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ErosWired

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  1. 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.
     
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. ErosWired

    A Little Push

    By ErosWired,

    I hadn't planned on it, and didn't expect it.
    Well - I didn't expect it.
    I was cleaned out, and lubed up. What I planned on, or at least hoped for, was a pleasant encounter with some willing top who might like the look of me and have some fun. You never knew at this campground, but it was a gay campground, so the odds were good, and even if the goods were sometimes odd, I didn't much care. But it was a crapshoot, because I was there alone, and it always seemed like the action happened to the guys who arrived with friends. Groups begat groups, action happened more readily within groups, and action begat... well, begetting. A guy alone found it harder to get noticed, to get selected, to become a focus of, shall we say, attention.
    Not that I'm ever looking for 'attention'. I don't care if they ever even see my face. For that matter, I don't care if I ever see theirs. One of my greatest memories from that place is the dark night where an unknown guy fucked me deliciously for a good ten minutes before he blew, then handed me over to another who plugged right in. The first guy then paused by my head and said to the first, a stranger to him, "You'll love that. He's got a fantastic ass." He left, and I never saw his face.
    This time, I wandered around for a while, finding no joy, and at last made my way into a shed where they kept a fucking bench. Two men stood nearby touching each other, and others stood in conversation around the walls. No one particularly noticed me as I stepped over to the unoccupied bench. I pulled down my underwear and bent over with my belly against the leather and my elbows and knees against the rests, not really expecting anyone to take the unasked-for offering.
    Nobody did for a few minutes. But then the two men touching each other suddenly began touching my ass, and soon, fingering my hole. Without a word, one of them lined his cock up and slid it forcefully inside; it was just the right size to stretch me open without much pain. His vocals turned heads. After a few minutes I felt him fill me, and then his friend swapped out and did the same. By the time he pulled out, I was glowing - two for the price of one! I started to raise up, but suddenly felt two fingers at the small of my back give me a little push back down. Slowly, I resumed my position on the bench.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the two guys standing beside me and the bench. They weren't moving to jump back in again, but I couldn't tell what they were doing. I only knew they wanted me to stay there.
    A few wordless minutes later, a different set of hands spread my ass apart and stroked my taint up and down across my hole, the finger probing inside, smearing cum in and out to lube the opening. Then an larger cock entered, and began fucking. The grunting was more gutteral than before, lower and quieter - a bigger man, who finished more quickly, but filled me just the same. After he pulled out, I started to raise up - but there it was again, a little push.
    This time, a pair of eager, uncertain hands. Hands that weren't sure quite what to do. Hands that kneaded my globes and my calves, a cock that smacked against my hole repeatedly, a cockhead that jabbed the wrong place a couple of times before getting it right, hips that pushed with a lot of energy. Some barely legal kid, probably. He blew in a few seconds, but it kept on going. He finally pulled out. Men clapped. When I was sure he was done, I raised up - 
    A little push.
    This time, an older man. You can tell sometimes, because the hands stroke your ass with reverence, with appreciation, with gratitude for the gift they know they are about to receive. Fingers knew what to touch, and where. I know I gasped, and I know my face betrayed the reactions running through my body (it always does - remind me to tell you about the time with the lumi-lights). The fingers (multiple) took the time to visit my prostate and then stroke me to dripping before he mounted me. Viagra or no, he had no problem staying hard or completing the act, which he did with a shuddering sigh and pulses that I felt all through me.
    When he was done, there was silence in the room, and no one seemed to move. I felt a wave of contentment. I had not anticipated the chance to serve so many, nor the exquisite rush of having a roomful of eyes watch me do it. I pushed my torso up from the bench -
    A little push.
    What?
    A built guy positioned himself in front of me with his cock at mouth level. "Suck it," he said.
    I couldn't raise my head enough to see his face, and he was insistent enough that as soon as I opened my mouth even a little he jammed his cock into it. I lavished my tongue all around it, let it explore the hollow of my throat, but he quickly pulled it out again. "See this cock?" he said, turning it sideways so I could examine its thick, veiny purple size. "This is going into your ass, and then it's going back in your mouth."
    He disappeared from in front of me and I quickly felt his strong hands cleave me apart and position his cock to piston into my cunt. He was rough, and he took his time. My head bobbed up and down and my back arched from the brutality of the raw fuck. When he finally burst, he did it with a barking shout and yanked my hips back as hard as his muscled arms could bury him into me. After the pulsing stopped, he circled back around, panting, and said, "This was in your ASS," and thrust it into my mouth, tasting of cum, sweat and ass. I cleaned it off with my tongue. When he left, he smacked me on the ass.
    I lay there for a few moments, worn out. Not only unexpected, but more than I had had in mind. I gratefully got up -
    A little push.
    In all, twelve men fucked me on that bench. I have to assume the first two in some way silently invited the other ten to use what they had appropriated as their free giveaway cumhole. I don't understand the dominant male mind that finds such a thing a turn-on... I'm just glad they do. I wish more did. I wish more men would feel free to give me a little push.
    That's all it would take, any time.
    If you're a top who would enjoy doing something like that, can you explain what that feels like for you? Why you would enjoy doing it? I really want to understand.
    And if you're a top who wants to try it...
  5. 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.
  6. ErosWired

    A Shout-Out

    By ErosWired,

    The night before December CumUnion in Indy I attempted to take a fist. I really thought I would get there, but it didn’t quite happen, despite the patient and experienced effort of the fister doing the work. Alas. I had not had anyone seriously take the time with my ass before, and I consider it a failure on my part that I didn’t open up readily for him. I think the fact that I bled slightly early on may have made him extra cautious; he said I should practice with someone with smaller hands.
    The effort wasn’t wasted, though - the night was still young when we finished, and my hole was as loose and receptive as it had ever been, just in time for me to slut myself at the hotel for the night. And it’s a good thing I was ready.
    I don’t fuck-and-tell very often, but sometimes the Top offers such a memorable performance that I feel I ought to give due praise. In this case, I want to give a shout-out to BBRTS member CubDomTop (not currently a BZ member) who bred me with two big loads and ample Top attitude.
    It ended up being one of my favorite kind of fucks, where the Top just loves using the hole and has stamina to spare. He rutted me until I started to lose energy, then picked up the pace just as I really began to struggle to keep up, and ended finally just fucked me limp into the mattress.
    But what I loved best, and what proved to me that he was really enjoying the hole, was when he flipped me over on my back, put my legs up, told me he was going to cum in me, and told me to keep my eyes open and looking into his. That sent me into climax in seconds, and watching my orgasm in my eyes seemed to power him up in a big way. He finished loud, hard, deep, and staring straight into my eyes.
    After we rested and I massaged him down a bit, he decided he wanted to breed again, and loaded me up balls deep a second time, telling me “That is a great pussy!” He’s already said he’s looking forward to having it again next time I’m in town.
    If you’re ever in Indy and looking on BBRTS, be sure to check out CubDomTop - highly recommend by this well-used cunt.
    **I have just realized that this entry is my 500th total posting to BZ - making me officially a Slut. I’m so proud. **
  7. ErosWired
    Another trip to CumUnion in Indianapolis last weekend, and another solid tally of fuckings - but more of that in a bit. What stands out in memory are a few incidents of oddity, to wit:
    Almost the instant I got into my room and opened the door for guests, I felt hands on my ass, and I glanced back to see that there were two men in the room. The one fondling my cheeks began probing my hole, then after a minute stopped, and I heard moaning from the second man, rising to an abrupt stop. Then the first man returned his attention to fingering my hole with a warm lube.
    ”That’s his cum,” he said.
    He poked around at me a bit longer, then patted my ass and left. This annoyed me, because the second guy had clearly come in to fuck me, gotten jacked off instead, and all I got was a finger-smear of his load and no fucking.
    Next, another man came in and did fuck and load me. But the instant that man left the room, the first guy came back in and dived face-first for my ass, and ate out the load I had just received.
    He said, “I had been wanting that guy’s load, but you got it.”
    He then proceeded to fuck me fot a couple of minutes, but didn’t cum.
    The way I see it, the guy stole two loads from me - one out of my very ass - and then revenge-fucked me for attracting “his” loads in the first place.
    Later on, some guy with tentative hands starts feeling me up, and I can pretty much usually tell by the way they approach me - this guy just wanted to play with my ass. Damned finger-fuckers. They never use any lube, they ignore the fact that they have fingernails, and they expect you to take four fricking fingers after about 30 seconds.
    This guy poked and prodded around trying to find my prostate with no success, until, without warning, he crooked his finger into a hook shape and made a rapid 360-degree twist inside my anus. That was enough of that. I sent him away, reached into my pack and pulled out paper and marker to write a note to leave out on the table by the bed reading “~Please~ No Finger-Fucking Tonight. Thank You.”
    As I lay there, pen in hand, clearly, obviously engaged in writing...
    WHACK!
    A man dressed in a full leather apron and leather mask that covered his lower face wailed on my ass with a flexible leather paddle.
    WHAP!
    WHACK!
    These were not play swats, but industrial-strength BDSM-scene-worthy flogging strokes. I turned over and said, “Um, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
    ”What?”
    ”Would you please leave?”
    ”Sure, I guess so...”
    ”Could you not see that I was writing something?”
    ”Uh... huh?”
    ”OUT!”
     
    As usual, I was approached by men for whom contact with another man might be more difficult to achieve, and I did not turn them away - I gave a massage and a hand job to an elderly man who couldn’t hard, a hand job and some oral to an extremely onerweight man who had a disability, I let an older Asian man who spoke little English have a go at fucking me. And why not? The day will no doubt come when I will be grateful myself for such a kindness.
    But regardless of the oddities and vagaries that come with bathhouse bottoming, I had something to look forward to this time, and that something certainly did not disappoint. I had the opportunity to meet @FelchingPisser, and had the great privilege of surrendering my ass to him and experiencing his skills first-hand - something completely different indeed.
  8. ErosWired

    Cloud Cuckoo-Land

    By ErosWired,

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

    Cum By The Cup

    By ErosWired,

    I stumbled across this quite by accident:

    (That's a transparent lie, of course. It wasn't accidental at all.)
    Read the part where it says "Serving Size".
    1 cup (240 ml) (70 ejaculates).
    The accepted standard single serving size for cum is 70 loads.
    No wonder I'm starving.
    I remember the first time I tasted cum - it was my own. I was a young teenager, and wondered what this stuff was, and put some on my tongue. I don't remember what I thought at the time. I do remember the first time I thought of taking it straight from my cock to my mouth, though; I was all for it (and much, much, much more flexible) and was incredibly turned on as I watched my own cock swell to the point of bursting like looking down the barrel of a gun. But when I popped, something odd happened. My aim was good and I got a mouthful, but at that moment, all the eagerness to do it instantly evaporated, and I found myself with a mouthful of cum and no sexual desire. I was torn between swallowing it and spitting it out. Swallowing it would mean accepting what I had just done. Spitting it out would mean having to deal with it further.
    I swallowed it.
    I don't know if that choice marked a major life choice or not, but it wasn't the last time I lined up my cock for that shot. In fact, I kept working at it until no aim was needed, and I could suck my own cockhead. The feeling of my own cum shooting into my mouth is somehow not the same as taking another man's load - it's a double-mind-rush of orgasm and explosion of taste and acceptance of penetration at the same time.
    Alas, my youthful exuberance came back to bite me later in the form of a ruptured spinal disc. It may have been a high price to pay for the experience of autofellatio, but I won't say it wasn't worth it. I only know it ain't happening again.To be honest, my mouth has never been my favorite hole. I would ten times rather take your load in my ass, and I only feel truly bred when a man has taken me like a stud takes his bitch or his mare. But today... today I need my Recommended Daily Allowance.
  10. ErosWired
    This weekend I attended the October CumUnion in Indianapolis, one that I will remember as "Bigcockapalooza" because the whole damn weekend long I got fucked by one big cock after another. I'll remember no. 3 particularly, because he speared me with all eight thick inches of it in one single strong thrust. But that fuck was only the third of 20, so there would be plenty to come. The great big cockhead, the long, long nine-inch session, the ram-it-home guy... and all of these before the main event even got underway.
    But there were plans. I had agreed to hook up with breedingzone member @FelchingPisser and let him have full use of me. In fact, I even gave him the Deed to my body, made out in his name(see below), for the duration of the weekend - I was his to do with as he pleased. And, he pleased. If you haven't had the privilege of being bred by him, he has fearsome endowment, but more importantly, mad skills in using it, and unbelievable stamina. Over the course of four hours, he fucked me five different times, ending with a full breeding.
    I don't want to exaggerate the experience, and I don't want to gush - but I feel the need to express the remarkable nature of some of what I experienced while servicing him.
    Our first coupling was more of a get-reacquainted fuck, reminding each other of what we felt like, stretching me to accommodate him, remembering good angles, and so on, just a teaser of things to cum before he went out to sample the other offerings at the bathhouse. I can't relate his thoughts at that point, but I felt a shiver of excitement that I would be responsible for pleasuring him later.
    I have signs that I post in my room when I go to the bathhouse - they read: "Cunt for your Cock", "Fuck the Slut", and "Go For It - You Don't Have To Ask, That's What He's For". As other men came in and fucked me, I looked up at the first sign (which hangs right over me, with an arrow pointing down) and more than usually, I began to think of myself as a cunt, a pussy, a focal point for men to enjoy themselves. I wanted to be that thing.
    When FelchingPisser returned, he intended to take me in the sling, but by the time we got to the sling room, someone else had occupied it. So we returned to my room for a second round there. What happened then has never happened to me before - he penetrated me so deeply, so intensely, rode my prostate so precisely, and - well, I don't know whether I forgot to breathe, or held too long on the edge, or exactly what happened, but for an instant I actually blacked out from the intensity (no, I hadn't taken any kind of drugs) and when I came to I was completely disoriented with a massive cock reaming out my ass. In a way, it was the purest fuck I have ever experienced, because the only thing I was sure of was that I was being fucked, and fucked completely.
    Later, we did end up at the sling, a first for me because no one had ever fucked me in a sling before. Again, unbelievably intense (really, you have to see his erect cock to fully appreciate the effect), especially when he decided to jackhammer my prostate. By the time we took a break, I could barely stand. In hindsight, I realize now that I take the vast majority of the cock I take on my belly - I hadn't realized how sensitive I am to assaults while I'm on my back. In a sling, you can't leverage your hips the way you can on a bed; you're far more vulnerable to a Top's whims. I'm definitely going to have to do more sling-work. I am much obliged to FelchingPisser for the tutorial.
    The fourth encounter, as I expected, took place in the steam room. He had enjoyed me there the last time we had met at CumUnion, so I was sure he would want me there again because of the likelihood that others would join in. What I hadn't expected what for him to say, "I brought my friend - he's bigger than I am."
    I barely had time to think Bigger than you? How is that even possib- before a massive, curved anaconda touched my anus and then slithered all the way up, balls deep. There's something about steamroom serial fucking, the way several guys will go at an ass sort of brutally, then all clear out at once, leaving you weak-kneed and hole-gaping, that never fails to leave me feeling  like breeding genitalia. A cunt on two legs. When I stumble out of the steamroom shortly after, and I see the eyes watching me shower off, with those odd little smiles, I know that they know. They know what I am.
    I had a little time to think about what I was as my time at the bathhouse drew short that night. More than 15 men had penetrated my body with their cocks since I arrived for the weekend. More than two dozen men had done to men what men do to women, and most of them had left their semen inside me. I still held all of it. Anyone could insert his finger into my ass and feel the proof that there is no difference whatsoever between my male ass and a woman's cunt. There are men who would never, ever allow themselves to be used that way. Those men will always be able to say that they have never surrendered their masculinity to the pleasure of another male. I can never say that again. There are some men who have no problem maintaining their masculinity even in the face of this, but for me, I can't turn my mind away from the image of my ass taking cock in the most submissive way, not as a man, but as a cunt.
    The final fucking of the night underscored that fact for me. FelchingPisser and his enormous friend came to my room not long before I was going to have to leave. It was time for them to nut, and they were going to nut in me. A small entourage tagged along behind them, and without wasting any time, they began to breed me. I say "breed" not in a metaphoric sense, but in the actual sense of animal reproductive breeding - their rutting was animal, and so was mine. They penetrated as deeply as physically possible, pushed as hard as possible, thrust as rapidly as possible, to get their cum as far inside my cunt as possible. The sounds of liquids turning into froth seemed extra loud to my ears. They slapped my ass again and again, the watchers, cheered them on, cocks exited and entered in turns, and when it was at last over, the final thing I remember was an exquisite sensation of cum dripping, drop by drop, off the lip of my cunt.
    @FelchingPisser, Sir, it was a rare honor and privilege to serve you. My experience with you reshapes my state of mind, and will help me better service other Tops. Thank you. My ass is yours always.
    .
    *** Now you can read FelchingPisser’s own sizzling account of the same evening on his own blog. Check it out at http://felchingpisser.blogspot.com/?m=1***
  11. 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’.
  12. 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.
  13. ErosWired

    Down to a Science

    By ErosWired,

    There's a difference between being fucked and being bred.
    If you're a bottom, you know what I'm talking about - you know when a man is breeding you, and you know when a man is just fucking you. The question is, how do you know?
    How about the way he acts? Oh, no, that's not the way; And you're not listenin' to all I sa - wait a minute, that's Cher...
    I mean, part of it is the way he acts, the subtle shift in tone of his voice, the difference in the position and firmness of his grip, the angle of his hips when he mounts you - I'll never forget one anonymous guy at camp who got up behind me without a word, and even though I couldn't see him in the dark, I could tell the exact position of his body, the same position taken by male animals in the wild for pure reproduction. It became a purely instinctual act of two creatures, and he reached forward and gripped me by the back of the neck as his cock pulsed his seed deep inside me. When he had finished, he pulled up his shorts, and paused to look at me long enough for me to just make out his silhouette and the gleam of his eyes in the night. Then he was gone.
    Ironically, a comment like "I'm gonna breed your ass, bitch." is not necessarily a prelude to a breeding. It's probably a reliable prelude to a pretty solid fucking, but actual breeding requires a mindset on the part of both the Top and the bottom - although the bottom's mindset is optional (his asset is not). The Top must think of, and by diverse means, convey, that he has Power and is about to convey some essence of that power into the body of the bottom. The Top-As-Breeder must demonstrate that he is in control of the whole setting, that he has intent, that he is going to achieve his goal no matter what, and that he is equipped for the task at hand.
    When I say "equipped", I know what you're thinking. And you're not wrong. But the last time a man bred me, he was the most consummate breeder I ever encountered. He had it down to a science. This man arrived at the door of my cabin to look at some gear we had talked about earlier. There had been no discussion of hooking up. He carried with him a small bag, but I didn't pay any attention to it. After I offered him something to drink, we looked over the gear, then he commented, "Nice cabin. Is the bed over there?" It was; I showed him.
    He said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to fuck you."
    Well, then.
    After he got me naked on the bed, he opened the small bag he carried, and brought out a small anal lube shooter (legislation should be passed requiring every Top to carry one of these, loaded for insertion) and a small triangular pillow made of foam, covered in blue cloth.
    "I custom-made this for breeding," he said of the pillow. "It elevates your ass to exactly the right height and tilts your hips to just the right angle for me. Raise up."
    Height - angle - he must have taken measurements, because true to his word, he had me precisely where he wanted me for the deepest conceivable penetration, the smoothest, longest strokes, the most varied positioning of my legs, the greatest exposure of my hole, my cock and balls, and view of my face.
    He took his time about it, too, and when he finally unloaded inside me, packed his kit and left, my legs wouldn't stop shaking and my anus kept clenching.
    After my door closed behind him, I realized he must have intended to breed me from the first time he saw me earlier in the day. He had set his sights, moved on me without hesitation, taken complete control, and bred me like I belonged to him.
    Hm...I wonder how hard it would be to make an adjustable foam pillow...
  14. 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
  15. 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.
     
  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
    [I want to preface this entry with a word to any readers whose heritage is Native American. The experiences I describe below are a true account, and my narrative of them is as objective as I can make it. My interpretation of the meaning of the events is naturally filtered by my own cultural lens, but also by my professional role, one that has to a degree sensitized me to the history, realities, and sensitivities of Native Americans. I assure you that my contemplation on the nature of the experience derives not from crude stereotyping or assumption but from my observations and from a spiritual sense inherent to myself that I find difficult to describe but that I can only swear to be genuine.]
    I once hooked up a few times with a Top who was a nice guy, but when he fucked me, a strange sort of change came over him. He was, as it happened, a Lakota, and each time he started dicking me down he would suddenly become very aggressive, grab me by my neck from behind with one hand and grab a handful of my hair with the other and force my head down flat sideways on the bed, my torso stetched out so that my pelvis was ground under him for deepest possible penetration.
    Then he would lean over and start saying angry, harsh words in my ear in Lakota, but which I couldn’t understand, and he would punctuate each phrase by spitting on me - on my back, on my ass, on the back of my neck. After some of this, he would then fuck me savagely until he came, then yank my head back by my hair as he let me go.
    The next moment he was exactly the same as before we had started, almost as though a different person had walked into the room (naked).
    I realize this sounds spacey and all New Age and shit, (never mind race stereotyping) but I always felt as though that guy wasn’t actually the one fucking me. It felt as though the person fucking me was full of rage, and these fuckings were actually rapes counted as coup for far worse wrongs done to helpless people generations ago. It was the spitting - something I really don’t like anyway - the hate and ferocity embodied in each blast, each one bursting through tight lips like a knife blade into my naked back as he stabbed me repeatedly lower down, that told me this wasn’t about sex.
    Lying there under the domination of his hands, listening to those unfamiliar, berating words spat at me, followed by the smack of his saliva, feeling cruel force ravage my body and then triumphantly fill me with itself - I could not escape the thought that this man must be channelling the spirits of some warrior of the First Peoples come to claim justice for his people from mine.
    Not long ago I took one of the AncestryDNA tests to find out where my people came from. I’m basically 100% British Isles. No wonder I ended up the target ass for his justice fucking. And do you know what? I’m okay with that. My ancestors did horrible, horrible things to people, rape included. Maybe I’m nuts and this is all in my head, but if raping my ass can give a few of those poor souls their rest, then let them rape me. The bill is overdue.
    I just wish they wouldn’t spit.
  18. ErosWired
    A small group of men entered my room at The Works bathhouse in Indianapolis last Saturday evening during CumUnion. I could tell it was a group by the sound of the shuffle of their feet, by their breathing, by the way the echoes off the walls of my small room shifted, by the play of the shadows around me. I took a light popper hit to loosen my ass, and it amplified my senses. My ass was up, facing the door (naturally) so I didn't turn to look at them. I never do. I'm a cunt. Why would I need to look at them?
    They were talking to one of their members:
    "What do you think?"
    "Like the look of it?"
    "Fuck yeah."
    "_____ used him earlier, said he was the shit."
    "OH yeah."
    "You gonna fuck him, fuck that white pussy?"
    They would be black, then. I didn't even bother with a mental note; I don't care what color a man is, I never have. Sometimes I don't even notice. Call it one of the few perks of being somewhat autistic. His color signified nothing... except... and this has nothing to do with stereotype and everything to do with my personal, intimate experience of fucking many black men... it meant greater odds on him having a big cock. Sorry, that's just the way it's been for me.
    "Yeah. I'm gonna do it. That looks like a nice pussy."
    Here again, no stereotype drawn from, just my actual experience: the black guys who have fucked me have almost always called my ass a "pussy" if they don't call it an ass. They never use "cunt". I don't know why.
    The man sounded young, perhaps shy. I decided I would take especially good care of him. His friends left him and he closed the door behind them. Okay, not an exhibitionist like they had been earlier, if they were the group I was thinking of. There had been eyes on me getting fucked earlier. Eyes on my face. Eyes on my face when my own eyes were rolling back in my head. Eyes on me when they left me lying like a rag doll after their rough-fucking.
    Good times.
    I could hear this man fumbling over by my shelf, amongst my lubes. "Try the coconut oil," I said over my shoulder.
    "Oh. Okay," he said. I positioned my ass for easy entry.
    When it came, I was mildly surprised. He didn't have a big cock, just average. But as is sometimes the case, I would rather have a craftsman in possession of simple tools than a novice equipped with an arsenal. This turned out to be a craftsman. I didn't need to take care of him. He took care of me.
    He started slow, sped up, went to ramming speed, back and forth. If he paused, I couldn't help fucking myself on him as though he were a stationary object. I was wearing my solid-steel chastity device that covers my whole cock, and he fucked three loads out of me that filled the inside of it and left my cock swimming in my own seed.I know the clock continued moving, because by the time had finished, 45 minutes of continuous fucking had elapsed, punctuated by long, long, long moments where he found that particular point where a Top's cock feels as though it has hit the absolute bottom of you and your ass involuntarily clamps down in a death-grip along the full length of his shaft, and we would stay that way for eternities at a time, welded together into one body while our minds unspun.
    At last he pulled out of me and ran a finger slowly, gently, over, into and out of my hole. "That is good pussy," he said. "Good pussy is hard to find."
    He said it in a matter-of-fact way, like a man of experience, a man who knows whereof he speaks. "That like to have worn me out," he said, sliding off the bed to gather his towel. "I would have like to have done more of that, but I'm old."
    I blinked. I turned over at last to look at him.
    Not young... but surely not old...
    "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"
    "Fifty-six."
    "Then I guess I'm old, too, since I'm 51. An old man couldn't do what you just did."
    He smiled shyly, opened my door, and left.
     
    Friends accuse me of trying to find meaning in everything, even where there isn't any to find. This man of 56 called himself old not because his looks convinced him that he was - I would have guessed early 40s, in fact - but I suspect because his life's experiences had the weight of an older man's. He bred my ass as a man of experience; and when a man of experience says something, his words have weight.
    If he tells me that good pussy is hard to find, I have to believe him.
    If he tells me my pussy is good pussy, it makes me want to share it all the more.
     
     
  19. 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.
  20. ErosWired
    True confession: My ass is my weakness.
    For some, you grab their cock and you grab their soul. A few get weird about their nipples. For very, very men, it's the stomach - give them a piece of pie and they're putty in your fingers.
    For me, play with my cock all you want; it's a soldier (it definitely stands at attention and shoots) that can take your abuse. You have to know what you're doing to work my nipples, they're funny that way. But just start a fingertip down the valley at the base of my spine and my whole body starts to pay very close attention to what you're doing - or about to do. Run a tip across the portal and I gasp. Press in just a knuckle length, and I can't keep in a little telltale moan. Explore deeper, and my whole body begins to react involuntarily, loosening up, positioning for penetration whether I want it or not. Touch my prostate, and my body will betray me without a second thought.
    If I feel your tongue there, all rational thought collapses and can't be restarted, replaced by a single desperate drive: Please. Fuck. Me. The longer the tongue remains, the more desperate the drive, until it becomes a mental scream.
    I once kept this weakness a carefully guarded secret from Tops, especially Dominant Tops, and particularly from Sadists, who seemed to take great delight in discovering how much control they could obrtain over me, and how easily, with an attack on my ass. One such discovery, by a Dom Top named Master Rick in Cincinnati, led to my first realization of what sexual submission to another man truly felt like, when it wan't just pretend. The experience changed me forever.
    I had traveled two and a half hours to visit this man at his invitation. He had been looking, he said, for someone who fit my description, and apparently he liked what arrived at his door. Not a lot of time was spent in pleasantries. He told me to strip in front of him next to a bed that had been fitted with ropes for attaching to restraints. He had me lie down on my belly spread-eagled and tied dow my wrist cuffs. Then he ran his hands over the globes of my ass.
    This was a bad sign. If he had been a cock-and-balls man, he would have had me on my back right off to enjoy looking at his new toys, but instead he couldn't wait to get his hands on my backside. An ass man. Sure enough, I soon felt his thumbs slide down and part my halves to expose my hole, and heard him say, simply, "Nice."
    Again, true confession: I don't remember a lot of the details that followed, because they went on a long, long, long, long time. There could not have been a square millimeter of my body that he did not touch at least twice, and he penetrated every orifice. My violation was absolutely complete, and he had not even fucked me.
    At last, he had become satisfied with his exploration and sampling of my body and raised me up on my knees with my chest on the bed and my ass in the air and began finger-fucking me. He enjoyed doing this more than I can remember most men enjoying anything. He kept at it, sometimes slow and leisurely, sometimes pistoning and rough, sometimes one finger, sometimes more, trying different fingers on for size, trying different pressures on my prostate. He became so engrossed in it that he gradually pushed me upward so that my back was flat against the wall and my lets hung outstretched, all leverage lost; I was completely at his mercy (actually, as it happened, lack thereof).
    After he had finger-fucked me for about ten minutes past eternity, it grew uncomfortable and I wanted him to stop. I said, "Could you stop?" but he just grinned and continued, and I realized that this Dominant had me exactly where he wanted me, and this was going to end when he wanted it to, and not before. My whole attention suddenly narrowed onto the small ring between my legs and the sensations coming from it - sensations caused by another man against my will. The more they continued at that point, the more right they felt. My body itself was correcting my thinking, teaching me how to take on the role that I was born to play, helping me to understand where my body and mind belonged in the world of all other men.
    He did fuck me later, and twice more before I left the next day. I left with much more than three loads of his seed in my body. He had planted another kind of seed in me, the knowledge that my weakness is simply evidence that I am meant for men to breed. Anytime, anywhere.
     
    But I won't say no to pie.
  21. ErosWired

    Hollow

    By ErosWired,

    I’m lying belly down, ass up, on a queen bed in a hotel room in Louisville on a Monday night. A 30-year-old guy just left after fucking my ass in very competent style for a man calling himself a Versatile Bottom. I said as much to him before he left.
    He came hard inside me; I can tell by the way their bodies move and by the sounds they make when their climax is strong. His load had volume, too, because some of it spilled out onto the bed cover even though he shot buried deep inside my cunt.
    I never actually saw his cock, as he wanted anonymity, but I felt its size. I knew it was above average at least because he tried to double-penetrate me with my large dildo, and I couldn’t quite accommodate him. When he fucked me himself, I felt every plunge, every thrust, all attempting to meet his natural mandate to fill the vessel of my flesh with his own.
    There was a time, it seems like years ago now, when such a coupling as he just gave me would have filled me with a lasting sense of completion that would have lingered for weeks, if not months. Now, however, that man’s excellent fuck has not only failed to fill the void within me, it seems to have made me even more hollow.
    Clearly, this is not the way sex is supposed to be. This has all the characteristics of an addiction - needing more and more of the thing to get the same effect, until at last it no longer has any effect at all. Worse, the thing may begin paradoxically to generate the very need it was intended to meet.
    I cannot seem to get enough cock anymore; my sense of self-value, at least from a sexual perspective, is now bound to my ability to provide satisfaction to other men in transitory and, of themselves, hollow encounters, and as the physical imprint of each one becomes less and less lasting, so much moreso does the psychological imprint become more and more ephemeral.
    In a sense, it’s as though all those cocks are indeed reaming me out on the inside.
    I don’t know how to reverse this. I only know that I need more cock, and soon I will need it in quantities I cannot reasonably expect to obtain. I already harbor thoughts of placing myself in situations where I could fall prey to cruel, evil men, simply out of the hope that their chosen form of abuse would coincide with my need.
    My rational mind recognizes that I must find a way to quell the hollow hunger of my flesh before it consumes me completely, but right now, the hunger is very, very strong.
    A man is coming to fuck me. I hope he fucks me brutally, without mercy, for a long time - perhaps that will fill the hollow just a bit... at least, until he’s finished, and I’m hollow again.
  22. ErosWired
    Our culture has the strange dichotomy of valuing humility yet paying attention to braggadocio. Usually, when someone makes a claim like, "I am the greatest!" we aren't going to take him at his word - we expect him to prove it with a TKO in the third round. Advertisers have become so accustomed to using superlatives that if a motel calls itself "Best Value" we don't stop to think about whether it actually is the best value, we just assume it's cheap and we don't turn on a black light in the room. Ever.
    So how does a guy go about letting other guys know that he gives good ass without making himself sound (a) like a braggart (b) like a narcissist (c) insufferable or (d) desperate?
    Indeed, if one gave great ass, how would one personally know? Autofellatio is one thing (been there) but auto-fucking, at least to the point of credible critique, is not possible.
    The only way to know is to rely on the reports of those who have experienced it, and the only way to convey it to others in an honest and unbiased way is to share those reports without embellishment or modification. Kind of like a Consumer Reports for Ass.
    For myself, the best thing I can do is relate the events of a day at my favorite camp:
    One day at camp, I was leaned over a picnic table, and another guy was seated on one of its benches. He was giving head, I was giving ass. I didn't know him, but we were a pretty good full-service team that day. The guys who only wanted head went to him. The guys who wanted to fuck took me. Sometimes he warmed them up and then passed them along. Every now and then he would lean over and mutter to me, "Here comes a big one." He had a habit of understatement.
    They were a lively bunch, with a spirit of camaraderie and joie de vivre among them - it wasn't one of those weird gang-fucks that happens in darkened silence, but a chatty affair that suggested that the men were at their ease. The atmosphere seemed to encourage them to express their views, and I was so taken (well, yes) that after it was all over I actually wrote down what I could remember of it, mostly because it was flattering, but also because I was pretty sure no one would ever believe me.
    As I was being ass-fucked, this is what I heard:
    "Your ass is amazing!"
    "Ohh, my fucking God, I do NOT believe this."
    "Shit, man, where did you learn to do that?"
    "Guys, this is the sweetest ass you are ever going to fuck."
    "Oh, that is good, good man-pussy."
    "OH, YES. You are going to be my fuck toy all. night. long."
    "Holy Mother of Fuck."
    "I don't believe it. I just came, and I'm a total bottom."
    "Oh, yeah - His cum as lube for my cock in your ass... OH FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
    "Kentucky throroughbred ass."
    "Oh my God, he's milking my cock..."
    "I hope that ass gets fucked regularly."
    "Dude. Best ass ever, man."
    After a while there was a lull in the action and everyone except my head-giving buddy and me cleared out. He looked at me oddly for a second, then got up, circled around me, dropped his pants, and fucked me until he came. Then he sat back down and said, "So that's what that was all about."
    All the others could be written off as the jabberings of men in the throes of a sexual haze, but this guy was from Consumer Reports, testing the product. His comment is the proof. I give great ass.
    If I say so myself.
     
  23. ErosWired

    Keeping Score

    By ErosWired,

    I joined BreedingZone a year ago this month. A year ago I considered myself a committed sexual submissive, because that's what I've been trained for, but I didn't think of myself as a cumdump, nor did I think about barebacking as a choice - it was just something Men did or didn't do when they fucked me. Once I became HIV+, I didn't have any sex at all until I became undetectable, and then I let Men know I understood if they wanted to use a condom. At that point, I was glad they were still willing to fuck me at all.
    Finding this site showed me that I could still thrive sexually given my status and my age, even as a total bottom. The input from the members here gave me the inspiration to go out and actually live a life that so many Men post about in fantasy but never have the courage to act upon. Looking back over this year, I realize how much more conscious I've become of my sexuality and sexual habits, and how much more open I've become in talking about it. Yesterday my bisexual son was telling me about the possibility that another boy interested in him might come to his party, and I was attempting to advise him how to manage the situation. After a minute he looked at me and said, "Is my dad trying to be my wingman?"
    I was not. There are some things I do not. want. to. know.
    About my own sex life, on the other hand, I've begun keeping closer track than I ever have. There have been several topics on these boards concerning load tallies and load counts and who has taken the most loads in a year, or in their lifetime. I don't count loads because 1) Sometimes you can't tell whether you got it or not, 2) If the Top mostly cums on your ass crack and then sorta pushes some of it in, does it count? Yes? No? There are too many variables, and in any case I wholeheartedly agree with @PERVERSATILE when he points out that "The load is the prize". What I count, instead of loads, are fucks.
    I keep track of them on my cell phone, in a simple ongoing page in the Notes app. Since Tops sometimes seem to enjoy keeping score by making hash marks on my ass with a pen when they finish with me, I adopted that as my sort-of standard. (In the not-so-good image accompanying this post, you can just make out a faint set of hashes on my right ass cheek; even "permanent" ink markers are no match for a good steam room.) The score I've kept looks like this:
    March (F-S) ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||
    April (F-S) ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ |||
    May (Th-F) ||||\ || (S) ||||\ ||||\ |||
    June (F) 0. (S) ||||\ ||~|\ |||
    July (F) 0. (S) ||||\ ||||\ ||~|\ |
    August (F) ||{++} (S) |||{++} ~~~
    Sept 13-14 (Th) |||| (F) ||||\ (S) ||
    October (F) ||| ff  (S) |{+}||\ |~||\ |||| f
    Oct 19-20 (F) ||||\
    \ = a crosshash, or fifth mark that crosses four
    |{+..} = the Top returned to fuck me again for the number of times indicated by the plus marks
    ~ = I gave credit for the fuck even though the guy was a little too soft or a little to wasted to penetrate me very well. As long as he thought he was fucking me he got credit. It's the Top's pleasure that counts.
    0 = zero fucks. What the fuck was up on Fridays in June and July?
    f = recently I've started keeping track of the number of times guys flake on me.
    Obviously, I didn't start keeping this record until March, when I started attending CumUnion in Indianapolis and hotel hosting regularly in Louisville, so it doesn't include fucks from October 2017 - February 2018, and obviously, I don't count the flakes. But the tally above right now stands at 142 fucks for the year - a dismal reckoning that reflects the fact that I'm stuck in the back of beyond in rural Kentucky and have to drive over an hour just to get to somewhere I can be a slut. If I lived in a metro area, that count would be much higher.
    That count, however, isn't the only count I keep in my Notes app.
    I have another one on another page, and it's been going on longer, since August 2014. It looks like this:
    8/29/2014
    CD4: 49
    VL: 85,000
    11/11/2014
    CD4: 160
    VL: 840
    2/11/2015
    CD4: 188
    VL: 50 (Damn. So close.)
    6/1/2015
    CD4: 250 (Dr. not pleased)
    VL: 65 (me not pleased)
    Quitting Atripla, starting Triumeq
    9/2015
    CD4: 285
    VL: Undetectable
    3/2016
    CD4: 315 (I had hoped for better, but Dr. is pleased, so I suppose I should be satisfied)
    VL: Undetectable
    2/1/2017
    CD4: 218
    VL: 65 (Dr. says this is a normal blip, not a concern)
    Quitting Triumeq, starting Genvoya
    3/28/2017
    CD4: 293
    VL: Undetectable
    2/27/2018
    CD4: 249
    VL: Undetectable
    8/26/2018
    CD4: [not checked]
    VL: Undetectable
    10/23/2018
    CD4: 300
    VL: Undetectable
    I have a new HIV doctor now
    I suppose you could say I'm keeping score against the Enemy Virus as well.
    I take a sort of pride in both of these lists, in ways that are different, but also in one way that's the same. I take pride in my fuck count not as an accumulation, but as proof of the number of Men to whom I have been able to give an ecstatic moment of pleasure. I know little or nothing about their lives - I may never even see some of them - but for the short time they are with me, they are safe, and warm, and made to feel incredibly good, and I have accomplished that, by my certain count, 142 times in a year. If I could have made it a thousand, I would have. I take pride in my CD4 and Viral Load count as wayposts along the road of my fight against AIDS, and my struggle back from the edge of death. The marks denote a long, narrow, rocky road, but I have kept on it without missing a step, and I'm proud of my determination.
    I take a pride in both of the lists because they're both, in their way, celebrations of life continuing in spite of age, in spite of disease, in spite of doubt, and in spite of fear. They are proof that I am very much alive.
  24. 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. 😐
  25. 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.

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