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Thought I'd post here since there isn't a Columbus thread. Willing bottom here looking for as many loads as I can get. Willing to travel (within reason).

The loss of Joshua still cut deep, even two years on. It was a crisp February day in the Rockies—perfect blue sky, fresh powder that sparkled like diamonds. We’d driven up for a spontaneous weekend, just the two of us. Joshua was fearless on skis, always chasing the best lines. While I nursed a coffee in the lodge, he kissed me quick—tongue teasing my bottom lip—and said, “One more run. Be back before you finish that.” He never came down. A hidden tree well, high-speed impact, catastrophic head trauma. Instant. No chance to say goodbye. The patrol found him buried in snow; the hospital confirmed what I already knew in my gut. I sat in that hallway clutching his wedding band, the world reduced to white noise and the smell of antiseptic. Sarah was my first call. Joshua’s ride-or-die lesbian best friend since their university days—loud, fiercely loyal, the one who’d tease him about his flannel obsession and drag us to every queer event in Toronto. She drove through the night, arrived at dawn, and became my anchor. She handled the calls, the paperwork, the funeral when I couldn’t string sentences together. And when the first shock wore off and the long, grinding grief set in, she stayed—bringing food, forcing me to shower, holding me while I sobbed on the bathroom floor. She saw the parts I tried to hide: the way my body shut down completely for the first year—no erections, no fantasies, no interest in touching myself or anyone else. My cock stayed soft, my hole untouched, desire buried under layers of guilt and emptiness. By the second year, frustration crept in like a thief. Random hard-ons that led nowhere, failed jerk-off sessions that ended in tears because every stroke felt like betrayal, a couple of Grindr attempts where I couldn’t even get it up because another man’s hands on me made my stomach churn with shame. I’d come home alone, balls aching, cock leaking uselessly, hole clenching around nothing, and curse myself for still having a body that wanted. Sarah heard it all over late-night coffees and tear-soaked texts. “You’re not betraying him by wanting to feel good again,” she’d say quietly. “Joshua loved you alive, Moshin. He’d hate seeing you punish yourself for having a libido. Pleasure isn’t disloyalty—it’s survival.” She started nudging me toward the gym more intentionally. “You’re still going late nights. That’s good. But maybe let someone see you there. Not to replace him—just to be looked at again. To feel desired without the guilt crashing in.” She’d noticed Tim when he transferred in—29, built like he lived under the barbell, quiet confidence, no drama. Single, grounded, and—importantly—aware of loss without turning it into his whole personality. After watching me finish a set of hip thrusts one night—ass flexing hard under the lights, sweat running down my smooth back, face flushed in a way that wasn’t just cardio—she decided. “Moshin,” she said, catching me at the water fountain, “there’s someone new on the desk tonight. Tim. He’s good. Let him look at you. Let yourself be seen. You deserve to feel eyes on your body again without it meaning you’re forgetting Joshua.” She walked me over. Tim looked up, eyes steady and warm. Sarah made the introduction: “Tim, Moshin. He and Joshua were basically gym royalty here. Joshua was my best friend. Moshin’s been carrying a lot.” Tim extended his hand. “I’m sorry about Joshua. Sounds like he was one of the good ones. Glad you’re still here killing it.” His gaze lingered—on my sweat-damp tank clinging to my nipples, on the way my shorts hugged the firm swell of my bubble butt—for half a second longer than polite. It was the first time in two years a man’s eyes on me made my cock twitch instead of my stomach turn. That was the beginning of the slow burn. Tim never rushed. He noticed everything: the sweat tracing my spine after sprints, the way my shorts rode up during squats exposing the smooth dip where thigh met ass, the hitch in my breath when he stood close to spot me—his chest brushing my back, forearms flexing, crotch grazing the top of my crack for one heartbeat too long. He’d text after shifts: “Kept replaying those hip thrusts. Your ass bouncing like that. Fuck.” “Could smell how turned on you were tonight. You were leaking through your shorts.” “Been hard since you walked in. Thinking about bending you over and sliding in raw.” I’d read them in the dark, legs spread, hand wrapped around my cock—stroking slow while I pictured him: thick, veined, uncut head pushing past my rim, stretching me open after two years of nothing. I’d edge for hours, balls heavy and aching, pre-cum pooling on my stomach, then stop just before I came because spilling without him inside me felt wrong. Sarah watched the whole transformation. “You’re practically humping the air when he’s around,” she’d text. “I’ve seen you go from numb to this dripping, desperate mess. Let him fuck the grief out of you. You’ve earned it.” The night it broke was biblical rain—sheets hammering the windows, thunder rolling through the empty gym. I’d pushed myself to destruction: heavy deadlifts, ass-to-grass squats, hip thrusts that made my glutes burn and my hole throb. By the time I staggered to the desk, I was drenched—tank transparent over my nipples, shorts dark with sweat and the obvious wet spot at the front where I’d been leaking for an hour straight. Tim didn’t speak. Just stared, pupils blown, throat working. Then, voice barely audible: “Tanning room. Now.” I followed, cock straining, pre-cum soaking my jock. Door locked. Warm amber light bathed us like oil. He slammed me against the wall, mouth crashing into mine, beard scraping my smooth jaw raw, tongue fucking deep while his hands yanked my tank up and over my head. He palmed my ass hard, fingers digging into the firm meat, spreading me through the soaked fabric. “Been dying to get my tongue in this hole,” he growled, dropping to his knees and ripping my shorts and jock down. My cock sprang free—dark, flushed, dripping thick strings of pre-cum. He ignored it. Buried his face between my cheeks. Hot, wet tongue lapping flat over my pucker, circling, then spearing inside. I cried out, hips bucking back onto his mouth. He ate me ravenously—sucking, licking, groaning into my ass, beard burning the tender skin until I was shaking, sobbing his name, pre-cum dripping steadily onto the floor in long strands. He stood, clothes shed in seconds. His cock was obscene—heavy, thick, veins bulging, foreskin pulled halfway back, swollen head glistening and angry red. “First dick in two years,” he rasped, stroking himself once, pre-cum webbing between fist and slit. “Gonna wreck this tight little ass. Make you remember what it feels like to be filled and bred.” Lube poured over three thick fingers—no preamble—breaching me, scissoring wide, curling hard against my prostate until my knees buckled and I begged, “Please—Tim—fuck—need your cock—” He lined up. Blunt head kissed my rim. Pushed. The stretch was brutal, glorious—raw, burning, perfect. Inch after thick inch splitting me open, filling the hollow ache that had haunted me for years. I keened, forehead pressed to the warm vinyl bed, ass high, hole fluttering helplessly around his girth. He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls flush against me, and held still—letting me feel every throbbing vein, every heartbeat buried inside. Then he fucked me. Slow at first—long, dragging strokes that dragged over my prostate with every pass. My bubble butt jiggled with each deep thrust; his hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. “So fucking tight—sucking me in like you were made for my cock,” he panted, pace building, hips snapping, skin slapping skin in wet, filthy rhythm. He reached around, wrapped a rough fist around my leaking shaft—stroking fast, twisting at the head, thumbing the slit smeared with pre-cum. “Come on my dick. Show me how bad you needed to be bred after all this time.” I shattered—back arching, hole clamping vise-tight around him, cock erupting in thick, endless ropes across the bed, vision flashing white as two years of pent-up release tore through me in shuddering, sobbing waves. Tim snarled, thrusts turning erratic, then slammed home and came—hot, flooding pulses painting my insides, breeding me deep while I trembled and milked every last drop from him. He didn’t pull out right away. He eased us both down onto the tanning bed, rolling so I was sprawled across his chest, his softening cock still buried inside me, cum slowly leaking out around the base and down my inner thigh. His arms wrapped around me—strong, grounding. One hand stroked lazy circles over my sweat-slick back; the other carded through my damp hair. His lips brushed my temple, soft now. “You okay?” he murmured, voice wrecked. I nodded against his neck, throat tight. “Haven’t… felt anything… like that in so long.” He tightened his hold. “You’re safe here. With me. Whenever you need it.” We stayed tangled until the rain slowed, bodies cooling, his cum still warm inside me, leaking in slow, sticky trails. He finally eased out with a soft groan, both of us wincing at the loss, then pulled me back against his chest. We didn’t dress immediately. Just skin on skin. His hand resting possessively over my softening cock, thumb brushing idly over the head, smearing the last drops of my release. Sarah came in for her morning shift around 6 a.m. The gym was still quiet, rain reduced to drizzle. She was restocking towels when Tim walked out of the back hallway—hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, a faint hickey blooming under his collar. He caught her eye, gave a small, knowing smirk, and jerked his head toward the tanning room hallway. She raised an eyebrow. “You good?” He shrugged, casual. “Moshin stayed late. We… talked.” Sarah’s gaze flicked to the hallway, then back to him. She saw the flush still on his neck, the way he walked with that post-fuck looseness. Then she looked at the tanning room door—slightly ajar, light still on. She didn’t ask for details. Just nodded once, slow and satisfied. “He needed that.” Tim met her eyes. “Yeah. He did.” She texted me later that morning while I was still in bed, ass deliciously sore, Tim’s cum dried on my thigh: “Saw Tim this morning. Looked like he’d had a very productive night. You good?” I smiled into my pillow, typed back with shaking fingers: “Yeah. Really fucking good.” She sent one emoji—a simple fire—and nothing else. She’d watched me crawl through the dark. She’d nudged me toward the light. And now, for the first time in two years, I wasn’t walking alone. -‐--‐--‐--‐----------------------------------- As always my stories are based on true events. Names remain the same. I add erotica for readers to enjoy the event. Dedicated in love to all those who saw their loved ones just dropping dead during the AIDS crisis. To anyone still here, chest tight, eyes burning: If you’re reading this with your hand pressed over the hole where your person used to live… I see you. Two years (or five, or a lifetime) of waking to cold sheets, flinching at “touch,” choking on guilt the second desire stirs—you’re not broken. You’re carrying a love so big it carved you hollow. Joshua didn’t leave a manual for this. He just left. And for too long I thought wanting again meant murdering the only man who ever made me feel whole. But Sarah was right: living isn’t betrayal. Letting someone see the scars grief tattooed on your soul, letting them press their mouth to the places that still bleed, letting your body remember how to shake, leak, clench, and come undone… that’s not replacement. That’s the last stubborn proof that your heart refused to stop when you begged it to. If this story cracked your ribs open—if it made you ache for the day your own door locks, for the night someone looks at you like you’re still worth fucking, still worth filling, still worth the mess of tears and cum and whispered names—hold that ache like a fragile thing. It’s not disloyalty. It’s the avalanche’s aftermath: proof the snow can melt, the sun can touch skin again, and the body can still arch and sob and spill under someone else’s weight. When your moment comes—rough or tender, raw or slow—let it wreck you. Let it rebuild you. Let yourself cry while you come. Let yourself whisper his name and someone else’s in the same ragged breath. You’re allowed. And if these words made tears slip down your face in the dark… good. That means you’re still alive enough to feel the whole goddamn thing. That means you’re still here. And right now—that’s more than enough.

Louis GarrelTimothée ChalametFinn Wolfhard it’s quite obvious I have a type. LMFAO

Indeed @norefusal; the backroom isn't granted to newbies. One gains some experience on the site; and the site with the new member before backroom is granted. Unless something has changed... I'll grant it's been awhile for me so perhaps entry is a little different? Mods?

In my mouth always cuz usually my cock is in my mouth. I suck my dick way too much but fuck it feels so good and love the taste of my cum

Morgan Spector, known as Train Daddy from The Gilded Age, is on my list.

what are we calling "private"? i know that if i log in it enables me to comment in "the backroom" forums where as i can on view/lurk if i don't log in. Is that what u mean? Same w starting a new topic iirc.

It takes time to feel totally comfortable with the forum. Even longer gathering up the courage to comment and share your thoughts. If I am not mistaken, the site is divided into politics, gay life, sex stories and stuff. Take the time to discover…that’s half of the fun.

All *sex* should be that way.

My first bar was the Black Eagle in Toronto. Was mostly leather then. went with a guy I met online and after a dance we went to the "naked or dark room" and it was wild as fuck.

You're house sounds like the place to be. It's really hot that he gave both you and your partner a load that morning. Reminds me of a friend I would visit which would result in getting a load from one or both of them in the guest bed, shower, or bent over the kitchen counter. Fun times.

As a top I only fuck it deep inside. never ever pull out. If you don't want it deep inside, I won't fuck you. Hate watching porn that says breeding and they pull out. Nothing hotter than seeing the cock and balls pulse as it cums inside and cum dripping out. All porn should be that way only IMHO

when i am with a guy(s) usually on their ass (I love to lick cum off an ass) and cum swap with them. Or their face and make out, licking it and sharing it. When alone , in my mouth and what doesn't hit the target i lick up with my fingers or meth pipe.

Roger, you are finding us; just relax and continue to explore BZ and you'll continue to meet the rest of us poz guys.

When a top tells me my hole is going to make him cum. Then I start to feel it begin, he starts fucking faster and harder, his dick grows and becomes even more rigid, and his pumps get so slippery from the precum right before he thrust hard and stays deep to deposit his load.

Very soon you'll cum while being fucked in chastity. Then its over. Because the more times it happens the easier it happens. Then you find yourself in chastity regularly, with the only reason you're let out is for cleanings

Hosting an all day event in Jersey for tops to come and drop their load in me all for the purpose of love the breeding fetish don’t care if I get Pozzer and wanna see if u can break the record my friend holds on me with 30 guys breeding him . You can hang for awhile and double breed if you want will shower a lot or be a cumdump I will let you film if that’s your thing but most importantly let’s have fun and go in with be cares and drop your load and I’ll f it’s poz that’s fine I’m willing to accept it on this day it’s June 24th from 9 am to 6 pm come join and let’s make some history in hackensack nj

I am 63 and I like tops in their 30s to 50s and more dominant as they seem to be able to fuck a long time and can fill me up 2 or 3 times. However, I dont turn down any tops!

I swear I am going to recreate this for real ! Any plus Men wanna play the Mans role? I am of course the bridal femme....