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ErosWired

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  1. ErosWired

    The Shirikodama

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    According to Japanese folklore, there is turtle-like water creature called a kappa (one of the yōkai) with a malevolent habit - it seeks to steal a human’s shirikodama. It was believed that humans carried within their bodies a small onion-shaped ball that contained their life-force or soul, which resided either just inside the anus or deeper in, called the shirikodama. The kappa greatly desire these objects (for reasons unclear) and the Japanese were warned to use caution in the water because a kappa might reach up their ass and steal their shirikodama, with fatal results.
    It has been suggested that this folklore arose as an explanation for why drowning victims may present with an open or extended anus, looking as though something had been removed from it.
    This seems plausible, but every time I come across a reference to the shirikodama I can’t help feeling like there’s more to it - I know than when a Top penetrates my anus, he touches something that feels an awful lot like my soul. And I’m not talking about my prostate, though that could also be a way to interpret it (though women also have a shirikodama and kappa aren’t picky).
    In particular, kappa do their deed by reaching into the anus with their hand, so it does somewhat speak to the ecstatic effect many report from fisting. I personally have not found it so either time I’ve taken one, but that may simply be due to technique.
    I also feel, when I’ve been fucked, that the Top takes a bit of me, perhaps my life force, but if he breeds me he adds the share of his own that is carried with his seed, so my shirikodama is replenished, not lost.
    I can’t help wondering if there’s not some deep Eastern understanding of the tie between human spirit and human sexuality that we’ve forgotten here in the West, that lies deep within the heart of this fable.
  2. ErosWired

    4,000

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I just made my 4,000th post on this forum.
    If that were one post per day, it would equal almost eleven years’ worth of posts (I’ve only been here for six). By my reckoning, that still leaves me about 400 short of having the equivalent of one post for every day that I’ve been HIV+. By the time I reach 4,500 I’ll probably hit that equivalency.
    I wouldn’t have thought I had that much to say about sex. I never thought that sex played a significant role in defining me - I live alone, have no social circle, reside in a place where casual sex is practically unobtainable. What’s more, I hate the fact that I exist in an animal body with sexual demands. I haven’t been happy since puberty, when these unwelcome urges were forced upon me. I was perfectly content without them.
    Yet fast-forward to today and I find myself looking backward at a sexual past that has been, shall we say, colorful by most any standard, with choices made that only caused it to become ever more so.
    4,000 - roughly four posts for every man who’s cunted me. I’ve been very (very) open about my sexual life in these posts, possibly oversharing, but if I have it’s been out of a desperate sense that no one would believe that such things actually happened to me. I’ve never told anything that didn’t happen, was always careful not to exaggerate or embellish, because if I ever did, even once, no one could trust any post of mine to be true after that.
    I’ve never been inspired to write erotic fiction, which is ironic because I’m actually a published novelist. God knows I have enough personal experience to write something, but it’s all too real to me, too personal, too intense. There’s no need to fictionalize it. Possibly part of the reason I’ve never thought to compile it all into a book is because I’ve gotten it all out of my system here, in posts, like Scheherzade telling a story for a thousand and one nights until she ran out of things to say.
    I do feel as though I’m running out of anything new and meaningful to say. When I do, I’ll stop, because I hate repeating myself. Every time I’ve done so in these posts I’ve felt like I was begging to be believed.
    4,000 posts. 1,000 fucks. Pity - I’d much rather it had been the other way around. The posts would have been much more interesting.
  3. ErosWired

    The Clock Strikes Nine

    By ErosWired,


    Life with AIDS
    Nine is significant again for me this week - as I lie here in bed with my cat on my chest, I’m reminded that we lay in exactly this position nine years ago in the first days after my release from the hospital where AIDS tried to end me. I am now a nine-year AIDS survivor.
    To many in this age of ART and PrEP, that doesn’t mean much - AIDS is not a foregone conclusion from an HIV diagnosis anymore, and AIDS need not be a death sentence. It wasn’t mine.
    But it almost was.
    I was born in 1966, just in time to come of age when sex was terrifying because it could be deadly. Some divine Providence must have been watching over me to make me such a (ridiculously) late bloomer - if I had awakened sexually at the same time as my peers I strongly suspect I would have become promiscuous at a very dangerous time, and likely would have faced AIDS under much less favorable odds. Which is to say, I wouldn’t be an AIDS survivor at all.
    When the clock strikes nine, we get a sense of progress; the morning is fully underway; the evening has matured. It is past the time for beginnings, but not quite the time of winding down. As it happens, my AIDS anniversary is in September - month number nine - so particularly significant this year. The ninth month is like the ninth hour, a place somewhere between the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. No longer summer, but not yet really autumn. The leaves are tired, but not ready yet to fall.
    I’m tired. The battle takes it out of you. My doctor changed my HIV med in August from Biktarvy to Juluca. I used to have my alarm set to go off at 9:00pm every night to remind me to take my Biktarvy before bed, and I never missed a dose. Juluca must be taken in the morning, with food, so I’ve had to forcibly break habits and forcibly make new ones. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I can’t skip breakfast now, ever. And to make sure I don’t forget to take a pill along with it, I set my alarm to go off every day at 9:00am. I haven’t missed a dose. No aid or comfort to the Enemy Virus.
    The thing about a clock striking 9:00pm, though, is that you realize the night is no longer young, and you begin to think about when - and how - it will end. It’s hard for me to think about an ending that doesn’t have HIV wrapped up in it, degrading the quality of my life. I cannot go a single, solitary day that I am not reminded, like clockwork, that I am an AIDS survivor, and that both the virus and the meds that hold it at bay gnaw at my insides and speed the ticking of my clock toward its final tick.
    The stroke of nine feels like a momentary intermission before the final act begins.
    Not dead yet, though. I’m not giving the goddamn thing another chance. Tune in at 10:00 for a live update.
  4. ErosWired

    3 1/2

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Three and a half inches is the width of a credit card.
    Or the length of a microdick - a term that I despise.
    There is a Top in Indianapolis who fucking terrifies me because every time he encounters me at a bathhouse he reduces me to a quivering puddle of post-anal-orgasmic jelly using just such a cock. Attached to him, it is a fearsome weapon.
     I encountered another one today as I was hosting in Nashville. In the last minutes before I had to close up shop to leave, a man contacted me on Sniffies:
    ”Do you accept small cocks?” He asked.
    “I accept all cocks,” I replied.
    He sent a picture. It was small, all right.
    ”Do you think we could make that work?” He asked.
    This seemed a slightly odd question, but I said that as long as it could get hard we could do something.
    He replied, “Good, because I want to try this.”
    By ‘this’, it turns out, he meant ‘have sexual intercourse’ which he had not yet done in his 34 years of life. So, suddenly it became rather important that this go well. (He had never been given head, either.)
    He was a grower, not a shower, and was significantly overweight, so his cock wasn’t initially visible and I had to feel for it. Once I found it and got my mouth around it, however, it stiffened up right away; there was enough to work with.
     I knew right off that the only way to guarantee penetration would be a gravity assist with me coming down on him from above. With that kind of overweight anatomy, it’s difficult for a man to see what he’s doing if he’s the one mounting an ass, plus there needs to be a minimum of ass cleavage on the way to the hole. I was going to have to spread wide, aim my hole for the spike, and impale. If successful, all he would have to do would be to stay hard.
    I was surprised at first by the depth of the penetration, but then reminded myself that a heavy guy like that has some padding in the groin that can conceal an inch or more of cock length, and I was compressing it with my weight. Still, in-and-out thrusting was out of the question. It would have to be a rocking ride in which I discovered that he had enough length, at three and a half inches, to rub my prostate. This is unsurprising if you think it through - you know the index finger the proctologist uses to give you a prostate check? Measure its length. (Hint: It ain’t nine inches long.)
    He did not last three and a half minutes before I heard him say, “You want this load?”
    ”Of course I do.”
     
    This is why I go to hotels and bathhouses and let men I don’t know and sometimes never see use my body for acts that some in society consider unsavory and wanton at best, disgusting and immoral at worst. Not for the loads, though that man’s short dick shot volumes, and was my twelfth load of the night. Not for the ecstatic physical release that I receive, because no one attempts to give me that in return, nor is it expected. I go out and hike my ass in the air for the sake of the man for whom that ass is his first time, and it is within my power to make sure that turning point in his life is a triumph. He entered my door a man so uncertain of himself and his small dick that he didn’t even know if he could fuck; he left a bona fide member of the brotherhood of Men Who Have Bred Another Man. No one can take that away from him.
    As I write this, it’s very rewarding to me to have his load inside me. I can be proud of my own three and a half inches, the three and a half inches of cunt that he rode to victory.
  5. ErosWired

    This Is How I Know

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I’m home tonight, it’s Sunday - Superbowl Sunday in fact, which signifies nothing to me since I’ve never watched football in my life. The clock was closing on 8:00 pm, and I had just heated up a bowl of soup for a late supper. I planned to read the news online while I ate it, and then probably think about getting some rest, as I had been up late the night previous. Tonight seemed like a good night to just unwind. The cat agreed; she wanted me to go the fuck to bed so she could have the house to herself for the night, and was blunt about it, so I wasn’t going to argue.
    I started to take a spoonful of my soup, and a signal came from my phone - the special bloop that only Kik makes. I checked it. Sometimes it’s just spambots, but on occasion…
    Hi - Are you available tonight? I’d love to come see you.
    Damn. “Come see you” meant “come fuck you”. It was the local Top who comes to my house to cunt me semi-regularly. He usually texts me on Kik about an hour before he wants to breed, which is, frankly, short notice.
    With rare exceptions, he’s the only person who comes to my house to fuck me. The fact that he does means that my preparation for him isn’t just rinsing out my intestines and cleaning my body so that it can be used, I also have to make sure the rooms are presentable, the bathroom is clean enough for company, etc. - I have to play the host as well as the sex object.
    But I do not refuse a man who claims my ass, if it is within my power.
    So tonight I left my soup on the table, shut the (annoyed) cat in the living room, and with one hour’s notice I straightened three rooms, cleaned the bathroom, gave myself a basic pre-fuck cleanout, and still had enough time to watch a little porn to remind me what I’m for before I heard the telltale rattle of the doorknob as he came in.
    My soup was cold, of course, after he left. The cat was, and is, pissed. My chance at a laid-back Sunday evening was lost. Now, you might say, So what? You got fucked, didn’t you? Bonus!
    The thing is - and this is how I know - tonight, at this particular point, I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to have to let that Top come fuck me. So why did I? Nobody had a gun to my head. I wasn’t being coerced. For all that is said on this forum about how bottoms “must” submit to Tops, the truth is we really don’t have to if we don’t want to. Tonight wasn’t a case of me secretly wanting to - I really didn’t.
    But I did it anyway. That’s how I know. The fact that something in me compels me to respond contrary to my own interest and desire tells me that the impulse isn’t contrived or imagined. It’s genuine. It’s real.
    I know I’m meant to be fucked by men and to serve their sex because doing so comes so naturally and automatically that the impulse to do it is as powerful as instinct and the imperative is hard-wired into my body and my mind.
    I have cold soup in my bowl and his hot cum in my ass. That’s how I know.
     
  6. ErosWired

    Nine

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    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.
  7. ErosWired

    Three

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I failed.
    The shame clings to me like a handful of Styrofoam peanuts after shuffling across a shag carpet.
    I failed the man who trained me, my duty, my determination, my identity.
    Three hours. The Top fucked me for three hours, interrupted only to tag-team with each of the other two Tops who came in while he worked.
    He had taken me before, the last time I was in Atlanta, back in 2021. Back then, he only fucked me for an hour and a half. But then he came back and did it again. Still, even though 1.5 + 1.5 = 3, it didn't really make three. I realize now that three is something completely different.
    It's not that I don't think I can handle three. That actually makes it worse. I know I can, properly prepared. If I had deep-lubed, if I had prepped with the right dildoes to really open myself up for a cock of that size and penetration at that range of angles and that determination of depth, I could have taken it. I could, and did, take all three Tops...but the other two were just a brief respite from his relentless assault.
    For three solid hours he turned me over, back to belly, to back again, like a rotisserie hen, continuously reaming, rutting, railing. By the second hour, my cunt was running liquid on his outstroke, sloshing on the in, poppers pointless because my insides had lost all tone where tone mattered. I had used all my tricks to modulate his impact, to guide his force, to tease him toward a climax—to no avail. He broke me down thrust by thrust, machinelike.
    Missionary was the worst, and ultimately, the cause of my failure. He wanted my ass elevated to him, and placed pillows beneath it so he could grip my hips just so as he slammed his rhythm to liquid notes.
    "Feels so fucking good," he said. "I could fuck you all night long."
    It was 11:00 p.m.
    In the end, I succumbed to the battering-ram on my bladder. I had to ask him to stop. No one, no one, no one had ever made me tap out before. It had been a point of pride. Now something I can no longer say. The shame.
    He let me recover for—perhaps?—three minutes. Then he said, "I'm getting close. I need to nut." He hauled me back into position by my legs and pounded my sore cunt with rising speed and force. I concentrated solely on trying to contract in rhythm with his outstroke, to bring him to the end, fighting through the pain. At last he groaned, and powerfully shuddered, and though I could not feel the pulses, I could sense the heat of his breeding of me.
    I can take some solace that at least I succeeded in taking him to completion. I did not fail him utterly, although he was quite serious about fucking me all night. He would have done.
    The third day after I returned home from Atlanta, he sent me an image on my phone:
     

    The moment I saw it I knew that I would have a chance to redeem myself, to clear this shame. No one had ever labeled me a Jack of Spades before. Though I have no race fetish or preference, I could see now that he had been pleased in spite of my failure.
    There will be another trip to Atlanta.
    Third time's the charm.
     
  8. ErosWired

    Eight

    By ErosWired,


    HIV
    The 14th of this month was my 8th anniversary. I am now an 8 Year AIDS Survivor.
    Eight years since I stopped being the person I used to be and started being this one. Because that’s what the Enemy Virus does, it climbs inside you and in every practical way becomes a part of you. Not just in the sense that there’s no way to get it out, but also in the way it becomes a part of your every waking moment - your habits, what you eat, the decisions you make, how you look at the world, and how the world looks at you. I am not who I was eight years ago.
    Of course I’m not. Nobody is. Nobody’s the same person they were last week. But because of HIV the possibilities of the person I could have become became constrained. From now on, anything I do in the future has to be contingent on whether I will be able to obtain the sophisticated medication that keeps me alive. I can’t plan to travel to certain parts of the world; they won’t let me in because of my HIV. I can’t leave it behind at the checkpoint like leaving behind a disallowed object at airport security - it’s not something I have, it’s now something I am.
    In that sense, marking eight years loses some of its meaning, like counting the eighth year of eternity. Except my eternity, because of HIV, isn’t going to be as long as a negative person’s eternity. ART notwithstanding, my life expectancy is shorter, and my quality of life is less. I may have ticked over 8, but I don’t expect to live to 80.
    On the other hand, eight! I’ve held the walls against the goddamn Enemy for Eight solid years after it did its damnedest to take me out and failed. There are no cracks in my defense so far, and my resolve has not weakened. I’m not one of those who’s holding out hope for a cure - there will be one in time, I have utter faith in science, but I doubt it will come in time to apply to me. I expect to be fighting till the end.
    Looking back across eight years of suffering and struggle and vigilance sometimes sharpens the question in my mind - why? Why are we made to suffer? Why are we handed such fate? I am one who believes that all things happen for some reason, and I often struggle to comprehend the reason for this.
    I try to make good come of it - I don’t shy away from telling my story to people, here and elsewhere. My strengths are in words and information, so I do my best to spread knowledge and understanding, and dispel stigma about what it is to be Positive. Even so, sometimes that feels like shouting in the dark, because I can never be sure I do any good, that my suffering has any point.
    Until now.
    Yesterday I got a call.
    My gay nephew, who is 32, was just diagnosed with HIV. (If any of you sick motherfuckers dare say ‘congratulations’ I will find you, rip off your head and shit down your throat.) I do not yet know his CD4 count or viral load, but he is also very sick with MRSA. This is my sister’s family. They are frightened, confused, uncertain…and they are going to need me, because I’ve lived with, and survived, the same thing - for eight years.
    Now I know why.
    In my tribe there is a saying: ‘If you’re bleeding, look for a man with scars’. - Leela of the Sevateem
  9. ErosWired
    I hosted again in Louisville last night, having discovered serendipitously on my last visit to town that Sunday nights are apparently neither remembered as the Sabbath nor kept holy among the man-fuckers in Louisville. The trip was reasonably successful, with seven loads and six men serviced.
    Well - seven, sort of.
    He was the third to come along. He hit me up on Sniffies, and at first he said he wished he could fuck me but he had no car (cue sound of violins), so I cut the conversation short. Not long after, he messaged back to say maybe he could get himself there.
    Nice looking young guy, bit stoner-y, great legs. The first thing he says is, “I’ve been walking around all day, would you mind if I rinsed off in your shower?
    Red Flag 🚩 #1
    Sure, go ahead. I mean, some guys are funny about wanting to be garden-fresh for sex, and that’s fine.
    He took a shower like he hadn’t washed in a week.
    He comes back out and asks me to suck him to get him hard.
    ”I’m a grower,” he said, “but I’m a little high.”
    Red Flag 🚩 #2
    The oral isn’t working. He lies down for it. Still nothing. He asks if I have a cock ring; I lend him a neoprene one. Still no wood. He wants to know if my ass is loose enough to take a soft cock (! !!) because he might get hard that way. N-ope.
    At last, he figures it mist have something to do with all the G he did before he came, apologized, flopped down on the bed and asked if he could charge his phone on my charging cable.
    Red Flag 🚩 #3
    I don’t want this limp-dicked, patially-G-hawed dude hanging around my hotel room, regardless of how clean he is (and he damn well better be since he used all the towels) for who knows how long to charge his phone.
    But I have a solution: I have an extra portable power supply, one of the small cylinder-shaped ones, fully charged, and I tell him he can have it since it works with his cable. At that point my daughter calls unexpectedly and I tell the guy I have to take the call. He says, somewhat reluctantly, “I guess you’d like me to leave, then.”
    Red Flag 🚩 #4
    “If you don’t mind.” He walks out, then back in again, seeming to look atound for something, and I herd him back out the door.
    About an hour later, he messages me again on Sniffies, wondering if I could do him a big favor. The truth is, he’s just gotten out of jail and rehab and detox, and has nowhere to go to sleep and hasn’t slept in several days, and could I help him out with a room to sleep in for the night?
    God. damn. It.
    If you read my first blog entry about no good deed going unpunished, you will not fail to see certain parallels here. I did, by God, and told him that the last time I did something like that it went very, very badly, and I was not putting myself in the same position again.
    He said he understood, but could he charge his phone because the portable charger was almost out of power. ! !!
    ”You have to plug the charger in to power it back up. It’s like a rechargeable battery.”
    He said he understood. In a minute:
    ”What about if I got the room in my name?”
    ”I cannot afford to get you a hotel room. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
    At least he didn’t call me an asshole.
     
    Oh, and by the way, remember my No Good Deed Vol. 2 entry about the guy who fucked me then stole my dildo? The guy after this guy fucked me then stole my poppers.
    History doesn’t repeat itself so much as sodomizes you repeatedly up the cunt with a cactus. But only if you do something nice.
  10. ErosWired

    VHS

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Today I was doing a little spring cleaning, digging into nooks and crannies to root out the winter cobwebs. This is an old house my papaw built in 1936 and it’s impossible to keep it dusted, so I don’t get dust mice - I get dust mammoths.
    As I was clearing off a bookshelf to wipe away the skunge, I came across a VHS cassette - that’s a video tape, for all you young’uns. It had no label on it and I hadn’t the first idea what was on it, or remembered putting it there. It had to have been years ago.
    But as it happened, I had also just dusted off an old VHS player in an unused bedroom, so I decided to satisfy my curiosity, and see if a) the thing still played, and if so, b) what had bee recorded on it.
    It played.
    For the next half-hour, I sat in astonishment and relived the day a Dominant bound me to a Saint Andrew’s Cross in my cellar and systematically cut off all my clothes with his knife while he sent pictures out to other men vis his cell phone. It was fascinating, because it was the very first time I had ever encountered poppers, and he poppered me up pretty liberally, as I now realize.
    The video camera had been set up to record the whole process. I watched myself gradually become his object of debauchery, slowly, as he wore stripped away my clothes, my thinking ability, and my dignity.
    He remained fully clothed the whole time. From time to time he would run the point of his knife against my skin, just to suggest my vulnerability to him. He cut my clothes of in sections at a time, stopping to take pictures and send them, and tell me about the kind of men who would see them.
    He would address his audience from time to time, talking about me - I don’t know whether there were men listening in real time, or whether he was narrating for video. He finally removed the last shred of cloth from my groin and exposed my penis, showed it to the camera at various angles. Then the advanced on me and began running his hands over me, and kissing my open mouth long and deeply because he could.
    And then, he turned off the camera. Because he had finished with his scene. He hadn’t fucked me, or jacked me off in bondage, or inserted anything into my ass, or asked for a blowjob - that was his scene.
    I have the tape because it was made with a camera belonging to me - he didn’t take it with him. I have no idea what kind of images or footage ended up on his phone, or who might have seen me get used that way, get forced to admit on camera that I wanted a man to strip me naked and use me - or whether no one saw it at all and he was just play-acting for his scene.
    But I saw it. And watching that tape was like being bound to that cross all over again. It’s called VHS for a reason, I guess…Very Hot Scene.
  11. ErosWired
    Against my better judgment I broke down and hosted again in Louisville tonight. It wasn’t entirely on my own accord - I had received a text earlier in the week from a man up here who had fucked me last fall and wanted to know when I would be back because he wanted my ass again. In case you haven’t followed my posts, it’s my firm and genuine, honestly-held belief that it is my duty to surrender my body to any man’s use at his request, so this amounted to a summons.
    I ended ip paying nearly $20 more for the room than previously - thank you inflation - but I reserved it and arrived ready to serve by 5:30pm on a Friday evening.
    The guy did, in fact, show up, an hour and a half later, and in addition to a lengthy fucking, he also raped my cunt very completely with the dildoes he asked me to bring. No complaints.
    No further action either, until a 22-year-old visiting from Michigan came by at 1:30am. Very nice fuck, he seemed to enjoy himself greatly. A pleasure to serve him.
    Then, a message on BBRTS. From a man saying “be my cumdump”. Yes, I can do that. He wanted a cummy hole and was very emphatic about it, so I got out the devil’s dick I had been saving from where I had been keeping it on ice and deposited it into my cunt. He was going to have to drive nearly half an hour to get to me, so I wanted to make it worth his while. He also wanted poppers, even though I said they kill erections, so I pulled out a bottle of Hardware poppers that, as far as I could tell, were useless - at least they never had any effect on me - and set them on the table.
    He arrived, fucked me to loading once, then settled in for a more drawn-out fuck, interspersed with cunt-wrecking by my larger dildo, which he enjoyed repeatedly sinking to the hilt. This went on for a while until at last he picked up speed and came inside me again - and within seconds I heard the door to the room slam and he was gone.
    Without a word.
    With my smaller dildo and the bottle of poppers.
    It’s the first time since I started hosting Tops that I’ve been robbed.
    I don’t count the odd half-empty popper bottle that disappears at a bathhouse - sometimes people get confused or absent-minded. This was a theft.
    Not that it amounted to much - the poppers were worthless and I was about to retire that dildo anyway; I had literally nearly worn it out ravaging my cunt, and now my cunt has, shall we say, graduated.
    But there’s something about the fact that he did it the second after he bred me - he took from me in every way he could. The irony is that had he asked, I would have given him those things, as easily as I gave him access to my sex. Instead, I now feel a little bit violated in both ways. What he did didn’t, as far as I’m concerned, invalidate his right to enjoy my body - he’s a Top, that’s baked in. But it just seemed somehow a little cold-blooded to fuck a guy down, flood him with your seed, and then betray the trust you just enjoyed.
    It could have been worse, of course. He could have taken all my dildoes, or stabbed me in the back. I’m not going to get bent out of shape over what went missing, and I’m certainly not going to stop surrendering my body when it’s demanded, but from now on, I can never be that trusting again, and that makes me sad.
  12. ErosWired

    Ten

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I don’t know why so many of my entries seem to center around numbers - I’m not a numbers kind of guy. Nevertheless:
    Ten.
    I’m getting bred by another man in ten minutes from now, ten minutes from this moment. That’s enough time to put my whole life into a weird perspective that leads up to me being a hollow vessel for another man’s lust.
    Ten.
    Ten toes that splay and curl with his penetrations; when he forces me to an anal orgasm In missionary I can see my own big toes draw under and inward in involuntary response, as though they weren’t mine, but his - which, of course, they are.
    Ten.
    Viagra is dispensed in doseage measurements of 10mg.
    Ten.
    The cock length that somehow almost everyone claims to have taken, in spite of their rarity (I, however, absolutely have. It was not a comfortable fuck. I took an 11 that was much better.)
    Ten.
    The number of times the man who is about to fuck me has cunted me like a piece of fuck meat and inseminated me deeply with his seed, into places where it fuses with my being and colonizes me like all the invaders who ever entered Britain, and whose essence remains yet today. How many men am I an amalgam of now? How many multiples of Ten? Not multiples - orders of magnitude.
    How much of me that was original remains? If I am a vessel, my inner walls are coated thickly now with layer on layer of deposits, densely packed and each resonant of the man who left it - whether any actual molecular trace remains or whether the residuum is in my mind matters not at all; his entry into me is indelible.
    This man almost here has flooded me so many times I have truly lost count. I have taken s great deal of his semen into my body.
    Ten.
    The number of letters in CUMDUMP FAG, SLUT FOR MEN and WHORE ME OUT. I have been whored out, and would eagerly accept the opportunity again. If I found a man who wished to do it, I would let him traffic me for his bank. Ten bucks a fuck? Ten cents?
    Ten.
    The number I need to count to when I say such things to myself, because part of me means them in deadly earnest.
     
    And now he’s here. My ten are up, and I am fuckmeat now.
  13. ErosWired

    Winter Wonder Land

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    How do you know when you’ve crossed the border into being over-occupied with thoughts about sex? Is it when you realize that you’ve posted almost 40 entries to a blog about bareback anal sex? That could be a hint, but in this case that’s not what’s got me wondering.
    Yesterday it snowed here. We got around 4-5 inches, which to some of y’all in winter-hardened places may count as a “skiff” of snow, but here it was enough to cause a 20-car pileup on the freeway, stall traffic for five solid hours, and cause my dentist’s office to call me first thing this morning to reschedule today’s appointment.
    It was just as well - I couldn’t have got out of the driveway anyhow. But it left my morning at loose ends, and the mind does tend to wander.
    So.
     I decided to take advantage of the time to do a little anal stretching training (I really would like to be able to take a fist si as not to disappoint Tops who want to use me that way.) I cleaned our, geared up, poppered up and fired up a couple of vids I like for that kind of exercise… but my cunt is being a a little bitch this morning and is being temperamental and not particularly stretchy. It doesn’t help that it’s 11 degrees F outside and the bedroom is cold.
    Frustrated, I got up and went into the other room, where I happened to look out the window. It won’t get above freezing today, but the sun is out trying to melt the snow, a perfect arrangement for the creation of icicles.
    Big, long icicles with rippled surfaces, thick around the base.
    Just hanging there, like they’d been put there for a purpose.
     
    Have you ever taken a big, thick, rippled icicle up your ass? I have.
    Not for long. I can’t recommend it. Very peculiar sensations, on entry, while embedded, and for some while after removal. I don’t think the rectum is meant to be chilled. On the whole, the experience has got me wondering whether my acceptance of my life role as a cunt needs to be tempered a bit; what I just did was, by most any standard, nuts.
    Worse, it makes me think twice about my plan to go out walking in the snow later. God knows what I could end up doing, and be found later frozen naked in the drifts.
    Yet I can’t help imagining wondering what it would be like to find myself one day at a gay ski resort. I don’t ski, you see…
  14. ErosWired

    Dead Man Walking

    By ErosWired,


    Life with AIDS
    Today’s entry is brought to you by the Number 55.
    55. Fifty-Five. Half-a-Benjamin-plus-five. Forty-five shy of a century - which is really what gets to the point.
    Today is my birthday, marking my 55th tour ‘round the Sun. Before any of you reflexively say ‘Happy birthday’, let me save you the trouble - I haven’t had one of those sine number 40, when I acquired a sense of Time, and I now positively dread them since 2014 when I nearly stopped having them.
    It’s not as simple as a concern about the naked ageism in sexual attraction among gay men - in some ways, that’s unavoidable. The science explains that sexual attraction relies heavily on visual cues that signal sexual readiness, reproductive viability, and robust ability to provide and defend. This is all back-of-the-brain stuff humans have been conditioned to over 50,000 years of selecting successful reproductive partners. The fact that these couplings aren’t going to be reproductive doesn’t matter; the same mechanism are in use.
    As a result, we like abs. We like muscle tone and taut skin. We gravitate toward hair that isn’t white, and isn’t sparse. These characteristics signal youth, vigor, strength, and sexual virility, and therefore advantage those that have them with extra attractiveness. Which is to say, they principally advantage the young.
    Not always, of course, and not for everyone. There are plenty of other factors. But where possessing a trait may advantage one man, possessing the opposite may not just not advantage another man, it may actively disadvantage him. Sagging physique, wrinkled skin, grey hair - Time is not kind, and while its effects may be forestalled for a while, it will not be denied.
    I have a couple of pretty decent profile pics of my ass. I rather like them. So do other people. But they were taken three years ago, and I believe in Truth In Advertising, so I think I’m going to need to replace them soon. I doubt my ass will look as good now. It probably feels better to a Top now than it did three years ago, because I’ve honed my technique, but you can’t see that.
    “Age is just a number,” some of you say. “You’re as young as you feel.” (I feel ancient.) “Fifty is the new Thirty.” (That would make all the 30-year-olds jailbait.) Sorry, not buying any of that. No matter how we try to whitewash it, there’s a reason there’s a general sense that maturing is a death sentence in terms of the gay lifestyle. It doesn’t matter that I get fucked plenty, or that a subset of men may be attracted to older men - that doesn’t change the fact that I’m now too old to put on certain types of slutty clothes and hang out in certain places; my body simply cannot pull it off. I would look ridiculous, sad, and possibly deranged.
    But all of that isn’t the big reason 55 is a kick in the teeth now. I suppose every person reaches a point sooner or later, if he lives long enough, where he suddenly realizes that there are only so many birthdays left, and he can count them so easily it startles him. Some men may not hit this reckoning until their 70s - my father has been like that. He turns 80 this year.
    My father, unlike me, does not have AIDS. For me, the reckoning started in 2014, when I survived the effects of the disease that was once an absolute death sentence. Now, a twentysomething who starts ART early before his immune system is destroyed can enjoy practically a normal lifespan. I wasn’t twentysomething. I didn’t start ART until my immune system was practically erased. I will not be getting that normal life expectancy.
    How many years I’ll loose, science can’t say yet, studies suggest on the order of 7-9. That points to an age of around 70 when ErosWired Has Left The Building. That means that as of today I can count my coming birthdays on the fingers of three hands, and not all of them will be healthy years, thanks to HIV. In a few years, who knows? Science may find a way to beat the Enemy Virus, and I might get an extension. For now, though, I can’t escape a sense of the inevitable approach if Mortality.
    Being rejected by a hott muscletwink because you’ve got a little silver in your temples or the crows have stamped their feet around your eyes can give you a taste of it - but at some point you can’t get the taste out of your mouth and you feel like a Dead Man Walking.
    Yesterday evening I was cleaning the kitchen and I stopped at an apple on the counter. It had been there, uneaten, a good long while. It wasn’t rotten, but it was soft, and the skin had wrinkled and become spotty. I paused for a moment, and looked at it.
    Then I tossed it.
    Just sayin’.
  15. ErosWired

    Grandmasster

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Well.
    The site just notified me that Congratulations! You just increased your rank to Grandmaster!
     I’m not quite sure how to take this. Grandmaster is a title applied to people at the pinnacle of ability in Chess. I suck at Chess. I mean, why wouldn’t I? I’m a complete submissive and play a completely defensive game strategy, which is a guaranteed loser. Don’t believe me? Try keeping a determined cock out of your ass without going on the offensive - you’re getting fucked. So there’s that out of the way.
    More broadly, “grand master” is taken to mean a person of the highest level or ability in a particular field. In this case, it only appears to mean I’ve mouthed off more than most.
    What sets me back on my heels a bit though, is the fact that I would end up reaching such a bar here. There was a time in my life when I would have been horrified, aghast at the idea that I could be so involved in things having to do with sex, let alone sex with men, let alone depraved sexual acts with men. Horrified that I could have enough life experience with such things - and their consequences - to have enough to say to propel me to this point.
    Yet here we are. I dislike the thought that anyone might look at such a label and assume that I hold such a view of my sexual ability (that I “let it go to my ass” so to speak) - I may have been put on Earth to service Tops, but I certainly don’t consider myself a master at my craft. I can’t in good conscience make such a claim when my cocksucking is so plainly below gold standard. Even with my ass I won’t feel accomplished until I finally manage to take a fist. Grandmaster slut? Hardly.
    But if I ever do reach a point, however high (or low) that is, where I’m truly at the highest level or ability as a sexual utility for men, I would suggest a minor alteration to the title when applied to men like me: Grandmasster.
  16. ErosWired

    Fuck By Numbers

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    For goodness’ sake.
    If you read the conversations on these boards, anyone would get the impression that the bareback world is teeming with men with massive endowments, and every bottom who posts his ‘true’ story encounters them regularly. When we watch porn, we apparently get confirmation of this, because there the cocks are, biiiigggger than life.
    So how does the average Top feel when he then unzips his pants and looks down and doesn’t find one of those? How does a bottom feel when he can’t get any play because he’s set his profile to read “Only 8+”?  Why do so many men feel the need to embellish the tales of their experiences both in their own minds and in what they write here to perpetuate this fantasy about the Big Cock?
    First of all, porn is largely to blame; porn isn’t an impartial, objective representation of the cock world as it is, the industry cherry-picks men with the largest genitalia for that specific reason, and uses cinematic techniques to emphasize their dimensions even further. After that, though, the blame falls on the consumers of porn for perpetuating the misconception at their own expense, for celebrating the BBC as though it were a thing apart from its owner (and an actual defining trait) and worse, for reducing all men to a series of numbers by which we are judged: 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.
    We need a reality check, badly.
    Fortunately, the British Journal of Urology International, in 2015, published a synthesis of 17 independent studies of human male penis size, encompassing a total sampling of 15,521 individuals, to arrive at actual data on the standard distribution of cock size in Homo sapiens. You can find the results here:
    [think before following links] https://www.science.org/content/article/how-big-average-penis
    The average length, gentlemen (go get your rulers) is 5.16 inches. A penis length of 6.3 puts a man in the 95th percentile, meaning that out of every 100 men, only 5 of them will be longer than 6.3.
    I’ll place the graph from the study here for reference:

    Note that the highest length notated on the chart is 22cm - 8.66 inches - putting it in the 99.9th percentile. Extrapolate that upward and you begin to get into orders of magnitude in rarity.
    All those 10” cocks everybody’s getting pounded with? They belong to men that are one-in-thousands.
    Now, they aren’t mythical like unicorns - they really are out there. The porn at least proves that much. And, some of the stories told here are completely true. I personally am very careful not to exaggerate or embellish what happens to me, and I can honestly say that yes, I have been fucked by an 11” cock, and by a 10” cock. But only one of each (though the 11” had me twice). Since I’ve taken more than 1,000 cocks, it’s not statistically odd that I might have had these encounters, nor the handful of 9s and 8s I’ve taken.
    But if one were to somehow tally up every fuck chronicled on this forum and sort them by the size claimed for the Top, I’m absolutely sure the result would be impossible to reconcile statistically with the chart above.
    Guys, you don’t have to be huge to be a terrific Top. Bottoms, let’s face it, huge is largely a fetish - a really good fuck is all about your attitude and the Top’s skill. Maybe we can all re-calibrate our expectations a little and accept ourselves and each other as we are.
    I’m just a little over 7”. If length actually mattered, that would put me right about the 99th percentile, and some might bemoan a tragic waste of a good cock on a total bottom. But as I don’t penetrate at all, I might as well not have a cock at all, and so that 7” number becomes meaningless. We’re not numbers. We’re men. Always remember that. Otherwise, it’s just fuck by numbers.
  17. ErosWired

    No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

    By ErosWired,


    Hosting
    I hotel hosted last night. I hadn’t really planned to, but I was in my old hometown where I grew up, hadn’t been there in 25 years, was at loose ends in the evening, so, what the hell. Friday night, not a very big town, but bigger than a village, so you never know. I had been gone so long I wouldn’t know anyone local and have no plans to ever come back anyway, so why not do my anal duty?
    I got a hit - a young guy, he had nibbled the day before, but was biting now, and had a friend. Could they both come?
    Absolutely. So while I’m waiting for them I get another hit. A guy a little older, mid-30s, wants to fuck, only about a mile off. Can he come right now?
    Right Now is excellent. I always prefer guys who want it without delay - less chance of flakery.
    Sure, come and get it.
    [Short pause]
    You’re really close, can you come pick me up? I’ll treat you so good.
    Goddamn it. No, I don’t provide transportation, only ass. Sorry.
    [After a bit]

    You’re close enough I can walk, address?
     I give him the address. Then I chance to click on his profile and read “I don’t have anywhere to stay, if you can help me out I’d really appreciate it”
    Goddamn it.
    Wait a minute. I just read your profile. I’m offering you a fuck, not a place to stay. You come in, you fuck, you leave. That’s how this works. You cannot stay here.
    [Long pause]
    Understand
    Whew. Bullet dodged.
    In come the first two guys. Both very overweight, shall we say “lightly washed” in the groin area, and soft. They both fling themselves down on their backs on the bed, classic pose of lazy Tops expecting head.
    Goddamn it.
    Guy 1 is a young Man Of Color with a BBmicropenis. The other, a young latinx dude with button-like proportions which thankfully turned out to be of the ‘grower’ variety...but somewhat pungent in a way that may arouse some followers of these forums. Myself, not so much. Nonetheless, my duty was plain, and my training compelled it. I had them both hard within about five minutes. Guy 1 gets up and moves behind to mount me.
    There is a pause, marked by crinkled rustling. He’s getting out a condom and putting it on.
    Goddamn it.
    He has, to be fair, a rock-hard 3-1/2 inches, so I definitely feel it. He thrusts a few times, pushes my head down on his friend’s cock a few times, pulls out, crinkle-rustle, puts on another condom, thrusts a little more, then reassumes the position. He motions for his friend to get up.
    ”Both of the condoms broke, though,” he said.
    He broke...two...condoms...in a row... with a few jabs from his shortstick?
    The friend seemed hesitant, so I explained U=U, my status, reassured that he did not have to do anything he wasn’t comfortable doing. He decided to fuck, but fumbled around my hole until he went soft. I sucked him back to life and he fucked me for a couple of disinterested minutes before returning to the position.
     I make it a point when working with multiple men at once to make sure my service is equally distributed, so I next applied tongue to Guy 1 again, and in pretty short order he whitewashed my tongue. I swallowed and went back to his friend, hoping to finish off the episode quickly.
    Twenty minutes later my jaw locks up and he shows no sign of being close. In fact, he’s been basically expressionless the entire time, giving me nothing to guide me.
    He says, Do you like to ride? And gestures at his cock.
    Lazy. Top.
    He lies there like a beached manatee, doesn’t even help guide himself into my hole, and I do my best to ride him, but his heft prevents me from really getting any leverage on his pelvis so I don’t know if I’m doing much of anything except keeping him inside me.
    At a point where I’m doing a desperation move with my back arched backward, my hands gripping his ankles and my ass pistoning back and forth rapidly to try to score some angular friction, out of the side of my eye I see the door to the room open. In comes a guy with a rucksack and a guitar. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. It’s obviously the guy with no place to stay.
    Goddamn it.
    Guy 2’s cock slides out of me; he’s ready to stop. No expression; I have no idea whether he enjoyed using my body or not. They get dressed to go, and Guy 1 comes up, thanks me for a good time, gives me a hug, and mutters in my ear, “I’ve seen him around. He’s a little crazy. Be careful.” They depart, leaving me buck naked in a hotel room with God Knows What.
    Momentarily, God Knows What (hereafter GKW) finishes his business and emerges from the bathroom in his underwear, blue and shivering. He has clearly been walking around outdoors for quite some time in the near-freezing weather.
    For God’s Sake.
    I ask him if he would like to take a warm shower to warm himself up. He says that would be very nice. I start his water, get him a towel, and leave him to his (lengthy) shower. As I wait, I put on some clothes. The last thing this guy needs is to be spending his energy fucking me if he’s on the street. I check to see where the local shelter is located; I can’t let this stranger stay in my hotel room, but I can warm him up, make sure he has something to eat, and offer to take him somewhere where he can be out of the cold.
    Guy 1 messages me and asks how things are going. I tell him what I’m doing, he says, “Aww, you’re nice.” I don’t know about nice; I was a park ranger, and this is practical.
    The guy comes out, looks better but still a little pale, I offer to make him a cup od warm coffee. Yes, please. Sugars? Three. Cream? Two. I make the coffee in the bathroom. When it’s done, I emerge to find GDW talking on his headset phone with what appears to be the boyfriend whose car he lately got out of and walked away from because his boyfriend was entertaining a pair of drug dealers and GKW didn’t want to be around them for fear of being caught up in some sort of police sting. I listened to him unroll the panoply of his convoluted drama, complete with broad hand gestures the boyfriend couldn’t see, for about five minutes, before I said, rather pointedly, “You’re going to have to call him back.”
    After a minute he wound up the call and I asked if he has had anything to eat; he had had something in the afternoon. I explained that as I had told him, he couldn’t stay here, but I would be glad to drive him to the local shelter or anywhere he needed to go.
    ”Oh, I never go to shelters.”
    Well.
     I suggested that if he felt he was too good for a shelter when he had no other place to go, it was best he just be on his way.
    And, then, of course, he flips out.
     I am now bullying and abusing him - how dare I - just because he’s having a problem doesn’t mean I have a right to push him around. Then he fires off :
    ”I have Asperger’s!”
    Indeed?
    ”I have Asperger’s.”
    This catches him up a bit; he wasn’t expecting that.
    ”So... so you understand!”
    ”I most certainly do. I’ve struggled with Asperger’s for well over 35 years.”
    ”Well I’m 37!”
    ”So basically I’ve been dealing with it as long as you’ve been alive.”
    I suspect that this line of attack has worked out very differently for him previously, and he’s learned to use his autism as a means to manipulate people. With me, it’s like oil on Teflon.
    He falls back to abusive language. I tell he’s going to have to leave the room immediately, and if he doesn’t I will be forced to call for the police.
    ”Who do you think brought me here?” he said. “If you touch my stuff I’ll call them myself.”
     I picked up his bag and his guitar and set them by the door. I went over to the phone by the bed an picked up the receiver. He quickly started putting on his clothes. I paused.
    ”Are you afraid to call them?” he said “How will you save face?”
    ”I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about me doing this.”
    He quickly finished dressing, picked up his headset, called someone and said, “Can you come pick me up? Can - Can you please - just come pick me up?” (Note that apparently the person  he was talking to already knew where he was.)
    Then he hesitated, drank half the cup of coffee that I had made him in a couple of gulps, told me what a fucking asshole I was, and left.
     
     I mean.
    Goddamn it.
    The thing is, I know better. Of course I have better sense than this. The trouble is that one Biblical account of angels disguised as travelers who seek shelter, and we are instructed never to refuse shelter to one in need because you never know. (The practical application of the scripture being to encourage mutual social support.) Add to this a 30-year career as a park ranger, for whom the sight of a person who walks in chilled from exposure to the elements triggers an almost visceral response.
    Still, I had the presence of mind to decide, first thing, that 1) letting him fuck me was out of the question; 2) I needed to put on some clothes; and 3) I needed to put my self-defense weapon where I could easily reach it. He never knew it was there, but it was there.
    By this point I was not only ready to call it a night, I didn’t care if I never saw that godforsaken town again.
    Thirty minutes later, as I was preparing to close up shop completely and go to bed, I got a Grindr hit asking for an anon quickie right now.
    Goddamn it.
    You see, I know I keep saying it, and I don’t expect that any of you actually believe me because it just sounds too much like a fantasy, but when a Top asks me for my ass, I feel psychologically compelled to obey. A man used actual techniques to train me to react this way. So I agreed to take one more fuck.
    As it turned out, one more absolutely, toe-curlingly delicious fuck by a young guy with superb thighs. He wanted me missionary and I’m so glad he did - the bliss spread across his face in waves as he slicked in and out of my hot cunt, and when he finally shot what I later discovered was a huge load deep inside me, the smile on his face as he came in one instant made up for everything that had happened before.
    So, what is the moral of this tale? I’m not really sure. I want to be able to continue to place my trust in the essential good nature of people; I’m a trusting soul to start with, but if I’m going to achieve my goal of giving Tops the ability to take absolutely anything they want from me, I have to not only remain intimately vulnerable, but become radically more so.
    When I returned home this evening after a 5- hour drive, the moment I walked in the door I got a message on A4A: Did I want to fuck now?
     I let the guy know I had just gotten in and that it would take some time to prep myself, and he could probably find another willing bottom in the time it would take me to prep. I said I would, however, go ahead and begin to prep myself in case he didn’t find anyone, because he should not have to go without ass if I could prevent it.
    ”Thanks,” he replied.
    Then:
    ”Could you come pick me up for a while? You’re not far away.”
    Goddamn it.
  18. ErosWired

    Dominant Duty

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Elsewhere in the forum I was talking about men who place themselves in long-term chastity and surrender the key to a Dominant. The Dominant denies the submissive the ability to touch his own cock and have a penile orgasm at any time unless the Dominant expressly allows it—and that time sometimes never comes, depending on the arrangement and the intent. The Dominant may intend simply to demonstrate his continued control of the submissive by allowing the orgasm only after a show of reluctance or as a show of generosity. On the other hand, the Dominant may withhold it altogether in a much deeper bid for control of the submissive's sexuality by training the sub to transfer his origin of orgasm from his penis to his anus and/or prostate. Either way, orgasm denial is a potent expression of control and a classic example of Power Exchange.
    Orgasm denial isn't my thing—forced orgasm is, and though the control that exhibits is different, it still touches the same need within a submissive mind. The thing we all have in common is that we find an inexplicable fulfillment when a Man exerts control over us by using us sexually, and we are willing to give those Dominant men the ability to do what they want. Indeed, many of us see it as a duty. I do.
    It's a good thing we do. Generally speaking, the kinds of things Dominant men enjoy doing to us submissives are not normally considered acceptable practice in the world of plain old vanilla sexual relations. This symbiosis-of-sorts scratches a mutual itch. The Power Exchange that voluntarily takes place allows Dominants to exercise their aggression and submissives to feel controlled.
    Usually.
    There is, however, a point that I sometimes think gets lost among Dominants who get involved in Power Exchange, particularly those who are on the milder fringes of it, or who are less experienced. This is an exchange, which means it goes two ways. Two givers, two getters, and the exchange has to be more or less equivalent.
    Now that sounds a bit odd, given the nature of the thing; you've got a guy who basically says, You can have/do whatever you want with me and another guy who says You get no say in what I'm going to do with you and I'm going to take what I want and both of them sign off on this because that's essentially what the whole thing is about. Except there's some fine print at the bottom of the first guy's statement, so if you read it all, he says, You can have/do whatever you want with me but you have to do it on a regular basis because this is something I need and I'm trusting you to fulfill it.
    This is important. Human beings have a set of fundamental basic needs that must be met, laid out by Abraham Maslow in his Hierarchy of Needs. Maslow places the need for sexual expression at the most fundamental level of human need, and it is the building-stone upon which other aspects of the whole person rely, including such things as self-esteem, sense of belonging, and interpersonal relationships. The submissive, in the act of sexual submission is attempting to meet this core physical and psychological need.
    When a Dominant accepts a submissive's submission in a formal way, for instance in becoming the keyholder for the submissive's chastity, the Dominant has then physically deprived the submissive of the ability to obtain physical sexual release, and has made the submissive dependent upon him in both a physical and psychological way. The submissive can no longer provide for his own needs. The Dominant benefits from this arrangement, obviously, by having the freedom to act upon his Dominant, aggressive impulses to exert control over another man, to revel in the feeling of power that results when he freely violates what would otherwise be an inaccessible part of the submissive's sexuality. The submissive benefits from the feelings that ensue from being controlled, humiliated, violated, used—or conversely, from the sense of being able to provide something of value to someone (this is the case for me).
    The problem is, the Dominant is not constrained; the submissive is. The submissive is entirely dependent upon the Dominant for meeting his continuing need for sexual expression. If the Dominant says, "That was fun, now don't touch yourself for a month" and the submissive hears nothing from the Dominant again for an entire month, and then the Dominant says, "Yeah, I've been busy, I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks" what we end up with is neglect. The Dominant has left the submissive with no means (short of abandoning their agreement or ending their relationship) of meeting his basic need. The Dominant, on the other hand, suffers no such handicap, and may in fact be fulfilling himself in other ways—or with other men—to the degree that he forgets about the submissive.
    This is not acceptable, any more than it would be acceptable to leave a fish in an aquarium and not feed it for a month.
    Dominants take on a Duty of Care when they agree to Dominate a submissive in an ongoing fashion like this. "Care" may seem an ironic term considering what the Dominant may actually do to the submissive, but the point is that the Dominant must use the submissive on a reasonably regular basis if he wishes to continue to enjoy the benefits of having a submissive to use. Even if the Dominant's libido is at a low ebb, the submissive's needs still need to be attended to even if only in some nominal way.
    I have served many Dominants, in many different situations. No two have treated me the same way. Each of them has taught me something different about submission, and I owe much to all of them. But none of them has ever really exercised his Duty of Care toward me. So I encourage all Dominant Tops to give careful consideration before you agree to working with a submissive, that you understand what your duty is, and that you do it.
  19. ErosWired

    Numerology

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Don’t get me wrong, I’m so not hung up on numbers. My last entry happened to be about the convergence of the number 2,000 with my sex life, but that’s just a coincidence. It’s also true that my post on the forum tend to betray a kind of fascination with things like how much cock, measured in miles, has rutted my cunt, or how many average loads it takes to fill a gallon milk jug full of cum - but that’s statistics, that’s science. Numbers for their own sake - not my fetish.
    In fact, I mostly suck at math. Always hated it. Anything to do with the relationships between numbers just hit my brain like oil on Teflon. I’m a letters sort of guy.
    Still very much science-y, though, so you can imagine the skeptical view I take when someone pops up - like they have since the Middle Ages - and says they can divine the hidden truth about things by adding up the numerical value of the letters in words. That is, numerology.
    First, letters don’t have numerical values unless somebody arbitrarily assigns them one, and different schools of numerology have used different systems of numbers for the same letters, so who’s to say whether the Pythagorean, Chaldean, or Agrippan methods are correct, assuming they aren’t all complete hooey.
    So I decide to give this a little test, just for fun. I take the letters of my first and last name, and the letters of two or three phrases, and see if the ‘numerology’ divines anything using the Pythagorean method (because it uses all the letters in the Latin alphabet).
    A little summing later, and I compare.
    And I discover that my name has both the same number of letters as ‘A FAGGOT CUMDUMP’, but more importantly, the same numerologic sum even though the letters are different.
     
    Well, Fuck.
    What makes this particularly irritating is that I want to be able to laugh and thumb my nose at numerologists and say, “See? You’re talking out your numerical asses.” But it got it right.
    Now, I’m not sold, of course. Maybe just another coincidence, and why wouldn’t it be? I’m sure I could juggle around words and phrases until I came up with any number of such combinations.
    But there will always be a tiny little seed of doubt now sprouted in the back of my mind: What if there really is some greater cosmic energy out there with the power to reveal fundamental truths about ourselves, and I just tapped into it.
    What if the Universe just confirmed that I am a faggot cumdump? That sort of puts a guy in his place in a solid way.
     I could resist the thought easily by telling myself, Nah, you suck at counting. But then I would remind myself, Maybe so... but you’re -really- good at cunting.
  20. ErosWired

    2K

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    This blog entry marks my 2,000th posting on Breedingzone since I joined on this month in 2017. I would never have imagined I would have had that much to say on the subject of fucking, especially considering the kind of person I was in the beginning.
    That number 2,000 has a peculiar resonance around me just now - twelve days ago was the 20,000th day since I was born - I’ve been alive 2,000 to the tenth power days.
    I recently figured up that I had to have taken my 1,000th cock, so 2,000 is double my fuck tally. I’ve also ticked over my 2,000th day as an AIDS survivor about a little less than two years ago.
    I figured up that in the year before COVID struck, my travel to CumUnion in Indianapolis, round-trip, added up to about 2,000 miles of driving. That took a little time to sink in - I drove 2,000 miles for the express purpose of taking other men’s cocks up my ass. It’s funny how things add up on you before you realize it.
    But that’s the thing about this 2,000th post on a site about bareback gay sex - there was once a version of me who could never have imagined I would become what I am now, and is still in here somewhere, stunned at the way things overtook me. I went from a straight-arrow, starched-shirt, sexually clueless innocent (I was still a virgin when I graduated from my undergraduate years) to a trained sexual submissive for service to men, veteran of years of use in BDSM scenes, tortured, debauched, and devolved. In high school guys called me a fag and I didn’t even know what the word meant - now I realize that by some men’s definition, I am a faggot... and I can’t deny it. My body is owned by a man who cunts me at his pleasure. My former Master took a latent instinct and forced me to confront and accept that it was my true nature.
    Two thousand posts - practically a book in which I tell the whole world that I’m a cumdump for men. As statements go, that’s pretty unequivocal. There’s no way of knowing how many men have read what I’ve written and know what I am - for every member who posts, how many lurkers simply read? Slowly, the numbers accumulate, people who know the nature of me.
    I can’t tell whether this troubles me or not. Yes, there’s a sense of humiliation I feel when I have to accept that references to cumdump, faggot, cunt, pussyboi, all apply to me. I feel torn because I feel the shame of submitting to other men, yet feel in the core of my being that I am in my right place and being used as I was born to be used. 20,000 days have all led up to this moment.
    Or have they? Could I have simply turned left instead of right at some point and never become this at all? Or am I predestined to someday take my 2,000th load? Who knows? Except I’m already halfway there. And, I was fucked again three times last Saturday and once last night.
    These things add up on you, you know.
     
  21. ErosWired

    Lucky Seven

    By ErosWired,


    Life with AIDS
    I just, this moment, realized that yesterday was the anniversary of the day I walked out of the hospital in 2014 to begin life with AIDS. I am now a 7-year AIDS survivor.
    There are flavors of irony in this moment all mixing together as I contemplate this conjunction of events. First and most immediate of these is that I’m currently lying naked on my bed with another man’s load of semen in my cunt, so fresh it hasn’t even had time to start leaking out. Ironic, on this day, that they call it ‘getting lucky’.
    It’s ironic that I started this seven-year ordeal, I believe, in much the same position as I was in half an hour ago, bent over taking a rutting up my ass by a gang of men. Ironic that I mark the moment with a confirmation that Fate has intended me to serve this way, and that perhaps there was ultimately no avoiding what happened to me...or what I’ve become...or what this will eventually lead me to.
    It’s ironic that just before I got just now, I took the bandage off my shoulder from where I was just injected with my third dose of Pfizer’s vaccine against COVID - a booster I need because my immune system is impaired. Ironic because today, in the second year of the pandemic, I’m alive and living with an incurable virus thanks to an infectious disease doctor who saved my life seven years ago - and lost hers to the coronavirus last year even as she tried to defeat it. Rest in peace, good doctor,
    By any measure, I’m lucky to be alive - the Enemy Virus came very close to finishing its work with me in 2014. By the time I learned it was within me, my immune system had already been destroyed. Not enough of it remained to ward off the pneumonia, the fungal meningitis, the strokes that nearly ended me. But I was lucky - by a chance of anatomy, the circulatory system in my brain was able to prevent the strokes from doing serious damage.
     I was lucky - my immune system began trying to rebuild itself, and in time it was able to beat back the infections of molluscum and thrush that most people never have to contend with. The price to be paid for rebooting your immune system, though, is sometimes it forgets the battles it already fought, and the result is shingles even though you had chicken pox 40 years ago. Luckily, I got through it all, got newly immunized, and now I’m as healthy as a 54-year-old man with AIDS can expect to be. My HIV doctor even tells me now that my life expectancy isn’t as curtailed as was thought - it’s probably getting closer to what a neg person’s would be... though it’s still shorter. But it could have been very much shorter. Lucky to be alive, seven years on.
    Alive as a pandemic ravages a world that is inexorably heating up and becoming more populated, more polarized, more polluted and less livable by the day.
    Lucky me.
     
    ...As you can probably tell, I am definitely am not getting fucked enough these days. 😐
  22. ErosWired

    Sexyhungry

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I’ve had a lot of pretty extreme things done to me sexually in the last 17 years. I’ve been forced to orgasm so many times, one right after the other, that cumming became a form of torture, and then I was trained to cum on command. My first big gangbang, 32 men. I got mercilessly finger-fucked and toy-raped. Electro through my cock, balls and ass; deep, deep sounding; and electro-sounding. Jacked-off, experimented with and just plain fucked in front of both public and private audiences of up to 20 or more people. I’ve been edged with a goddamned feather nearly to the snapping of my mind - twice. My nuts have been pierced through their center with needles. Flogging, fire-flogging (yes, that’s flogging with fire), cock-pumping by machine, fucking by fucking machine, sooo much bondage... all of this before I discovered that I’m a cumdump.
    Since then I’ve spent three years just taking cock. All kinds of cock, every single cock that wanted in me got in me. I’ve taken gargantuan cocks, double penetrations, bathhouse sluttings of 20 men a day, brutal jackhammer dildo-raping. Hundreds of men have bred and seeded me or fed me their load, the last two days ago.
    It’s been a wild ride.
    I started very late, at 37, with a strong sense that my clock was ticking toward an end, and I desperately needed to make up for lost time, to have the sex life I missed in my 20s and early 30s, or regret it forever. I no longer feel that urgency; I guess I caught up.
    The problem is, now it’s hard to really reach a point of deep satisfaction. I remember a time when I had orgasms so intense that everything went white around me - I called them white-out orgasms. I can’t remember the last time I had one. Ever since I took a certain holy-mother-of-god-thicc cock in 2018, I’ve been yearning for another Top to fill me like that, but none has. Certain Tops have power-fucked me for hours, or in just exactly the right way, truly using me the way I’m designed to be used, with the attitude to match (looking at you, @FelchingPisser), but these have been very rare experiences for me. Every fuck is always a privilege and a gift from the Top, and I treat every single fuck as though it has the potential to take me to Nirvana - and you never can tell what some men can do - but the rush of gratification I receive from the Top’s pleasure is becoming weaker and weaker.
    It used to be that I could lie ass-up on a bed, knowing that an anonymous man would show up in moments to open the door and then penetrate, fuck and inseminate me, and I could say to myself, He’s coming. He’s really going to come in. A stranger is going to fuck you and nothing you can do will stop that from happening now. And a huge rush of excitement, along with humiliation, would sweep through my body. Now, I only get a buzz or a tickle; there have been so many strangers, and I never even got a look at them.
    Even the poppers - the first time a Top used poppers on me I blacked out. Fortunately, I was bound to a St. Andrew’s Cross at the time, so I couldn’t fall down. Since then, I’ve only blacked out twice, very briefly, and only in the early days. But I can always tell they’re going to work because I see a colorful ring appear before my eye that looks exactly like an asshole opening up to accept a cock. I take it as proof - the litmus test that reveals what I truly am and what I’m truly for. Except now, no matter how fresh the bottle, I don’t see my ring as often, and sometimes not at all.
    All of this adds up to a growing anxiety, a building emptiness inside me - I now crave an intensity of sexual experience that isn’t provided by most encounters. Something in me is crying out for some very Dominant, selfish, aggressive Top to take advantage of my willingness and use me in ways that take me beyond (read: deeper, more debased, more devolved) ways than I have been. In a way, I feel that the “safeties need to be removed” before I can access what is inside me and grow, and I can’t do it for myself because things have to be done to me for it to work. In essence, in order to blow my mind, I need to find someone interested in taking me down a dark hole and using me unscrupulously.
    The fact that the poppers aren’t doing what they once did, however, raises a concern. It’s the question of desensitization. Desensitization is a factor in chemical dependency and addiction, of course (poppers are not considered to be an addictive substance), but it also figures in the concept of the Inhibitory Threshold. When we are constrained in certain actions for ethical, moral, or legal reasons, we stand away from those actions beyond an Inhibitory Threshold - it is a line we do not cross, basically because One Does Not Cross That Line. It’s a kind of personal line-in-the-sand. The Inhibitory Threshold is a strong deterrent - until you actually cross it.
    Once you cross the Threshold, once you’ve Done The Deed, even if you feel guilt and swear never to do it again, the precedent is set - you did it, therefore you can. This directly undermines the Inhibitory Threshold, which gets its power by convincing you that you can’t. In the context of sexual experience, the Inhibitory Threshold is constantly at work on guys, informing them about what their naughty little animal minds can get away with and what they can’t. Once a given Threshold is crossed, however, the result is usually such a potent jolt to the brain’s pleasure and reward center that that Threshold can never again have any influence - the man has been desensitized to the sense that that activity is off-limits, and thus desensitized to any anticipatory or imagined consequence titillation he might once have felt. Been there, done that.
    Even if the activity is intensely pleasurable, that intensity will diminish with repetition simply because of the neurology of the thing; the body and brain will get used to it.
    In general, this shouldn’t be that big a problem, because sex is extremely varied, practices can be variously extreme, the average guy isn’t really all that promiscuous, and most people don’t readily jump their Inhibitory Thresholds (they’re mainly Vanillas). For most, they should never reach a point of desensitization that can’t be readily refreshed by a minor variation. But what happens to a man who does burn through the options until he’s desensitized to most things? What happens when there’s nothing left capable of meeting the sexual need most people meet with common activity?
    It seems to me that the parallel with drug addiction is very close. The need (and sexual fulfillment is one of the basic human needs) continues to build as an unmet hunger in the individual until a state of desperation is reached. At this stage, the individual begins to make what are essentially internal triage decisions, risking other needs like food, sleep, health, security and freedom in order to take actions to meet the unmet sexual deficit. Even if the individual is able to cognitively control his impulses, the result is likely to be a persistent state of unfulfillment, and unless it is somehow resolved, self-actualization, or complete development of the individual, becomes practically impossible.
    I am afraid I have reached, or am reaching, a point of serious sexual desensitization, and am torn on what course I should take. On the one hand, I have a sense of some things that could continue to sustain me for a while to come. These would involve me providing myself much more frequently to the use of men in more varied locations, and essentially forcing myself into a sleazier style of life, hoping to attract the attention of certain types of Dominant, aggressive men, with a goal to being serially used/abused and even trafficked by them. Another possible avenue would be physical ownership by a very select Dom or Doms who wished for their own gratification to explore the potential limits of my sexual transformation mentally, and broaden the extent of my physical sexual exposure, service and use.
    The risks of these strategies are both obvious, and less so. An intensification of my activity as a self-whoring cumdump will unavoidably risk greater public exposure. At my age, the likelihood of actually attracting the target Tops is relatively small, so I would have to spend significantly more time exposed to possibly achieve the result. And in the event of personal exposure my home community is far less than accepting. The increase in potential exposure to STDs is a given; I would unquestionably contract gono, chlamydia and syphilis on a repeated basis, at the least (as indeed I previously have). Aggressive men are dangerous, and arrogant, selfish, aggressive men in heat are especially so. The activity I would be actively seeking carries a higher risk of injury. Falling in with the sort of men who would think nothing of hate-fucking my cunt and then whoring it out to make bank is also plainly unwise... yet the only means to reach a certain depth of debasement.
    Submitting to Domination for experimental training of the kind I’m thinking about would be a very long shot at best, because the kind of Dominant interested in and capable of such work would be an incredibly rare find. Even my former Master was unwilling to go to the extents that I contemplate. Ethical constraints would have to be... loose. The danger, in my consideration, is not what such a man might practice upon me, but what I might be after he’s finished. If my prior training proved anything, it’s that permanent transformation in a man can be achieved.
    The greatest risk, however, is perhaps that I could pursue these courses of increasingly intense experience, crossing Inhibitory Thresholds like highway mile markers, until at last I find myself at the end of the road. I imagine I would encounter one of two things there: Either a sense of self completion, like the finishing of a puzzle, all the inner questions about myself finally answered, in satisfaction and peace - or else an endless, howling void that marks the end of all potential, and the beginning of a hopeless, insatiable hunger that will try ever more desperate things, in vain, until I am destroyed in its excesses. I am frightened because I am hungry even now and I don’t know what to do. I am frightened because my hunger drives me even against my thought, and I know full well that if by chance my hunger places me in the path of a chance to start down one of these roads... I will take it.
     I don’t know how common this feeling is among other men, but if you’ve read this far, a) Wow and b) I’d be interested in your thoughts.
  23. ErosWired
    I’m not a particularly vain person. This is possibly because I don’t usually notice other people’s appearance either. It doesn’t register to me as significant until I discover whether or not they have a brain isn’t instantly tiresome (so many are). If their appearance isn’t important, my head reasons, why would my own be?
    Except, of course, for the vast majority of humanity - a primarily visual and basically not at all telepathic species -appearances are huge. People judge books and pretty much every other fucking thing by their covers. Especially the fucking things. That’s where the trouble lies for people like me, who really somewhat keenly want to be a fucking thing.
    I’ve said it many times on BZ - I’m no Adonis... more if a Caliban, really, to keep with the motif and because I don’t actually have live snakes instead of hair. I don’t rate, I never have in my whole life. I mean, I suppose I’m not hideous - I don’t curdle fresh milk when I pass by or anything - but I find mirrors a little too honest to stand and look at them.
    From time to time some guy or another will comment to me that I’m ‘cute’ or ‘handsome’ or (inexplicably) ‘hot’, which I hold up as proof that there’s no accounting for taste - but I also know what constitutes a smokingly attractive man in a broad and generally agreed-upon sense, and I’m not it.
    Lots of men, and particularly as we age, face some degree of appearance-angst. The muscle tone starts to slip, the pecs aren’t as full as they were, the calves aren’t quite as rounded, you can’t really bounce a quarter off that ass anymore. The skin looks a little drawn. The hairline has crept back a little, perhaps, the eyebrows aren’t so dark, there’s a hint of silver in the beard.  There are a couple of crinkles in the corner of the eyes that won’t go away. Each thing in itself is a small matter, but taken together... and worse, stood up against a bathhouse wall next to a 24-year-old jock with a head full of jet-black hair... they add up to potential self-dissastisfaction.
     I point out signs of aging, but it’s by no means limited to that - in our body-hyper-conscious gay world, how often does a young man suffer in silent misery because he has an extra ten pounds around his belly, or lacks a confident jawline, or just wasn’t genetically “gifted” in all the ways that mark a member of The Beautiful People?
    Sometimes I pause just a tad too long in front of the mirror, and then I touch my face and start to wonder: What would it be like if I could have this changed? It’s not completely out of the realm of physics... What if I had just - reasonable changes made, an angle changed, some mass rearranged, so that what is unhandsome looked attractive? What would happen then?
    I have the kind of visual imagination that allows me to see that result in front of my inner eye, and then I realize that it might work... but the person I’m looking at isn’t someone I know. So if that face were on me, who would I be? My mom wouldn’t recognize me or feel the same as she would around regular homely old me.
    Okay, I think, well, then, what if it’s nothing so drastic? What about just knocking that pesky gray out of my hair and getting it back to its normal color - fortunately, I’ve still got a head full of it...that, at least, is in my favor, right?
    Ah, but it’s just the same as bodybuilding, trying to keep a specific appearance going against the irascible forces of entropy: If the balloon has a hole in it, it will inevitably deflate unless you keep pumping forever. And you can’t keep pumping forever.
    So, back to solutions with the greatest possible duration, up to and including permanent changes. Hey, I know about body mods. I’ve had a steel bar straight through the meat of my cockhead for, like, 13 years now, and it’s not going anywhere. Some, wide-eyed and gesturing NopeNopeNope, might think that puh-lenty Illustrative of a step too far to change the way one sees oneself, or the way others see you; I can’t say, because I got my ampallang piercing for completely unrelated reasons.
    Has it drawn interest to me? Possibly. Has it drawn interest to my cock? Fuck yes, it has...the one place I don’t want men all over me, goddammit. Has it changed the way other guys perceive me - has it made them more interested in me sexually? Who knows? They don’t even find out about it until they see me naked, and I don’t share cock pics.
     I keep meaning to start working out on a regular basis, to reverse the damage done to my physique by AIDS six years ago, and the ravages of ART since then. I’m gradually slimming back down. Then I pass by the mirror and it says to me, “What for? I mean, look at you! You’re no prettier than you ever were, you’re never going to be hott, and even if by some modern plastic surgery miracle it were possible to turn you pretty, Quasimodo, why do you need a pretty face when all they want from you is your warm, wet ass?”
    The silvery motherfucker makes a sharp argument, but I still, still find myself wishing I could walk through the bathhouse and know that the confidence I project with my buck-naked body isn’t just me obliviously embarrassing myself.
     I think there must be something nice about being attractive, and knowing that other people lust after you. I’ll never know that feeling, I suppose. But I do wonder how far anyone else would go to get that... and if it would be worth it.
  24. ErosWired

    A Nuclear Option

    By ErosWired,

    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.
  25. ErosWired
    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.
     

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