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ErosWired

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  1. 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***
  2. ErosWired
    In the shadowy recesses of most sex dungeons and play spaces, many bathhouses, and every sex club ever devised, is at least one sling. You may have one of your own, if you are an aficionado. Slings are a kind of useful sex furniture suspended from the ceiling, not unlike a hammock except that they are basically dissimilar from a hammock in most respects.
    Allow me to expound, with the caveat that I have lousy luck in slings. I have been fucked exactly four (4) times so far in slings, and have no idea what I am doing wrong. I can, however, provide a short list of what other people are doing wrong with respect to slings and the men who inhabit them.
    Foremost, slings are for fucking. The point is for the bottom to climb into the sling, settle in with his legs elevated as though he were in a gynecological exam chair, his ass exposed and vulnerable  over the end of the sling, and await the assault. When results are at their best, the assault consists of serial breeding by an array of Tops who take advantage of the available ass in a congenial, hail-fellow-well-met, even perhaps competitive fashion that leaves a pool of commingled semen as a slipping hazard on the floor beneath. In my experience, however, not all men are familiar with this basic function of slings.
    Over the course of my last two CumUnions, I have made an effort to occupy the sling (for which there is a dedicated room in the bathhouse) for two purposes: 1) to offer my ass to Tops who might prefer not to enter an individual's room, but might do so in a "community room" like a sling room; and 2) to try to discover what prevents me from getting the full sling experience. Each time, I positioned myself carefully in the sling, wore my own leather leg cuffs with snap links for easy positioning on the hanging chain links, and wore a blindfold made from a handmade navy handkerchief with white polka-dots (hankie code for bareback-and-cum-inside). Thus arrayed, ass exposed strategically, suggestive of helpless vulnerability, offering anonymity, and signaling, to those in the know, the willingness to take it bare, I awaited my first eager fuck. I say "eager" in that I have always considered slings more the realm of the aggressive Top, as the modality lends itself to Top control; there being little the bottom can do to set the pace, rhythm or depth of penetration. All to the good, if the Top relishes that kind of control.
    Each time, with uncanny similarity, the first contact has been from a hand reaching down to fiddle with my cock. At first, I didn't try to conceal it; later I put on my solid steel cock cage. Didn't matter. The hands played with my cock, which was not hard, slapped my balls, attempted to pull my cage down far enough to feed it into my anus(!)... and then departed. I can only assume that if they had been able to get me erect they would have tried to suck me off or jack me until I shot before leaving. The fact that this happened every single time, within minutes of my donning my blindfold, became frustrating.
    Hands did not limit themselves to my cock. They also enjoyed slapping my ass - then slapping my chest, twisting my nipples, smacking my belly, slapping my thighs, attempting to tickle me over every inch my body (I am not the slightest bit ticklish) and striking my chest with first fists and then knuckles. On my last attempt, the nipple-twisting became so savage that I finally had to say, "Okay, that's enough of that," and then, more emphatically, "I said, THAT'S ENOUGH" and grab the hand that had ignored my original statement. The guy instantly apologized, and I explained to him that the sling was meant for fucking and not for any sort of BDSM activity, which would have required some negotiation up front in any case.
    Then there are those men whom I have observed using slings when I have not been in them, species discussed in another thread around here somewhere, the Sling Lizard (Slingasaurus obnoxious) and the two varieties of Sling Hog, Slingasus rotundus and Slingasus immovabilis, the latter of which is distinguished by his disagreeable temperament. All of these suffer from the same evident misconception that the sling is a hammock-of-imagined-fantasy or a sort of hammock-with-remote-possibilities. It is, I suppose, possible that they have, in fact, the correct view of the thing, and that those of us who actually expect to get fucked when in a sling are the ones unconnected to reality. Regardless, I have always been careful to limit my sling-time to avoid being misidentified as one of the above fauna, and also to avoid having my goddamn cock smacked off.
    I welcome any input from those of greater experience with slings who may be able to correct and/or confirm my observations. I would love to add a good sling-bang to my list of life accomplishments, but at my current pace, I fear I will remain among the uninitiated out of sheer ignorance.
  3. 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.
  4. ErosWired
    Last night while I was slutting my ass at my usual hotel and Top #3 with the big cock and the aggression to match was railing me, I happened to catch sight of myself in the nearby mirror.
     I saw my body positioned in a way that any observer could not mistake for anything other than deeply submissive receptive sexual intercourse. My legs were splayed broadly to the sides, my ass hiked up and cocked at an angle to point my hole upward, my back was arched backward in a  crescent, my head flung back along the same curve, and my arms supporting me straight ahead with fists full of bedspread. And of course, a man was fucking me.
    But that instant of seeing myself “from the outside” made me acutely aware of how I must appear to other Men who see me when I take cock or wait for it ass-up. Even I could look at myself and see something somehow not quite male - something that had been devolved to another purpose so as to be useful to actual Men. This was emphasized when the Top later put his hand on the small of my back to force my torso flat onto the bed so that he could concentrate on drilling my hole.
    Even though I knew the person in the mirror was obviously me, the mirror made it easier to consider myself more as a sexual object than as a person, and read the Top’s use of me in that context. I’m still not sure how I feel about it all, except that the experience deepened my sense of submission, of worth only as a sexual outlet, and as a person easily controlled by the sensations in his own flesh. In the mirror, my body betrayed to anyone watching exactly what that fucking felt like for me - and even made me see it in a more intimate, revealing way.
    No wonder an audience tends to gather when my bathhouse room door is left open when I’m being fucked...
  5. ErosWired
    I've been getting a lot of this lately - a Top decides he wants to fuck me, makes like he wants it, "Yeah, buddy, that pussy is all mine" etc., puts my body in position, fingers me up, checks if I'm wet, "Oh, man, that's a good wet boy cunt" etc., spreads my ass, lines up his hips, and...
    Limp noodle.
    Soft sausage.
    I mean, what?
    Now, to be sure, recently I've been servicing a more mature clientele, so I don't expect the raging steel rods of 20-somethings every time. I'm definitely not judging; I've been blessed in that at 50 years old I can still get it up, which is, when you think about it, actually wasted on a total bottom. But back in the early days when I did occasionally return the favor, I could tell instantly whether I was hard enough to penetrate an asshole, and when I wasn't. For guys who routinely Top, how can they not know?
    Also, how the fuck can they miss? What's with all this poking around? If you're 18 and a virgin, maybe, but how hard can it be to locate the hole with your finger, line the tip of your cock up with your fingertip, and slide it in? Yet over and over again, I get these guys jabbing me repeatedly over or under the target. This boggles me because all they have to do is look down and my fuckhole is right there. What do I need to do, get a target tattoo around my anus? I mean, it's not completely out of the question, but I'd rather do something more aesthetically clever.
    And then if they do manage to hit the spot, sometimes they'll ask, "Is it in?" What? You can't tell if it's in my ass?  (Hint: If your cock is in my ass, you'll by God know it, because you'll think you've died and gone to Heaven. I'll make sure of that.)
    I absolutely don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'm grateful for every single cock that even tries to fuck my tight hole, and I'm willing to take responsibility for possibility that I might be part of the problem - my ass has always been particularly tight, and I don't do a lot of stretching. I've never been fisted (though I've always been tempted to try), never played with huge dildos, that sort of thing. I sometimes slowly open myself up with an anal speculum, but I've always been kind of proud of the way I can milk a cock with my ass, and enjoy the pleasure Tops seem to get when they fuck me, so I haven't wanted to compromise that. I guess it's possible that the result has been that I've made the door to paradise a little hard to get into. Maybe? But I do know that some damn huge visitors have pushed their way in like a rhinoceros walking through a Japanese rice paper door (and left nice presents). So I don't know.
    I do my best to work with everybody. I spend oral time trying to stiffen them up, I assume all kinds of positions, I use my own hand to line them up, but the bottom line is that if a cock isn't at least hard to a certain point, penetration ain't happening, and even if you do somehow stuff it in there, you're not going to be doing any thrusting. So explain to me why some Tops try to do it anyway. Wishful thinking? No access to Viagra? Is it just a case of now that they have actually scored some fantastic ass they're not sure what to do with it?
    The thing is, I know that it's no good asking all you Tops to tell me what I need to do, because the answer is going to be different for every single Top. For some of you, it will help if I act more helpless; for others, if I act more aggressive; for some if I go down on you, for others if I finger myself; some will get hard if I growl in your ear, others if I whimper; some need their nipples sucked, some need them bitten.
    Whatever. It's all good. Just know that it's okay if the plumbing doesn't work right then. I'd rather you didn't try to force the issue if you know it's not going to work, because it just sets us both up to be disappointed. Just because you're not quite ready to breed me at that moment doesn't mean you can't Top me in so many other ways. Your masculinity is what turns me into your bitch in heat, so spend some extra time showing me who's Top and why you like my body, and spend some time telling me how you like me to pleasure yours. Before you know it, there won't be any need for wishful thinking.
  6. ErosWired

    No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

    By ErosWired,


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

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

    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.
  9. ErosWired

    Three

    By ErosWired,


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

    The moment I saw it I knew that I would have a chance to redeem myself, to clear this shame. No one had ever labeled me a Jack of Spades before. Though I have no race fetish or preference, I could see now that he had been pleased in spite of my failure.
    There will be another trip to Atlanta.
    Third time's the charm.
     
  10. 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.
  11. ErosWired

    Sexyhungry

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I’ve had a lot of pretty extreme things done to me sexually in the last 17 years. I’ve been forced to orgasm so many times, one right after the other, that cumming became a form of torture, and then I was trained to cum on command. My first big gangbang, 32 men. I got mercilessly finger-fucked and toy-raped. Electro through my cock, balls and ass; deep, deep sounding; and electro-sounding. Jacked-off, experimented with and just plain fucked in front of both public and private audiences of up to 20 or more people. I’ve been edged with a goddamned feather nearly to the snapping of my mind - twice. My nuts have been pierced through their center with needles. Flogging, fire-flogging (yes, that’s flogging with fire), cock-pumping by machine, fucking by fucking machine, sooo much bondage... all of this before I discovered that I’m a cumdump.
    Since then I’ve spent three years just taking cock. All kinds of cock, every single cock that wanted in me got in me. I’ve taken gargantuan cocks, double penetrations, bathhouse sluttings of 20 men a day, brutal jackhammer dildo-raping. Hundreds of men have bred and seeded me or fed me their load, the last two days ago.
    It’s been a wild ride.
    I started very late, at 37, with a strong sense that my clock was ticking toward an end, and I desperately needed to make up for lost time, to have the sex life I missed in my 20s and early 30s, or regret it forever. I no longer feel that urgency; I guess I caught up.
    The problem is, now it’s hard to really reach a point of deep satisfaction. I remember a time when I had orgasms so intense that everything went white around me - I called them white-out orgasms. I can’t remember the last time I had one. Ever since I took a certain holy-mother-of-god-thicc cock in 2018, I’ve been yearning for another Top to fill me like that, but none has. Certain Tops have power-fucked me for hours, or in just exactly the right way, truly using me the way I’m designed to be used, with the attitude to match (looking at you, @FelchingPisser), but these have been very rare experiences for me. Every fuck is always a privilege and a gift from the Top, and I treat every single fuck as though it has the potential to take me to Nirvana - and you never can tell what some men can do - but the rush of gratification I receive from the Top’s pleasure is becoming weaker and weaker.
    It used to be that I could lie ass-up on a bed, knowing that an anonymous man would show up in moments to open the door and then penetrate, fuck and inseminate me, and I could say to myself, He’s coming. He’s really going to come in. A stranger is going to fuck you and nothing you can do will stop that from happening now. And a huge rush of excitement, along with humiliation, would sweep through my body. Now, I only get a buzz or a tickle; there have been so many strangers, and I never even got a look at them.
    Even the poppers - the first time a Top used poppers on me I blacked out. Fortunately, I was bound to a St. Andrew’s Cross at the time, so I couldn’t fall down. Since then, I’ve only blacked out twice, very briefly, and only in the early days. But I can always tell they’re going to work because I see a colorful ring appear before my eye that looks exactly like an asshole opening up to accept a cock. I take it as proof - the litmus test that reveals what I truly am and what I’m truly for. Except now, no matter how fresh the bottle, I don’t see my ring as often, and sometimes not at all.
    All of this adds up to a growing anxiety, a building emptiness inside me - I now crave an intensity of sexual experience that isn’t provided by most encounters. Something in me is crying out for some very Dominant, selfish, aggressive Top to take advantage of my willingness and use me in ways that take me beyond (read: deeper, more debased, more devolved) ways than I have been. In a way, I feel that the “safeties need to be removed” before I can access what is inside me and grow, and I can’t do it for myself because things have to be done to me for it to work. In essence, in order to blow my mind, I need to find someone interested in taking me down a dark hole and using me unscrupulously.
    The fact that the poppers aren’t doing what they once did, however, raises a concern. It’s the question of desensitization. Desensitization is a factor in chemical dependency and addiction, of course (poppers are not considered to be an addictive substance), but it also figures in the concept of the Inhibitory Threshold. When we are constrained in certain actions for ethical, moral, or legal reasons, we stand away from those actions beyond an Inhibitory Threshold - it is a line we do not cross, basically because One Does Not Cross That Line. It’s a kind of personal line-in-the-sand. The Inhibitory Threshold is a strong deterrent - until you actually cross it.
    Once you cross the Threshold, once you’ve Done The Deed, even if you feel guilt and swear never to do it again, the precedent is set - you did it, therefore you can. This directly undermines the Inhibitory Threshold, which gets its power by convincing you that you can’t. In the context of sexual experience, the Inhibitory Threshold is constantly at work on guys, informing them about what their naughty little animal minds can get away with and what they can’t. Once a given Threshold is crossed, however, the result is usually such a potent jolt to the brain’s pleasure and reward center that that Threshold can never again have any influence - the man has been desensitized to the sense that that activity is off-limits, and thus desensitized to any anticipatory or imagined consequence titillation he might once have felt. Been there, done that.
    Even if the activity is intensely pleasurable, that intensity will diminish with repetition simply because of the neurology of the thing; the body and brain will get used to it.
    In general, this shouldn’t be that big a problem, because sex is extremely varied, practices can be variously extreme, the average guy isn’t really all that promiscuous, and most people don’t readily jump their Inhibitory Thresholds (they’re mainly Vanillas). For most, they should never reach a point of desensitization that can’t be readily refreshed by a minor variation. But what happens to a man who does burn through the options until he’s desensitized to most things? What happens when there’s nothing left capable of meeting the sexual need most people meet with common activity?
    It seems to me that the parallel with drug addiction is very close. The need (and sexual fulfillment is one of the basic human needs) continues to build as an unmet hunger in the individual until a state of desperation is reached. At this stage, the individual begins to make what are essentially internal triage decisions, risking other needs like food, sleep, health, security and freedom in order to take actions to meet the unmet sexual deficit. Even if the individual is able to cognitively control his impulses, the result is likely to be a persistent state of unfulfillment, and unless it is somehow resolved, self-actualization, or complete development of the individual, becomes practically impossible.
    I am afraid I have reached, or am reaching, a point of serious sexual desensitization, and am torn on what course I should take. On the one hand, I have a sense of some things that could continue to sustain me for a while to come. These would involve me providing myself much more frequently to the use of men in more varied locations, and essentially forcing myself into a sleazier style of life, hoping to attract the attention of certain types of Dominant, aggressive men, with a goal to being serially used/abused and even trafficked by them. Another possible avenue would be physical ownership by a very select Dom or Doms who wished for their own gratification to explore the potential limits of my sexual transformation mentally, and broaden the extent of my physical sexual exposure, service and use.
    The risks of these strategies are both obvious, and less so. An intensification of my activity as a self-whoring cumdump will unavoidably risk greater public exposure. At my age, the likelihood of actually attracting the target Tops is relatively small, so I would have to spend significantly more time exposed to possibly achieve the result. And in the event of personal exposure my home community is far less than accepting. The increase in potential exposure to STDs is a given; I would unquestionably contract gono, chlamydia and syphilis on a repeated basis, at the least (as indeed I previously have). Aggressive men are dangerous, and arrogant, selfish, aggressive men in heat are especially so. The activity I would be actively seeking carries a higher risk of injury. Falling in with the sort of men who would think nothing of hate-fucking my cunt and then whoring it out to make bank is also plainly unwise... yet the only means to reach a certain depth of debasement.
    Submitting to Domination for experimental training of the kind I’m thinking about would be a very long shot at best, because the kind of Dominant interested in and capable of such work would be an incredibly rare find. Even my former Master was unwilling to go to the extents that I contemplate. Ethical constraints would have to be... loose. The danger, in my consideration, is not what such a man might practice upon me, but what I might be after he’s finished. If my prior training proved anything, it’s that permanent transformation in a man can be achieved.
    The greatest risk, however, is perhaps that I could pursue these courses of increasingly intense experience, crossing Inhibitory Thresholds like highway mile markers, until at last I find myself at the end of the road. I imagine I would encounter one of two things there: Either a sense of self completion, like the finishing of a puzzle, all the inner questions about myself finally answered, in satisfaction and peace - or else an endless, howling void that marks the end of all potential, and the beginning of a hopeless, insatiable hunger that will try ever more desperate things, in vain, until I am destroyed in its excesses. I am frightened because I am hungry even now and I don’t know what to do. I am frightened because my hunger drives me even against my thought, and I know full well that if by chance my hunger places me in the path of a chance to start down one of these roads... I will take it.
     I don’t know how common this feeling is among other men, but if you’ve read this far, a) Wow and b) I’d be interested in your thoughts.
  12. ErosWired

    Three Years

    By ErosWired,

    In July 2011 I got pneumonia. No big deal; I went to the doctor, got treated. The odd thing was, the next month I got it again. My doctor said, "Nobody gets pneumonia twice." But he treated me anyway and sent me home. Later in August I got a cracking headache, worst I've ever had. My brother had to take me to the emergency room, but they sent me back home. By the next day, I was at the doctor again, and an astute nurse spotted the signs of possible meningitis. Back to the hospital. Long story short, by early September I had been diagnosed with fungal meningitis, and had nearly died from two small strokes related to it.
    I lay in my hospital bed and one morning a small United Nations of doctors from different nationalities lined up by my bedside and delivered their verdict. "You have AIDS."
    "What?"
    "You have AIDS."
    "Are you saying I have HIV?"
    "No, AIDS." (The guy didn't pull any punches.)
    My C4 count stood at 49.
    My new infectious disease specialist put me on ART immediately. I've been on Atripla, Triumeq, and now Genvoya. I've had shingles, and watched my body shape change as a result of the meds, and have had to change my lifestyle because the meds have given me a case of med-induced diabetes. Many things about all this suck ass, and not in a good way.
    I tried to figure out how this could have happened - I had gotten tested regularly. My tests had been negative. There had been no indication at all that I had had HIV in my system that could have turned into AIDS. I had been careful.
    But not careful enough. I knew that. I had no idea who had given me this, and would never have any way of knowing. There had been too many men. The most likely time had been the day I took 34 loads in my ass, probably without a single condom; there was no way of knowing. There had been other times, many other times, but every time I had been tested, the tests had resulted in negatives. Not all of these were over-the-counter tests, either. Two years earlier, my doctor had hospitalized me for a mystery illness that he chalked up to some unnamed virus that came and went. At the time he gave me a full-bore HIV test, which came back negative. Yet I'm now certain that that "mystery illness" was my seroconversion.
    I quizzed my doctor later: How could this have happened? I had been under his care for years - how could HIV have flown under his radar long enough to have turned into AIDS and nearly kill me without his seeing it? He explained that the problem with modern HIV testing isn't just false positives, but also false negatives. The truth is, the science just isn't good enough yet to give us certainty in diagnosis. I was just unlucky as I could possibly be.
    On the other hand, I was as lucky as I could possibly be. I survived. I've now been undetectable for over a year, and have not missed a single dose of medication since I began three years ago. My cell count is now at 300, which is not too bad for someone my age, and it may improve.
    I don't hold any bad feeling toward the man who gave me HIV. I hope he discovered his infection soon enough to be treated before it wrecked his immune system. In honesty, I can't say that I regret the behavior that resulted in this, because the day I took 34 loads was a highlight of my sexual life. I would do it again in a moment. What I will never, ever do again is top anyone. I will put no one at risk. I will not be the one who passes this down the line.
    This blog is called News From The Front Lines because we are at war with an Enemy, and I am committed to fighting that enemy inside my body, and in the world outside. I will use my words, and I will use my body as the means to fight, and if I can prevent even one person from ending up where I am now, then I will have justified my survival where so many others have died.
    More dispatches to follow.
     
  13. 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
  14. ErosWired

    Nine

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I drove home from Nashville Sunday morning - a 90-mile drive - having spent the last night taking cock in a hotel room. I still had nine loads inside me as the result of my night of service.
    I don’t know anyone in Nashville, but an acquaintance from Chicago I met at IML last May had had come down to visit family, so I made arrangements to come down and take a hotel room so he could fuck me again. He also offered to be my doorman as I hosted.
    It was a successful night of hosting, especially for a Saturday - I usually avoid Saturdays because I find I have less luck then than any other day of the week, but this was the only day my acquaintance could meet. Aside from him, nine other complete strangers showed up to breed me. Between them all, I ended up being loaded nine times.
    As I drove, the number stuck with me for some reason, and I couldn’t shake the realization that my body now contained - and was actively absorbing - the reproductive fluids of nine other men, eight of whom I had largely not even seen, and one of whom was a mere acquaintance. I had, essentially, allowed nine strangers to insert their penises inside my body and ejaculate. (The first of them had a cock roughly nine inches long - I could tell by the way it threaded through my second ring.)
    In a general public sense, a man’s penis is considered a feature to keep hidden, at best a private, intimate thing; at worst, a thing considered unclean because of the fluids it produces. We don’t walk around in public with them hanging out (for the most part) and anyone who does is usually arrested because it isn’t considered decent.
    Of course, countless tomes have been written on the nature of the phallus as a designator of power and influence, and undeniably so. It is the single most defining token of masculinity. For all the protestations that a bottom isn’t any less a man because he receives cock, there is persistently, undeniably, something significant about the statement made when a man penetrates another man. Sometimes the point is made openly, but the subtext is always there due to humans’ binary reproductive nature - in that moment, the one is being less a man than the other.
     I never penetrate. I’m always the one penetrated. I not only allow it, I make it possible. I spend my money to arrange it. I endure discomfort to experience it. Yet I’m not ignorant of the way most people would perceive what I do, or their likely opinion of me if they knew.
    What, then, does it mean that I have allowed myself to become this? Yes, I was trained by a man who sought to draw out this part of my nature, but the nature was there to be drawn out. Who have I become that I would let nine strangers use their cocks to rut me like a breeding animal and inseminate me? Nine of them in a night.
    Nine, though, isn’t that significant a figure, actually. I had already passed the 999 mark in men who have fucked me, a while back. You can’t be un-fucked once you’ve taken a cock, so how much more completely far gone am I now? There is no denying it - I am not a man in the way the men who seeded me are.
    I know that a breeding doesn’t actually combine a man’s DNA with mine, but the fluid he pumps into me is a product uniquely of his body, and some of that fluid, and the compounds it contains, are absorbed into my flesh to become part of me. I know that my body has fused with the products of over a thousand men, the vast majority of whom are complete strangers, and many of whom I never saw at all. I now have difficulty framing a rationale why any man should not fuck and seed me, when I have accepted so many indiscriminately.
    I have accepted that my anus and my mouth are receptacles for what society considers unclean organs and the sexual fluid they emit, and done so so often that there’s no point in thinking otherwise. So what does that make me? What can people legitimately think of me? Obviously, some would say ‘you faggot’ and I have no grounds to dispute it - and I have to appreciate the irony that that phrase contains 9 letters.
    Nine feels like a heavy, weighted number because it’s incomplete, not quite ten. It leaves the sense of something lacking, something unfinished. Perhaps that’s why these nine loads resonate within me - they seem to call out for more, and I know that there will be more. Because I’ve become a cumdump, and there’s no going back.
  15. ErosWired

    Thesaurus of Cock

    By ErosWired,

    Whenever I am not being fucked enough (okay, that would be constantly) I find myself lying here thinking too much, and occasionally about – unsurprisingly – cock. We have all been down the list of words than mean “penis” - oh, don't give me that, you're not fooling anybody, you had a big cheesy grin on your face at the time, so just admit it – and I considered it today. 
    This modest standalone Thesaurus of Cock boasts a prodigious number of synonyms. One source I checked noted 174 items, dwarfing (to my surprise) the listing of Urban Dictionary. Another source offered a more robust 238 terms. Compiling different ones, I arrived at more than 350 alternatives for cock.
    This is important for three reasons. First, if you are a writer of a better quality of smut, it becomes necessary to switch up the common nouns after a while to keep things fresh, and to build effective metaphor: His basilisk turned itself to stone and slithered relentlessly into the twink's moist cavern.
    Second: Take that, you DoubleList and Grindr censorship fuckers. You think you're so damned clever because your filters stop us from using cock? Well I've got a 7” disco stick and I'm ready to dance all night. 
    Third – and this is what got me thinking to start with – there are some words used for cock that turn me off. Top of the list is pecker. Ha-ha-ha-HA-Ha! Ha-ha-ha-HA-ha! My name ain't Woody Woodpecker, dude. I'm not fond of dick, either. I don't have a “Richard”. Wiener has never worked for me, and after the whole Anthony Wiener thing, it never, ever will. Willy – nope. Nor any of the silly, nonsensical names like dong, dork, tallywhacker, or who who dilly (someone was seriously repressed). Also, the terms that tend to diminish cocks don't do it for me: chubbie, dink/dinker, peeter/peter, twig, weewee, and winkie.
    Bear in mind, I'm not so much talking about what I don't like my own cock to be called – frankly, gentlemen, I'd prefer that you ignored my cock altogether and focused your attention on my ass. The greater danger is in what a Top calls his own equipment because of the affect it can have on my response to him... including a tendency to giggle. (Giggle stick? Really?)
    I provide the compiled Thesaurus of Cock below for your use, in alphabetical order. A few observations:
    This listing is not intended as comprehensive. I have no doubt that you will find omissions from your personal experience. A couple of entries are simply prefixes that can be added to just about anything, purple-headed and one-eyed. An attentive reader will note that most of these terms could be grouped into broad categories, like Edibles, Military, Mythological, Musical, Zoological, etc. One category that suggests itself is Friend/Companion for the number of entries like Big Jim and the Twins, Mr. Happy, Little Alex, and so forth. If using this for writing alternatives, be alert for the Law of Diminising Returns. It is possible to choose a word that will destroy any credibility you may have with the reader. For instance: His purple-helmeted warrior of love struck the puckered door to the fortress like a battering ram or even For over an hour his trombone played sweet rhythm and blues to his lover's ass, before closing the set with a shot of jazz. Use some common sense. Some of these are strangely specific, and I am at a loss to describe the context in which one would appropriately use them: Nebraska State Capitol, Chairman Mao, Jerry Springer. The presence of Luigi but no Mario or Wario is puzzling, as is the complete absence of any Pokémon reference – including pokémon. Lastly: If you happen to be the owner of Krull the Warrior King, please contact me at once either by text or email. Please.  
    Thesaurus of Cock
    100% all-beef thermometer Alabama black snake albino cave dweller anaconda anal impaler antenna appendage appendicle Aries baby arm baby maker bag of tricks bald-headed yogurt slinger baloney pony basilisk BBC beaver basher bed snake beef whistle Big Jim and the Twins big Italian salami bird bishop blue-vein sausage bobby dangler bone boner boom stick braciole branch bratwurst broner bud bulge burrito bushwhacker candle Captain Chairman Mao chap choad chopper chub chubbie chup chut clarinet cobra cock cock rocket cod Colonel cornholer cranny axe cucumber cum gun custard launcher cyclops D D train dagger danger noodle dangler deep-V diver dick dick smalls ding ding dong ding-a-ling dingis/dingus dink dinker dinky dipstick disco stick doder doinker domepiece dong donger dork dragon drill drum stick dude piston easy rider eggroll elephant elevator excalibur extremity family jewels fang ferret fire hose flesh flute flesh tower footlong fuck rod fuck stick fuck truck fudge sickle fun stick gearshift General and two Colonels genitalia genitals giggle stick goober goofy goober groin ferret gut wrench hairy hotdog hammer hard drive hard-on hardware heat-seeking moisture missile helmet head hockey cocky hog hollow point homeboy hose hotdog hotdogger Humperdink jackhammer jagoff Jerry Springer Jimmy John John Thomas Johnson joystick junk katana kickstand kielbasa King Sebastian knight knob Krull the Warrior King lady boner lamb kebab lap rocket lawnmower leaky hose Lieutenant/Leftenant lightsaber lingam lipstick Little Alex Little Billy Little Bob little buddy Little Elvis little friend Little Stevie lizard lollipop Longfellow love muscle love rod love shaft love stick love whistle Luigi machine main vein Major male organs man meat man muscle man umbrella manhood mast master of ceremonies master sword meat meat and two veg meat injection meat popsicle meat stick meat sword meat thermometer member microphone middle leg middle stump mongoose monster Mr. Happy Mr. Knish Mr. Winky mustang mutton Nebraska State Capitol netherrod nuclear missile ol' one-eye old boy old chap old fellow old man one-eyed... P packer patz pecker Pedro peen peepee peeper peeter penile Percy Peter Ph.D phallus pickle piece Pied Piper pig skin bus pink oboe pink torpedo pink tractor beam piss weasel piston pitched tent pizzle plonker plug pocket monster pocket rocket poinswatter polaroid pole Popeye pork sword prick Princess Sophia private parts privates privy parts pud purple-headed... purple-helmeted warrior of love putz python quiver bone ramburglar remote control reproductive organs rocks rod rod of pleasure rooster Russell the love muscle salami sausage schlong schlort schmeckel schmuck/shmuck schnitzel schwantz/schwanz sconge screwdriver sea monster sebastianic sword secondary sex characteristic sequoia sex organs sexcalibur shaft shlittle shlong short arm shrinkage silver bullet single barrelled pump action shotgun single serving soup dispenser skin flute slut slayer snake sniper rifle soldier spawn hammer staff steamin' semen roadway stick stick shift stiffy surfboard tan banana tallywhacker tent pole thing third leg throbber thumper thunderbird thundersword tinker todger tonka tonsil tickler tool torpedo tramp killer tripod trombone trouser meat trouser snake tubesteak twig twinkie Uncle Dick undercover brother unit vein wand wang wang doodle wanger wanker wankie warrior of love Washington Monument wedding tackle wee wee wee weenie weiner whang whiskey dick who who dilly whoopie stick wick wiener wiener schnitzel willie winkie WMD (Weapon of Mass Destruction/Weapon of Male Destruction) wonder weasel wonder worm wood yardstick yingyang yogurt gun yogurt hose yogurt slinger yoo-hoo Zeus zubra zuchini
  16. ErosWired
    There's a motif in movies of the girl at her dressing-table, readying herself for her big date, taking the time to array and adorn herself, preparing to work magic and alchemy at once when she meets the man. Many times she finds an epiphany in the mirror, her soul looking back, or she flowers into song, so rich is the setting, so pregnant with anticipation and possibility, so fraught with potential consequence. It is an intimate window onto her that gives the viewer access to pathos when she arrives in splendor - or simply humble goodness - only to find that her paramour never intended to meet her at all.
    The analogy is far from perfect. A good many of us dedicated bottoms' wiles are centered around a more or less hairy rump, and, even if some of us do like musical theatre, we're guys, for God's sake. But in other ways there are some similarities worth noting - and worth pointing out, especially to certain of the always-tops.
    It's true that there are bottoms that don't think twice about dropping trou at any moment, and there's something to be said for spontaneity, but given time to prepare, I'd say most of us who take bottoming at all seriously invest at least a little 'boudoir' time preparing for any encounter, for a lot of reasons. Done well, it isn't always quick, and it isn't always easy... and it isn't always appreciated.
    My motivation for bottoming is the satisfaction I get from feeling a man's body cum in me because that is proof that I have made him feel orgasmically good - comfortable enough, and energetic enough, and powerful enough, and attractive enough to let himself enjoy the use of my body inside and out, and forget the world for a short while. Making sure he gets there takes work on my part. To start with, I always make sure he has a nice, clean hole to play with. I don't risk an accident that could derail the proceedings; I take the time to clean myself out thoroughly. It isn't comfortable, and it can be time-consuming, but it's the standard I set for my service.
    To pre-lube or not, to musk up or go natural, and the hairdo (if you've still got it) wants consideration.
    Body hair is tricky, because you never know what another man's preference is the first time you meet him. If you're pretty hairy, you can do something about it if you know he likes smooth skin (harder to go the other way without dressing in fur skins) but the degree of manscaping is a moving target. Again, potentially time-consuming, but I try to pay attention to detail all over my body, not just those places where his face is going to go where it wouldn't usually go.
    Likewise, attire. Now, you wouldn't think that a cumslut bottom would have any reason to spend time worrying about his clothing - it's going to be a temporary, if not disposable situation in any case. But it's all about the impression that sets the mood and the scene, that tells the story about the kind of man you have before you who is about to surrender his masculinity to yours and let you breed him. Choice of underwear (or whether to even bother), clothes that nearly fall off on their own, or duds that playfully defy the Top to claim his trophy, all this gets considered.
    Then, has the bottom got his kit together for traveling? That little box or bag of essentials to make sure everthing goes smoothly (or roughly) has to be got together. If the Top is into kink, this can be a very complicated affair. I can vouch. My BDSM bag to cater to the interests of discriminating Doms weighs pounds.
    Don't get me wrong - I don't primp and priss over myself in the bathroom. I want in and out of there as quickly as possible. I know there are plenty of guys who don't linger over it, and some guys say the grungier the better. I just know that the men who have fucked me the most thoroughly and enjoyed my body the most are the ones who appreciated my efforts in the 'boudoir', so that's why I make the effort for every single man who summons me.
    And that's why it pisses me off so badly when someone calls me for a hookup that's going to take me an hour and a half round-trip drive to another city, and when I get there, texts me to say, "I can't do it today" or "I don't feel like it" or "something came up" or "<nothing>". What the fuck? You let a guy rinse his guts out for you, spend an hour getting his body smooth enough for you to lick, pack all his sex toys for you to play with, drive 45 minutes on his own gas money, and you don't bother to tell him until half an hour after he's texted you that he's on his way that you're canceling? Without a reason? What's the matter with you?
    Maybe the guy in this case had a legit reason. Shit happens, and I'm fine with that if it's real. But I've been burned by men who do this much too often. I don't get it. I never get it. Tops are forever writing "I would love to eat your ass and breed you" and then, when the bottom says, "Okay," it's as though half the Tops didn't realize that was an actual possibility and that they might actually be called upon to perform. Again, what the fuck? Why do you people who do this, do this? I wanted to get my ass filled this weekend and lost my opportunity because of one guy who basically prevented my ass from being available to someone else who might have truly enjoyed it. Worst of all, it is so discouraging to me that it makes me question whether I'm wasting my time - whether I'm nuts to think that there are men who would seriously want to breed me. All I can say is, if you're out there, this ass is always, always eager for you.
    But if you're one of those game-player inconsiderate assholes who have no respect for the discomfort, time and effort a bottom takes at his boudoir for your sake, then piss off and please don't waste my time with your fantasy life. 
     
     
    (I don't usually write rants, by the way, but dammit, I was ready for breeding today. Some guy or guys could have worked me for hours... )
  17. 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.
  18. 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.
     
  19. 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.
  20. ErosWired

    This Is How I Know

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    I’m home tonight, it’s Sunday - Superbowl Sunday in fact, which signifies nothing to me since I’ve never watched football in my life. The clock was closing on 8:00 pm, and I had just heated up a bowl of soup for a late supper. I planned to read the news online while I ate it, and then probably think about getting some rest, as I had been up late the night previous. Tonight seemed like a good night to just unwind. The cat agreed; she wanted me to go the fuck to bed so she could have the house to herself for the night, and was blunt about it, so I wasn’t going to argue.
    I started to take a spoonful of my soup, and a signal came from my phone - the special bloop that only Kik makes. I checked it. Sometimes it’s just spambots, but on occasion…
    Hi - Are you available tonight? I’d love to come see you.
    Damn. “Come see you” meant “come fuck you”. It was the local Top who comes to my house to cunt me semi-regularly. He usually texts me on Kik about an hour before he wants to breed, which is, frankly, short notice.
    With rare exceptions, he’s the only person who comes to my house to fuck me. The fact that he does means that my preparation for him isn’t just rinsing out my intestines and cleaning my body so that it can be used, I also have to make sure the rooms are presentable, the bathroom is clean enough for company, etc. - I have to play the host as well as the sex object.
    But I do not refuse a man who claims my ass, if it is within my power.
    So tonight I left my soup on the table, shut the (annoyed) cat in the living room, and with one hour’s notice I straightened three rooms, cleaned the bathroom, gave myself a basic pre-fuck cleanout, and still had enough time to watch a little porn to remind me what I’m for before I heard the telltale rattle of the doorknob as he came in.
    My soup was cold, of course, after he left. The cat was, and is, pissed. My chance at a laid-back Sunday evening was lost. Now, you might say, So what? You got fucked, didn’t you? Bonus!
    The thing is - and this is how I know - tonight, at this particular point, I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to have to let that Top come fuck me. So why did I? Nobody had a gun to my head. I wasn’t being coerced. For all that is said on this forum about how bottoms “must” submit to Tops, the truth is we really don’t have to if we don’t want to. Tonight wasn’t a case of me secretly wanting to - I really didn’t.
    But I did it anyway. That’s how I know. The fact that something in me compels me to respond contrary to my own interest and desire tells me that the impulse isn’t contrived or imagined. It’s genuine. It’s real.
    I know I’m meant to be fucked by men and to serve their sex because doing so comes so naturally and automatically that the impulse to do it is as powerful as instinct and the imperative is hard-wired into my body and my mind.
    I have cold soup in my bowl and his hot cum in my ass. That’s how I know.
     
  21. 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’.
  22. 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. **
  23. ErosWired
    Bear with me, now.
    I have been aware of the existence of anal tattoos for a while, but have not given them proper consideration, as in, actual concentrated contemplation, before now.
    But seeing a picture of a person's ass with octopus tentacles seeming to explode from the central orifice begged a question, and, with a minimum of Googleinvestigation, hey presto! - Yep, all the way to the center.
    A Google image search on certain topics is not for the faint hearted. You never know just what you're going to get. What I did discover from a cursory... inspection... is that anal tattoos appear to be predominantly a female thing, but somehow I question whether this is actually true. There were male examples.
    Most common were butterflies and stars (including starfish) as well as sunbursts (of a sort) and tribal-ish treatments, as well as text messages of various descriptions, largely along the lines of "<insert cock here>".
    Not all, however, were so inviting. One example: a ring of barbed wire, which would make one think twice. A spiderweb, complete with realistic-looking spider facing inward. An actual spider. A very realistic-looking starfish (for those into fucking sea life) and oh, yes, an octopus. The correct plural of which, for your information, is octopodes, but if you have fucked more than one ass with an octopus for an anal tattoo, you have earned the right to call them what you want as far as I'm concerned. Not all text messages are welcoming either. One said simply, "Let it be." Another was a plainly instructional "Spit First".
    Male anal tattoos tended to be more star or burst-like, or tribal, with angular or graphical forms. One had his hole surrounded with what appeared to be target sight from a ranged weapon (perhaps, suggestively, a missile launcher). I did not find any with animal renderings, although I did see one with ornate flower petals.*
    Explain, please: Why? Why does anyone do this? I am tatt-less, a tabula rasa, so to speak, not because I fear the pain of the needle (a former master immensely enjoyed skewering both my testicles with long needles one day) but because I hesitate when I think of confronting my 80-year-old inked self and trying to explain why I though it was a good idea. Trying to explain why getting a tattoo around my anus seems like a bridge too far. Because I've never been under the tattooist's needle, I can't empathize with the pain of getting a tattoo there, but given that being rimmed instantly has the desirable effect of turning me into a mindless slut, I can only think that the opposite sort of treatment would have an effect as potently undesirable. Yet people find reason to endure it.
    How common is this in men? How many bottoms have taken this leap? What have they chosen for their design? Tops, do you find this a turn-on or not?
    I don't really understand why anyone would think to do this in the first place, but what really scares me is that I'm almost afraid that, for the right man, I could be talked into it. Nothing ostentatious, mind you, no octopodes. Something tasteful. Is that possible? Is "tasteful anal tattoo" an oxymoron?
    Your thoughts?
     
    *In Japan, the chrysanthemum is associated with the anus because of the visual similarity of the blossom, an a "chrysanthemum tryst" meant gay anal sex. It's the centerpiece of the Japanese Imperial flag. Just sayin'.
  24. 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.
     
  25. ErosWired
    Last Saturday was my birthday. I decided that rather than spend it alone at my house with the cat (a poor conversationalist) I would depart early for the Vapors bathhouse in Louisville and hope that some generous Top(s) would offer me loads of birthday presents, and basically fuck me in two. I planned to leave late in the afternoon, so eI burned a little time during the day watching Netflix, specifically an episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine in which members of the station crew accidentally travel to the Mirror Universe. I only mention this because a ) it seems to have set the theme for the evening that followed, and b ) I hope maybe it will entice some of you more geeky types to fuck me - it never hurts to try.
    I started out heading to the local ABS, 7 minutes from my house, to buy a new bottle of poppers, because mine seemed to have lost some of its jolt. When I got there, the packed parking lot made me think: Hm! Perhaps the hour's drive to Louisville is surplus to needs... So I put on my silver servicee collar, went in, bought my poppers and entered the theater. I went directly to the gay theater, stripped down in front of a dimly lit room full of six or seven seated men, who promptly... remained seated. Until they eventually left, and were replaced by men who sat in their places and did not shift. They watched the gay porn, which was playing with muted volume while the straight porn from the next room blasted its volume loud enough for both. Eventually I noticed one guy jerking himself slowly, occasionally glancing at me, so I got up and sat by him, and whispered in his ear, "Would you like some help with that?"
    "No," he said, "there's an audience."
    I stayed 45 minutes without so much as a nod-come-hither from any of those Woody Wallflowers, and then I got dressed and left for Louisville. Think of that as my tumble down the rabbit hole into the bizarre.
    When I got to Vapors, I had barely got into my room and undressed when a college-age guy of probably Indian/Pakistani descent came in. It was his first time at the bathhouse (he said) and he asked about what people did and what there was to do. I explained about the facilities and the rooms, and that basically guys got it on just about anywhere, and what did he like? He topped, he said (joy) and would I like to play around (no shit) so he climbed on my bed and we got to it. Magnificent cock - just beautiful - at least 9.5" and not too thick. A superb fucking instrument. My pulse quickened a little at the thought of feeling it shafted all the way to the root into my tight ass, and I was going to reward him so-o-o-o well. But not instantly; I wanted some tongue time with it first, and he let me have it, until he finally said, "Can I fuck you?"
    My dear boy, how many angels can you fit on the head of a pin? That's a question you simply don't bother to ask. Yes, fuck me infinitely, world without end, Amen.
    He got me on hands and knees, lined me up, stuck the head in - 
    My ass spasmed. This happens with me often on the first fuck of the day/night/session/whatever. I'll get a spasm of pain on entry, and have the Top pull out, wait five seconds until it subsides, and then I can take whatever get shoved into me all night, no problem. This time, I asked him to pull out, I waited five seconds, then told him to come back in. I felt his cockhead rub across my wet pussy, but he didn't re-enter. After a minute, he said, "I'm sorry - I already came."
    He came from sticking the tip in and pulling it out. I invited him to return after he recharged, but he never did. He just left his load soaked into my sheets.
    After that, crickets. By now it was 10pm Eastern Time on a Saturday night, and there was no one around in a city bathhouse. It was cold out, but for pity's sake...
    I finally got up, took a solitary steam and soak in the whirlpool, and then went upstairs to see if anyone had encamped in the TV room. I did find one guy there - I almost overlooked him, seated with his back in the shadows, jacking off slowly to the porn on the screen. I just stood in the doorway for two or three minutes while the clip finished, and then the guy got up and headed toward the door and me. Suddenly he stopped, and said, "Oh! I didn't see you there." He reached out and started touching me immediately, saying, "Is this okay?" and within a minute and a half the one-sided conversation had escalated to "Would you like to come to my room?"
    Why the fuck not?
    He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat the whole time, from the moment he saw me, and I have to admit there was something charismatically chemical - or perhaps chemically charismatic - about him. I'm mildly autistic, so other people's charisma usually just bounces off me with no effect, but this guy had me from the word "ho". We got to his room and the making out began. Normally it takes a hell of a lot to get me honestly hard, but he had me performance-hard with just a few caresses, and within five minutes, he was lying on his back on his bed with his ass tilted up for me to fuck him, and I, total bottom who had not entered another man in over a dozen years, did. After some thrusting, he climbed on top and finished me, before jacking off to a shuddering orgasm that shot clear over my shoulder with me still inside him.
    Then we did it all over again.
    After I took my leave, I went back, cleaned off, and resumed my station. I did take one load from a rather modestly-dicked man, and then I looked over my shoulder to see a line of three more waiting. The next one came in, looked at me closely, then went back out. When I turned around a moment later, they were all gone, like someone had shouted, "Clean cup!" and everyone suddenly had to jump up and change to a different place altogether without any reason whatever.
    Then, more crickets for half an hour. At last, my CL notice announcing me as a bottom taking anon loads got a bite, a man who wanted to know if I could come to him, not far away. I though, well, it's one certain fuck-and-load, versus possibly nothing really satisfying the rest of the evening at the bathhouse, so I dressed, packed my things, and checked out. While I was checking out, a sudden influx of men began coming in, perhaps six or seven, mostly individual, mixed ages, making me wonder if I had just made a horrid  mistake. But the deed was done, and I went off to get my one certain birthday fuck.
    I arrived ten minutes later at a darkened apartment in which my summoner sat naked on a hard wood floor, evidently wanting to take the 'anon' part very seriously. He asked if I had any poppers, and said he had only used the kind that I had in my old bottle, so I pulled that out for him. I asked him what he liked, and he said, "I like to be fucked."
    Oh. Shit.
    He hadn't understood the ad. But I'm a sexual service submissive, and once I answer a call I don't just walk out if I can serve in some capacity. And I had, after all, just fucked another man, twice. "I can't promise you I'll be able to fuck you in a way that will satisfy you," I said.
    "Well, maybe you could just fist me," he replied.
    Wh-whathe-forcrying- I had never been fisted before, much less fisted someone else. I've studied up on fisting because I've seriously considered allowing a Dom to do it to me before, and I still may, but I had had no actual practicum. I told him so.
    He went into the other room and returned shortly with a towel, a two-cup glass measuring container full of resonstituted powdered ass lube, several pair of latex gloves, and a huge spreading dildo that he had been using to gradually train himself open.
    I sighed.
    "Have you ever taken a fist before?" I asked.
    "No. I had a guy try once, but he wasn't any good."
    "Look at my hands," I said. "My hands aren't huge, but they aren't petite, either. I know the basic theory for fisting, and I am familiar with the anatomy involved, and know the principal things to be cautious about. I cannot promise you that you will succeed tonight, but if this is what you want to do, I will try."
    We went to his bedroom, and I realized that if I was going to have any hope of relaxing him enough for this, I was going to have to start with massage. I gave him the abridged version of what I call my "high-risk" massage - the one that is risky because if I give it I stand a fair chance of leaving the Top either too relaxed to function, or outright asleep. His back was like one of the Red Queen's playing card soldiers, stiff and unyielding, but I finally got him relaxed enough to begin, and I discovered that he must have been using that stretching dildo fairly regularly. Then, for some utterly bizarre and, to me, inexplicable reason, it suddenly occurred to me that what his ass needed to relax better was a good fucking.
    So, for the third time that night, I, a total bottom, fucked a man. I didn't cum this time, but I gave a performance that I would have appreciated myself had I been the recipient. After that, he had indeed opened further, and, long story short, after about 20 more slow, careful minutes and lots of incredibly messy lube, I was up to my wrist in his ass - his first fist, and a milestone for him.
    "You're just awesome," he told me afterward.
    By the time I was ready to leave Louisville it was 5:30am, time for Krispy Kreme Doughnuts to open, so I stopped there and got a dozen. When I came out, I felt oddly as though I had stepped back through the Fucking Glass into the real world. I have absolutely no desire to fuck anybody. I am the fuckee, the cunt, the bitch, the boy pussy. I love it that way. In that Mirror Universe I saw another me who lived another way, and his sex life fucking weirded me out.
    As for loading me up on my birthday, thanks for nothing, Louisville. (The guy I fucked twice, by the way, was visiting from Nashville.)
    As for the rest of you, especially you geeks like me, live long and prosper.

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