably, something significant about the statement made when a man penetrates another man. Sometimes the point is made openly, but the subtext is always there due to humans’ binary reproductive nature - in that moment, the one is being less a man than the other.

 I never penetrate. I’m always the one penetrated. I not only allow it, I make it possible. I spend my money to arrange it. I endure discomfort to experience it. Yet I’m not ignorant of the way most people would perceive what I do, or their likely opinion of me if they knew.

What, then, does it mean that I have allowed myself to become this? Yes, I was trained by a man who sought to draw out this part of my nature, but the nature was there to be drawn out. Who have I become that I would let nine strangers use their cocks to rut me like a breeding animal and inseminate me? Nine of them in a night.

Nine, though, isn’t that significant a figure, actually. I had already passed the 999 mark in men who have fucked me, a while back. You can’t be un-fucked once you’ve taken a cock, so how much more completely far gone am I now? There is no denying it - I am not a man in the way the men who seeded me are.

I know that a breeding doesn’t actually combine a man’s DNA with mine, but the fluid he pumps into me is a product uniquely of his body, and some of that fluid, and the compounds it contains, are absorbed into my flesh to become part of me. I know that my body has fused with the products of over a thousand men, the vast majority of whom are complete strangers, and many of whom I never saw at all. I now have difficulty framing a rationale why any man should not fuck and seed me, when I have accepted so many indiscriminately.

I have accepted that my anus and my mouth are receptacles for what society considers unclean organs and the sexual fluid they emit, and done so so often that there’s no point in thinking otherwise. So what does that make me? What can people legitimately think of me? Obviously, some would say ‘you faggot’ and I have no grounds to dispute it - and I have to appreciate the irony that that phrase contains 9 letters.

Nine feels like a heavy, weighted number because it’s incomplete, not quite ten. It leaves the sense of something lacking, something unfinished. Perhaps that’s why these nine loads resonate within me - they seem to call out for more, and I know that there will be more. Because I’ve become a cumdump, and there’s no going back.