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I understand how the potential of having your sexual nature exposed to the world could be exciting when you're in a sexual frame of mind (read: horny). I understand the appeal of fantasies like being coerced into sexual compliance or performance by blackmail or other means. I understand the psychological nature of behavior like exhibitionism and submission. I can even understand getting to the point of desperation for someone to interact with that a man would place himself into a compromised position. What I have never been able to understand, however, is how a man can plan and then carry out a sequence of acts that cannot be reversed and are absolutely certain to have a serious, if not devastating, impact on the non-sexual aspects of his life, to the point of potentially destroying his livelihood and his core relationships. So 'Phil', shall we say, has a stable, steady-income job, nice family, good circle of friends, congenial work relationships, plays ball with the guys on weekends. Volunteers at the polling precinct during elections. He also secretly takes cock up in the city once a month at the bathhouse during his "business trips", and has an aching exposure fetish. Whenever he can, he has guys use his camera to take face shots of him with his cum-splattered face stuffed with cock, or of him gazing backward into the lens while his cunt is being rutted. The pictures are absolutely of hm, and there is no mistaking what he is doing or that he is loving it. Finally, one fateful night, he encounters a man online who says he gets off on exposing other guys, and will be glad to do it if Phil will just provide the pictures and the personal information. With his head throbbing with the sexual high of the thrill of having his naked lust shown to the whole wide world, Phil sends all his real-life personally identifying information and compromising images to this man with the click of a button. >CLICK< There it is. The thrill of terror/shame/pleasure all at once. The deed is done. Phil thinks, They are all going to know, and something delicious and awful runs though him. For many, this is the moment of reward, what it's all about. Except, there is no >unclick< button. Once the hit of fantasy and its adrenaline/endorphine rush has passed, a cold, sick feeling settles in. They are all going to know becomes Oh God -They...are...ALL...going...to...KNOW. Now, it may be that the man on the other end is counting on a sudden onset of post-click panic, and has a PayPal account already in place to accept Phil's repeat transfers of cash to make sure that those photos never end up in front of his boss and his grandmother. Or, it could be that the man on the other end has a fetish just as compelling Phil's was to Phil, and gets off in a big way exposing faggots being faggots. And he's become very good at it, so in short order, Phil finds his private collection of intimate photos prominently labeled with his identifying info posted to various apps, including Facebook and Twitter, and he is sent an email containing the extremely compromising content about himself - and notices that the CC list includes people who really, actually know him, and aren't sexy with him at all. Bob's company informs him that his job is being outsourced. His dad refuses to speak to him. He is told he is no longer welcome to play ball with the guys (faggot). The people he usually works with at the polls cross to the other side of the street when they see him. His wife packs up the kids and they go to stay with her parents, indefinitely. For some reason, his credit score takes a hit. I could go on, but the point is, once you're in-real-life-actually-exposed, you can't be unexposed. You can't unring that bell. If a reputation is devastated in that way, it's not coming back. The only thing left is to either learn how to live in the reality of the aftermath, or to uproot and try to find somewhere to start all over as someone else. I don't have a sense for how common this practice actually is, but apparently there are Phils out there who go through with this. One sees the images from time to time, and buyer's remorse is too real a thing in a general sense for it not to apply in this sense as well. I get that there are some people who genuinely don't give a shit what anybody thinks of them, and enjoy the freedom to expose their true natures at will; yet I don't really place these men in the same class as Phil, because the feeling they get cannot be the same - to them, there is no equivalent risk, so there can be no equivalent reward. What's more, these guys can do it repeatedly... but Phil can only do it once. Once Phil has committed to exposure, and gotten his intense reward, he can't do it again. Done is done. Those people will all know now, and re-exposing yourself isn't exposure. Phil can expose himself to strangers, and maybe get some tickle out of that, but it will never feel the same as the original high, and every subsequent attempt will leave him feeling emptier. Why do these Phils make a choice to self-destruct their lives this way? I can understand the power of sexual fantasy, of desire, of horniness, of all of the whole potent witch's brew of influences that make men obey their animal brain-parts when in rut. But when it comes to doing something potentially self-destructive, the mind usually kicks in a warning signal of some kind to keep a man from fucking himself off a cliff. Why not in this case? I have no answers, but I would love to understand this better. It makes no sense for any man to so something so patently self-destructive and irreversible for the sake of a quick rush... unless, unconsciously, he is using a nuclear option to free himself from an untenable life and force himself to start anew. And if it has come to that, I am sad for him.

Note: This entry relates to issues I’m still thinking about, and may be later revised if I do any more braining. —— As I read the topics and posts of this forum, I am often struck with a sense that there are two different communities here, existing side-by-side, intermingling as though they were one, yet profoundly different. I’m not talking about the poz/neg divide, or the Top/bottom divide, or the chaser/non-chaser divide, or the divide between CD/TG and M/M attraction. I’m referring to the divide between those who live this lifestyle and those who live it vicariously - those for whom this is fantasy. Fantasy has been defined as “the faculty or activity of imagining things, especially things that are impossible or improbable”. A related concept is Cloud Cuckoo-Land, which is a calque of the ancient Greek Νεφελοκοκκυγία, coined by Aristophanes to describe an imaginary place where unrealistic people metaphorically reside. A discerning reader of these boards comes in time to develop a sense that some accounts of sexual adventure have the ring of truth; others, the stamp of fiction. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with those writings that express an aspiration rather than an experience - each heart must have its voice. But there are points at which the two currents cross where the difference is illuminated in contrast. For instance, on the question of “whether a true cumdump should be on PrEP”, the discussion is peppered with opinions to the effect that ‘a cumdump should take ANY and ALL toxic loads’. This is not a statement of a reasoned view; it does not consider the realistic human elements of the question that occur naturally to a person who has lived the experience; they are expressions of an imagined situational model, constructed to titillate the imaginer. Within the confines of the imaginer’s mind, this presents no issue. But injected into the arena of public discourse in the guise of experience, it muddies the waters of debate. A similar phenomenon bedevils the entire world of online gay cruising. Two groups are in the same arena, at first glance all in pursuit of the same objective, but in fact incompatibly dissimilar. On the one hand are those men genuinely attempting to meet others for real, person-to-person contact; and on the other, those whose goal is to achieve titillation by purely virtual means. The result is that the second group gets its satisfaction at the expense of the first. In a hypothetical scenario in which this forum could be successfully segregated into discrete areas, one for those discussing their actual lived experiences, and the other for those expressing their unlived fantasies, what would be the result? Would each group flourish, enabled to grow through purity of purpose? Or would the groups falter, each needing something that the other provides? Can the fantasists fully indulge in their internal creations without a voyeur’s ingestion of accounts from a real world where truth excites more than fiction? Would those who have made the choices to live sexually adventurous lives have done so without original exposure to the products of fantasy? For my part, I find the problem particularly difficult in that the true narrative of my sexual life over the last 15 years is so outside the norm that it reads like fiction. Because of the hyperbolic statements and writings men make in expression of their sexual fantasies, I run the distinct risk of my real story being dismissed as fantasy. It is as though I have encountered an actual minotaur in an actual labyrinth and been actually fucked by him with his 11” bull-cock (true story; just substitute ‘marine’ for ‘minotaur’ and ‘Fort Knox’ for ‘labyrinth’) and nobody on earth will believe that it happened to me because, well, that’s outrageous, for God’s sake. I’m actually going to try to publish an explicit written account of my experiences, but I’ll have no choice but to change the names of people and places to protect the... well, to protect the complicit. And that will do nothing but give it more of the flavor of fantasy. It makes me want to climb onto the roof of the bathhouse and shout to all the world - “I HAVE BEEN FUCKED BY MORE MEN IN MORE WAYS IN MORE PLACES THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY BELIEVE AND I WANT TO DO EVERY BIT OF IT AGAIN TOMORROW AFTER A GANGBANG TONIGHT - I LOVE COCK AND CUM AND I GIVE SWEET, SWEET ASS, I’M A SLUTTY CUMDUMP SLUT AND I’M NOT ASHAMED OF IT ONE FUCKING BIT!” And I can hear the guys in the parking lot below going, “Pft. Listen to that. He’s probably never had his lips around a cock in his life. Bless.” So I guess those of us who are really, truly, bravely, boldly living the dream must take our satisfaction in the experiences themselves, separated from the world of sexual fantasy that swirls around us. Isn’t that ironic? This is ErosWired, reporting from Cloud Cuckoo-Land.

In the shadowy recesses of most sex dungeons and play spaces, many bathhouses, and every sex club ever devised, is at least one sling. You may have one of your own, if you are an aficionado. Slings are a kind of useful sex furniture suspended from the ceiling, not unlike a hammock except that they are basically dissimilar from a hammock in most respects. Allow me to expound, with the caveat that I have lousy luck in slings. I have been fucked exactly four (4) times so far in slings, and have no idea what I am doing wrong. I can, however, provide a short list of what other people are doing wrong with respect to slings and the men who inhabit them. Foremost, slings are for fucking. The point is for the bottom to climb into the sling, settle in with his legs elevated as though he were in a gynecological exam chair, his ass exposed and vulnerable over the end of the sling, and await the assault. When results are at their best, the assault consists of serial breeding by an array of Tops who take advantage of the available ass in a congenial, hail-fellow-well-met, even perhaps competitive fashion that leaves a pool of commingled semen as a slipping hazard on the floor beneath. In my experience, however, not all men are familiar with this basic function of slings. Over the course of my last two CumUnions, I have made an effort to occupy the sling (for which there is a dedicated room in the bathhouse) for two purposes: 1) to offer my ass to Tops who might prefer not to enter an individual's room, but might do so in a "community room" like a sling room; and 2) to try to discover what prevents me from getting the full sling experience. Each time, I positioned myself carefully in the sling, wore my own leather leg cuffs with snap links for easy positioning on the hanging chain links, and wore a blindfold made from a handmade navy handkerchief with white polka-dots (hankie code for bareback-and-cum-inside). Thus arrayed, ass exposed strategically, suggestive of helpless vulnerability, offering anonymity, and signaling, to those in the know, the willingness to take it bare, I awaited my first eager fuck. I say "eager" in that I have always considered slings more the realm of the aggressive Top, as the modality lends itself to Top control; there being little the bottom can do to set the pace, rhythm or depth of penetration. All to the good, if the Top relishes that kind of control. Each time, with uncanny similarity, the first contact has been from a hand reaching down to fiddle with my cock. At first, I didn't try to conceal it; later I put on my solid steel cock cage. Didn't matter. The hands played with my cock, which was not hard, slapped my balls, attempted to pull my cage down far enough to feed it into my anus(!)... and then departed. I can only assume that if they had been able to get me erect they would have tried to suck me off or jack me until I shot before leaving. The fact that this happened every single time, within minutes of my donning my blindfold, became frustrating. Hands did not limit themselves to my cock. They also enjoyed slapping my ass - then slapping my chest, twisting my nipples, smacking my belly, slapping my thighs, attempting to tickle me over every inch my body (I am not the slightest bit ticklish) and striking my chest with first fists and then knuckles. On my last attempt, the nipple-twisting became so savage that I finally had to say, "Okay, that's enough of that," and then, more emphatically, "I said, THAT'S ENOUGH" and grab the hand that had ignored my original statement. The guy instantly apologized, and I explained to him that the sling was meant for fucking and not for any sort of BDSM activity, which would have required some negotiation up front in any case. Then there are those men whom I have observed using slings when I have not been in them, species discussed in another thread around here somewhere, the Sling Lizard (Slingasaurus obnoxious) and the two varieties of Sling Hog, Slingasus rotundus and Slingasus immovabilis, the latter of which is distinguished by his disagreeable temperament. All of these suffer from the same evident misconception that the sling is a hammock-of-imagined-fantasy or a sort of hammock-with-remote-possibilities. It is, I suppose, possible that they have, in fact, the correct view of the thing, and that those of us who actually expect to get fucked when in a sling are the ones unconnected to reality. Regardless, I have always been careful to limit my sling-time to avoid being misidentified as one of the above fauna, and also to avoid having my goddamn cock smacked off. I welcome any input from those of greater experience with slings who may be able to correct and/or confirm my observations. I would love to add a good sling-bang to my list of life accomplishments, but at my current pace, I fear I will remain among the uninitiated out of sheer ignorance.

My understanding of the principles of economics is rudimentary at best. And why would I need it anyway, as I never have any money? Of course it could be the reason I never have any money, but that’s beside the point here. I do grasp, at least, the concept that people tend to ascribe greater value to things that are harder to obtain or are few in number, and lesser value to things that are easier to obtain or are in greater number. Gold is valuable because, aside from its lustre, it is harder to obtain and less plentiful than eggs. A viable ivory-billed woodpecker egg, however, would, to some people, be worth more than its weight in gold. Go figure. How, then, do we calculate the value of a cumdump slut? This is a bottom of remarkable promiscuity, with little or no discretion over whose cock he will take into his warm and waiting hole, who goes out of his way to frequent locales where he can be readily identified and used by any who pass by, and who actively and lewdly advertises himself as a mere vulgar sexual receptacle. This is a person whom we here on this site accept among our ranks as a matter of course, but for whom the general populace would display revulsion and scorn. (This description is becoming more painful the more I resemble it.) If one were to casually scan over the posts on this forum, one would have to conclude that such libertine cumdump sluts are legion, lurking in numbers in every nook and cranny of the globe, simple for any Top to find at any time. Even if we aren’t actually spaced every three meters apart, it’s clear there are quite a few of us. And when you find us, we’re easy. Sooo easy. So, going by the previous economic principle, our relative value as sexual targets should be relatively low. For some, perhaps it is. For some, we may constitute a class of untouchables that they wouldn’t fuck under any circumstances. Sometimes, as I’m lying ass-up on a hotel bed waiting for the next anonymous stranger to insert his penis into my body and fill me with his reproductive fluids before leaving without a word, I wonder about the type of men who actually respond to my ads - who actually go out and fuck strangers. Somehow, there is a demand for those of us who slut, even though our value ought to be low. I understand that some Tops enjoy the no-strings freedom that comes with an anonymous fuck, and because they are virile Men, prefer getting off by fucking to masturbating. I also understand that the natural submissive tendency that draws most cumdumps to their sluttery likewise draws certain types of Dominant males like moths to a flame. But in both these cases, desire could be satisfied without resorting to using the sluttiest of us. I have never heard of a place where “Everybody’s fucked him” is a compliment. On the contrary, it comes across like an expiration date. I’ve certainly found that my usage at the bathhouse I frequent has tapered off markedly from the time I was “fresh meat” there. Therefore I have to conclude that some value is placed on ass based on how readily available it is. I do have a number of repeat visitors (always an honor) who have apparently enjoyed me enough before to come back, but clearly not all of them. For some, the value diminishes. Is it because they realize I’m nothing but a used cunt? But then, what about those Tops who talk about how much they enjoy fucking a sloppy, loose hole that’s been reamed by several cocks already? I’ve had so many Tops hold off coming to fuck me until I have another load already in me. And then, flip the scene around - take the pretty, buff, self-conscious and obviously posing dude at the bathhouse who’s waiting for just the perfect one to hook up with - hard-to-get, attractive, few in number, ought to be highly valued. Yet so often I see such guys spoken of in scorn by Tops expressing how little they’re interested in fucking them. What would happen if that attractive, buff, guy was also a cumdump slut who “everybody has fucked”? In a case of two negatives somehow making a positive, I’m guessing there would be a line for his ass. Clearly, I’m finding Slut Economics even more baffling than the regular kind...

Last night while I was slutting my ass at my usual hotel and Top #3 with the big cock and the aggression to match was railing me, I happened to catch sight of myself in the nearby mirror. I saw my body positioned in a way that any observer could not mistake for anything other than deeply submissive receptive sexual intercourse. My legs were splayed broadly to the sides, my ass hiked up and cocked at an angle to point my hole upward, my back was arched backward in a crescent, my head flung back along the same curve, and my arms supporting me straight ahead with fists full of bedspread. And of course, a man was fucking me. But that instant of seeing myself “from the outside” made me acutely aware of how I must appear to other Men who see me when I take cock or wait for it ass-up. Even I could look at myself and see something somehow not quite male - something that had been devolved to another purpose so as to be useful to actual Men. This was emphasized when the Top later put his hand on the small of my back to force my torso flat onto the bed so that he could concentrate on drilling my hole. Even though I knew the person in the mirror was obviously me, the mirror made it easier to consider myself more as a sexual object than as a person, and read the Top’s use of me in that context. I’m still not sure how I feel about it all, except that the experience deepened my sense of submission, of worth only as a sexual outlet, and as a person easily controlled by the sensations in his own flesh. In the mirror, my body betrayed to anyone watching exactly what that fucking felt like for me - and even made me see it in a more intimate, revealing way. No wonder an audience tends to gather when my bathhouse room door is left open when I’m being fucked...

When I was young I read lots of books. My parents let me read what I wanted, which was good, because I had zero interest in sports or any of the other things that usually make boys boys. (I wasn’t into the things that make girls girls, either, in case you’re wondering.) Star Wars had just premiered and in a few years I would discover Dungeons & Dragons and computers, but the books were always at the center. They were stories about heroes and heroines, protagonists who had to face uncertain situations or dangerous enemies, find advice from the wise, struggle with their own inner weaknesses, and find a way to emerge ethically victorious at the end. There were a lot of such stories, and if you read enough of them at a certain formative time in your life, they shape you. Principle among these for me were the works of Tolkien, with their epic depictions of the noble Men of Numenor and others great and good. I found later in life that I had no real-life idols I looked up to or wanted to emulate - mine were all in books. The real human ones - like my father - failed to meet the noble standard of my heroes, the standard I set for myself to reach. Therein lay the seed of the problem. I hadn’t hit puberty - I bloomed late, and being Autistic, I didn’t catch on to what was happening to me when it did happen. And why would I? You see, in all those books, all those stories, and especially in Tolkien - there is no sex. I grew up in a home where sex wasn’t discussed. My Dad’s birds-and-bees talk with me consisted of “mutter mutter mutter keep it in your pants” and I didn’t even understand what “it” he was referring to. So, like Queen Victoria, I determined that I was going to be Good. And I was. I strove to be perfect in everything I did - “Be perfect even as your Father in Heaven is perfect”. My father cussed like a sailor, yet not one off-color word passed my lips. I was a straight arrow, square as a cube, insufferably correct, and ethically anchored. I was also socially inept and sexually clueless, but I didn’t know that. All I knew was that most people didn’t like me even though I tried hard to be a good person, and the people who didn’t like me liked pop culture and had started going on about this “sex” thing. Fine. If they were going to reject me, I would reject them, and everything they liked. Fast-forward to college. Sex at last made itself understood to my brain, and it was incompatible with everything I ever read about, admired, aspired to, or wanted. It as carnal, animal, messy. It wasn’t Good. And there was this word associated with it, the word that, then, I considered the worst thing I could say: fuck. Still more confusing, I found that my curiosity about sex revolved around sex with other men. As a freshman, I went to my first AVS and bought my first gay video. It changed me. Fuck me! Fuck me! God yes, fuck me! Men actually did the thing my rebel body was shouting for! But not me. I resisted the rebellion with all of my reason and my willpower. I destroyed the porn tape, glad to be rid of the damn thing... then, before too very long, I bought another. After I purged the indecency from my body I destroyed that one in its turn. But eventually I would get another. I was still a coital virgin. In high school I had had a girlfriend who would work my cock with her hand until I came, but I didn’t understand what was happening and certainly didn’t have sex with her. Now I was on a campus where 95% of the students belonged to one of the fraternities or sororities, and sex was everywhere around me. I was a ΓΔΙ (Gamma Delta Iota) - a God Damned Independent - so I wasn’t marinated in sex and alcohol like the rest of the idiots. Yet I had a need in common with them, a drive at that time of life screaming to be met, and I ensured I had no opportunity. The struggle became a kind of inner warfare that split my mind in two - two different facets of me so incompatible and so consumed with mutual loathing that they persist to this day. It was only the year after I graduated that a very kind and dear friend ended at least a part of my conflict by seducing me and taking my virginity. I will always be grateful for her mercy, even though the act left me even more confused - was that what everyone got so worked up over? But that’s irrational... Fast-forward. Graduate school, job, no sex again until marriage (to a gal with a record of some 74 guys she had been with). Sex was expected, and sanctioned, and she had a potty mouth and I suddenly found my resolve slipping. During the moment, to my shock, I even used the F-word. The sex was good enough to produce two children - my son’s conception was one of the most unusual and memorable ejaculations I’ve ever had - but not good enough to keep her happy. After 11 years, it was over, and at age 37 I looked at myself and found a wreckage of all my early asperations and resolve. I had been dragged down into divorce like any regular person, prey to emotion and physical appetites that I had had to concede to in order to meet her needs. Now there was no her, just me, horny and prone to swear, and now actively thinking of finding out if I really was attracted to other men, and what that would be like. I went to Louisville to a gay bar even though I didn’t drink, got picked up by a guy and fucked the first night, and loved it. Loved it. Loved. It. Eros was god of love and sex in the ancient Greek world. Among other things, he was said to be the protector of homosexual love between men. Though originally a primordial god, later tradition makes him the offspring of Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. He carried a bow with arrows that could cause mortals to feel passion beyond reason; the Romans called him Cupid. I am convinced that the son of a bitch found me early on and realized that here was a mortal who made a mockery of him and his power (erotic power, named after him). He made his plans right there and then that he was going to take me down about 300 notches by hitting me with arrows at just the right times. By the time he was done with me, he figured, this good, upright, uptight boy would be a sex-addicted slut happily wrapping his tongue around men’s phalluses and taking their seed in his hole so often he would surpass even that whore Messalina. Fast-forward to now. His arrows don’t miss, and one offends the gods at his peril. The person I was in the beginning would have been unable to contemplate what he - I - have actually become. Far from his ideals, I have now been trained, and my mind shaped, to accept that I am intended for the random sexual use of strangers, a willing and eager receptacle for their fluid, my body conditioned to accept their rutting, excited by the sound of squishing juice and slapping skin, grunts and groans, and the scent of copulation. He still lives in my mind, proud and undeterred, but pinned down by arrows, while his hated rival has his way with my body and takes full advantage of the corruption Eros wrought. Had it not been for sex and its nearly irresistible power over the mind, I might have reached some aspect of the refinement I aspired to as a human being. Because of sex, my mind is corrupted, my body has been enjoyed by hundreds of men in degrading ways and I will gladly allow the same from hundreds more, and men know and use me now for what I am... unrepentantly, and as of this post, a whore. Thanks a heap, Eros. You motherfucker.