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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
    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.
  4. 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.
  5. 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.
  6. 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...
  7. ErosWired
    A small group of men entered my room at The Works bathhouse in Indianapolis last Saturday evening during CumUnion. I could tell it was a group by the sound of the shuffle of their feet, by their breathing, by the way the echoes off the walls of my small room shifted, by the play of the shadows around me. I took a light popper hit to loosen my ass, and it amplified my senses. My ass was up, facing the door (naturally) so I didn't turn to look at them. I never do. I'm a cunt. Why would I need to look at them?
    They were talking to one of their members:
    "What do you think?"
    "Like the look of it?"
    "Fuck yeah."
    "_____ used him earlier, said he was the shit."
    "OH yeah."
    "You gonna fuck him, fuck that white pussy?"
    They would be black, then. I didn't even bother with a mental note; I don't care what color a man is, I never have. Sometimes I don't even notice. Call it one of the few perks of being somewhat autistic. His color signified nothing... except... and this has nothing to do with stereotype and everything to do with my personal, intimate experience of fucking many black men... it meant greater odds on him having a big cock. Sorry, that's just the way it's been for me.
    "Yeah. I'm gonna do it. That looks like a nice pussy."
    Here again, no stereotype drawn from, just my actual experience: the black guys who have fucked me have almost always called my ass a "pussy" if they don't call it an ass. They never use "cunt". I don't know why.
    The man sounded young, perhaps shy. I decided I would take especially good care of him. His friends left him and he closed the door behind them. Okay, not an exhibitionist like they had been earlier, if they were the group I was thinking of. There had been eyes on me getting fucked earlier. Eyes on my face. Eyes on my face when my own eyes were rolling back in my head. Eyes on me when they left me lying like a rag doll after their rough-fucking.
    Good times.
    I could hear this man fumbling over by my shelf, amongst my lubes. "Try the coconut oil," I said over my shoulder.
    "Oh. Okay," he said. I positioned my ass for easy entry.
    When it came, I was mildly surprised. He didn't have a big cock, just average. But as is sometimes the case, I would rather have a craftsman in possession of simple tools than a novice equipped with an arsenal. This turned out to be a craftsman. I didn't need to take care of him. He took care of me.
    He started slow, sped up, went to ramming speed, back and forth. If he paused, I couldn't help fucking myself on him as though he were a stationary object. I was wearing my solid-steel chastity device that covers my whole cock, and he fucked three loads out of me that filled the inside of it and left my cock swimming in my own seed.I know the clock continued moving, because by the time had finished, 45 minutes of continuous fucking had elapsed, punctuated by long, long, long moments where he found that particular point where a Top's cock feels as though it has hit the absolute bottom of you and your ass involuntarily clamps down in a death-grip along the full length of his shaft, and we would stay that way for eternities at a time, welded together into one body while our minds unspun.
    At last he pulled out of me and ran a finger slowly, gently, over, into and out of my hole. "That is good pussy," he said. "Good pussy is hard to find."
    He said it in a matter-of-fact way, like a man of experience, a man who knows whereof he speaks. "That like to have worn me out," he said, sliding off the bed to gather his towel. "I would have like to have done more of that, but I'm old."
    I blinked. I turned over at last to look at him.
    Not young... but surely not old...
    "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"
    "Fifty-six."
    "Then I guess I'm old, too, since I'm 51. An old man couldn't do what you just did."
    He smiled shyly, opened my door, and left.
     
    Friends accuse me of trying to find meaning in everything, even where there isn't any to find. This man of 56 called himself old not because his looks convinced him that he was - I would have guessed early 40s, in fact - but I suspect because his life's experiences had the weight of an older man's. He bred my ass as a man of experience; and when a man of experience says something, his words have weight.
    If he tells me that good pussy is hard to find, I have to believe him.
    If he tells me my pussy is good pussy, it makes me want to share it all the more.
     
     
  8. 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.
     
  9. 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.
  10. 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.
  11. ErosWired

    Valeria Messalina

    By ErosWired,

    From the First Century CE, Pliny the Elder wrote of the (truncated) life and (dubious) escapades of the wife of Claudius Caesar, by name Valeria Messalina. Messalina was a bad egg. She machinated her way ruthlessly around the court, cheated shamelessly on her husband to the point that it offended even Roman sensibilities (which is saying something), and used sex as a weapon both in work and play.
    Perhaps Pliny’s most famous account of Messalina concerns her reputed contest held one-on-one against Scylla, a prostitute noted for her endurance, to determine who could have intercourse with the most men in 24 hours.
    Messalina - the Roman equivalent, mind you, of the First Lady Of The United States - won with a final tally of 25 fuckings by 25 distinct men.
    What a slut. At least, even the decadent and debauched society of Rome thought she had crossed a line, and it contributed to her downfall.
    I think about Valeria Messalina a lot. I think about her condemnation by her society - its judgment on her promiscuity. Although that was by no means the only character trait that brought about her demise on a centurion’s blade, it was significant. I think about it because a few years ago, in a 24-hour period, I beat Messalina’s winning score by *nine* I’m almost 150% more of a slut than Valeria Messalina, perhaps history’s most reviled slattern. My score was 34. And all I can think about is someday topping that.
    There’s a lesson in here somewhere. When I find out what it is, I’ll tell you. At the moment, though, I’m typing this on my cell phone lying buck naked on a cheap hotel bed where I’m being whored out by another guy. I’m in between fuck number 13 and 14 and I have 10 loads of cum in my ass and two in my belly, and I think someone’s at the door.
  12. ErosWired

    Keeping Score

    By ErosWired,

    I joined BreedingZone a year ago this month. A year ago I considered myself a committed sexual submissive, because that's what I've been trained for, but I didn't think of myself as a cumdump, nor did I think about barebacking as a choice - it was just something Men did or didn't do when they fucked me. Once I became HIV+, I didn't have any sex at all until I became undetectable, and then I let Men know I understood if they wanted to use a condom. At that point, I was glad they were still willing to fuck me at all.
    Finding this site showed me that I could still thrive sexually given my status and my age, even as a total bottom. The input from the members here gave me the inspiration to go out and actually live a life that so many Men post about in fantasy but never have the courage to act upon. Looking back over this year, I realize how much more conscious I've become of my sexuality and sexual habits, and how much more open I've become in talking about it. Yesterday my bisexual son was telling me about the possibility that another boy interested in him might come to his party, and I was attempting to advise him how to manage the situation. After a minute he looked at me and said, "Is my dad trying to be my wingman?"
    I was not. There are some things I do not. want. to. know.
    About my own sex life, on the other hand, I've begun keeping closer track than I ever have. There have been several topics on these boards concerning load tallies and load counts and who has taken the most loads in a year, or in their lifetime. I don't count loads because 1) Sometimes you can't tell whether you got it or not, 2) If the Top mostly cums on your ass crack and then sorta pushes some of it in, does it count? Yes? No? There are too many variables, and in any case I wholeheartedly agree with @PERVERSATILE when he points out that "The load is the prize". What I count, instead of loads, are fucks.
    I keep track of them on my cell phone, in a simple ongoing page in the Notes app. Since Tops sometimes seem to enjoy keeping score by making hash marks on my ass with a pen when they finish with me, I adopted that as my sort-of standard. (In the not-so-good image accompanying this post, you can just make out a faint set of hashes on my right ass cheek; even "permanent" ink markers are no match for a good steam room.) The score I've kept looks like this:
    March (F-S) ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||
    April (F-S) ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ |||
    May (Th-F) ||||\ || (S) ||||\ ||||\ |||
    June (F) 0. (S) ||||\ ||~|\ |||
    July (F) 0. (S) ||||\ ||||\ ||~|\ |
    August (F) ||{++} (S) |||{++} ~~~
    Sept 13-14 (Th) |||| (F) ||||\ (S) ||
    October (F) ||| ff  (S) |{+}||\ |~||\ |||| f
    Oct 19-20 (F) ||||\
    \ = a crosshash, or fifth mark that crosses four
    |{+..} = the Top returned to fuck me again for the number of times indicated by the plus marks
    ~ = I gave credit for the fuck even though the guy was a little too soft or a little to wasted to penetrate me very well. As long as he thought he was fucking me he got credit. It's the Top's pleasure that counts.
    0 = zero fucks. What the fuck was up on Fridays in June and July?
    f = recently I've started keeping track of the number of times guys flake on me.
    Obviously, I didn't start keeping this record until March, when I started attending CumUnion in Indianapolis and hotel hosting regularly in Louisville, so it doesn't include fucks from October 2017 - February 2018, and obviously, I don't count the flakes. But the tally above right now stands at 142 fucks for the year - a dismal reckoning that reflects the fact that I'm stuck in the back of beyond in rural Kentucky and have to drive over an hour just to get to somewhere I can be a slut. If I lived in a metro area, that count would be much higher.
    That count, however, isn't the only count I keep in my Notes app.
    I have another one on another page, and it's been going on longer, since August 2014. It looks like this:
    8/29/2014
    CD4: 49
    VL: 85,000
    11/11/2014
    CD4: 160
    VL: 840
    2/11/2015
    CD4: 188
    VL: 50 (Damn. So close.)
    6/1/2015
    CD4: 250 (Dr. not pleased)
    VL: 65 (me not pleased)
    Quitting Atripla, starting Triumeq
    9/2015
    CD4: 285
    VL: Undetectable
    3/2016
    CD4: 315 (I had hoped for better, but Dr. is pleased, so I suppose I should be satisfied)
    VL: Undetectable
    2/1/2017
    CD4: 218
    VL: 65 (Dr. says this is a normal blip, not a concern)
    Quitting Triumeq, starting Genvoya
    3/28/2017
    CD4: 293
    VL: Undetectable
    2/27/2018
    CD4: 249
    VL: Undetectable
    8/26/2018
    CD4: [not checked]
    VL: Undetectable
    10/23/2018
    CD4: 300
    VL: Undetectable
    I have a new HIV doctor now
    I suppose you could say I'm keeping score against the Enemy Virus as well.
    I take a sort of pride in both of these lists, in ways that are different, but also in one way that's the same. I take pride in my fuck count not as an accumulation, but as proof of the number of Men to whom I have been able to give an ecstatic moment of pleasure. I know little or nothing about their lives - I may never even see some of them - but for the short time they are with me, they are safe, and warm, and made to feel incredibly good, and I have accomplished that, by my certain count, 142 times in a year. If I could have made it a thousand, I would have. I take pride in my CD4 and Viral Load count as wayposts along the road of my fight against AIDS, and my struggle back from the edge of death. The marks denote a long, narrow, rocky road, but I have kept on it without missing a step, and I'm proud of my determination.
    I take a pride in both of the lists because they're both, in their way, celebrations of life continuing in spite of age, in spite of disease, in spite of doubt, and in spite of fear. They are proof that I am very much alive.
  13. 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.
  14. 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
  15. 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.
  16. ErosWired
    Back to the bookstore for three more loads tonight, regrettably all swallowed. “Regrettably” as in “not bred deep into my ass”, but far be it from me to complain about •any• load another man wants to pump into me. At one point I had a cock in each hand and one in my mouth, trying to rotate between them and do them all justice.
    Still, there seems to be some dynamic about the adult bookstore scene that I’m not catching onto when it comes to sending out the message that “The fucktoy is in position: Gentlemen, start your engines.”
    I mean, I’m basically naked except for my boots, socks, cap, and a pair of backless jock-briefs. It’s below freezing outside, so it ought to be clear to even the slowest among them that there’s a •reason• my ass is on display, shouldn’t it?
    Yes, head is often the expected preamble to fucking, I get that. It probably didn’t help matters that the first guy I wrapped my lips around told the whole room that I was a fantastic cocksucker. (I dispute this; I think I probably give very mediocre head because my mouth is too small and I can’t deep-throat no matter how much I practice. An agile tongue can only take you so far. Besides, I’ve managed to suck my own cock before, so I can speak from experience.)
    On this particular Saturday evening, the cold westher kept some people home. Inversely, this also had the effect of bringing at least one homeless guy into the theater to sleep on one of the couches. I don’t blame him at all, but his presence And that of a clearly CD guy who looked basically like someone’s (homely) mother put a major damper on my general fuckability. Add to this the two gay guys who sat right outside the theater door and held a loud conversation about personal finance and home decorating (I shit you not) and it started to become difficult to maintain a hard-on, let alone score an ass-fucking.
    So far, the last two visits to the ABS have netted me five losds, but only one by breeding. I’m beginning to wonder whether I ought to stick to hotel hosting with ads that specify that I’m only taking breeders. The ABS might work out better if I used the glory-holes, but I’ve never liked that method.
    *Sigh*  Men are strange animals.
    But my tongue sure likes the way they taste.
  17. 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'.
  18. ErosWired

    Down to a Science

    By ErosWired,

    There's a difference between being fucked and being bred.
    If you're a bottom, you know what I'm talking about - you know when a man is breeding you, and you know when a man is just fucking you. The question is, how do you know?
    How about the way he acts? Oh, no, that's not the way; And you're not listenin' to all I sa - wait a minute, that's Cher...
    I mean, part of it is the way he acts, the subtle shift in tone of his voice, the difference in the position and firmness of his grip, the angle of his hips when he mounts you - I'll never forget one anonymous guy at camp who got up behind me without a word, and even though I couldn't see him in the dark, I could tell the exact position of his body, the same position taken by male animals in the wild for pure reproduction. It became a purely instinctual act of two creatures, and he reached forward and gripped me by the back of the neck as his cock pulsed his seed deep inside me. When he had finished, he pulled up his shorts, and paused to look at me long enough for me to just make out his silhouette and the gleam of his eyes in the night. Then he was gone.
    Ironically, a comment like "I'm gonna breed your ass, bitch." is not necessarily a prelude to a breeding. It's probably a reliable prelude to a pretty solid fucking, but actual breeding requires a mindset on the part of both the Top and the bottom - although the bottom's mindset is optional (his asset is not). The Top must think of, and by diverse means, convey, that he has Power and is about to convey some essence of that power into the body of the bottom. The Top-As-Breeder must demonstrate that he is in control of the whole setting, that he has intent, that he is going to achieve his goal no matter what, and that he is equipped for the task at hand.
    When I say "equipped", I know what you're thinking. And you're not wrong. But the last time a man bred me, he was the most consummate breeder I ever encountered. He had it down to a science. This man arrived at the door of my cabin to look at some gear we had talked about earlier. There had been no discussion of hooking up. He carried with him a small bag, but I didn't pay any attention to it. After I offered him something to drink, we looked over the gear, then he commented, "Nice cabin. Is the bed over there?" It was; I showed him.
    He said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to fuck you."
    Well, then.
    After he got me naked on the bed, he opened the small bag he carried, and brought out a small anal lube shooter (legislation should be passed requiring every Top to carry one of these, loaded for insertion) and a small triangular pillow made of foam, covered in blue cloth.
    "I custom-made this for breeding," he said of the pillow. "It elevates your ass to exactly the right height and tilts your hips to just the right angle for me. Raise up."
    Height - angle - he must have taken measurements, because true to his word, he had me precisely where he wanted me for the deepest conceivable penetration, the smoothest, longest strokes, the most varied positioning of my legs, the greatest exposure of my hole, my cock and balls, and view of my face.
    He took his time about it, too, and when he finally unloaded inside me, packed his kit and left, my legs wouldn't stop shaking and my anus kept clenching.
    After my door closed behind him, I realized he must have intended to breed me from the first time he saw me earlier in the day. He had set his sights, moved on me without hesitation, taken complete control, and bred me like I belonged to him.
    Hm...I wonder how hard it would be to make an adjustable foam pillow...
  19. ErosWired

    Slut Economics

    By ErosWired,

    My understanding of the principles of economics is rudimentary at best. And why would I need it anyway, as I never have any money? Of course it could be the reason I never have any money, but that’s beside the point here. I do grasp, at least, the concept that people tend to ascribe greater value to things that are harder to obtain or are few in number, and lesser value to things that are easier to obtain or are in greater number.
    Gold is valuable because, aside from its lustre, it is harder to obtain and less plentiful than eggs. A viable ivory-billed woodpecker egg, however, would, to some people, be worth more than its weight in gold. Go figure.
    How, then, do we calculate the value of a cumdump slut? This is a bottom of remarkable promiscuity, with little or no discretion over whose cock he will take into his warm and waiting hole, who goes out of his way to frequent locales where he can be readily identified and used by any who pass by, and who actively and lewdly advertises himself as a mere vulgar sexual receptacle. This is a person whom we here on this site accept among our ranks as a matter of course, but for whom the general populace would display revulsion and scorn. (This description is becoming more painful the more I resemble it.) If one were to casually scan over the posts on this forum, one would have to conclude that such libertine cumdump sluts are legion, lurking in numbers in every nook and cranny of the globe, simple for any Top to find at any time.
    Even if we aren’t actually spaced every three meters apart, it’s clear there are quite a few of us. And when you find us, we’re easy. Sooo easy. So, going by the previous economic principle, our relative value as sexual targets should be relatively low.
    For some, perhaps it is. For some, we may constitute a class of untouchables that they wouldn’t fuck under any circumstances. Sometimes, as I’m lying ass-up on a hotel bed waiting for the next anonymous stranger to insert his penis into my body and fill me with his reproductive fluids before leaving without a word, I wonder about the type of men who actually respond to my ads - who actually go out and fuck strangers. Somehow, there is a demand for those of us who slut, even though our value ought to be low.
     I understand that some Tops enjoy the no-strings freedom that comes with an anonymous fuck, and because they are virile Men, prefer getting off by fucking to masturbating. I also understand that the natural submissive tendency that draws most cumdumps to their sluttery likewise draws certain types of Dominant males like moths to a flame. But in both these cases, desire could be satisfied without resorting to using the sluttiest of us.
     I have never heard of a place where “Everybody’s fucked him” is a compliment. On the contrary, it comes across like an expiration date. I’ve certainly found that my usage at the bathhouse I frequent has tapered off markedly from the time I was “fresh meat” there. Therefore I have to conclude that some value is placed on ass based on how readily available it is. I do have a number of repeat visitors (always an honor) who have apparently enjoyed me enough before to come back, but clearly not all of them. For some, the value diminishes. Is it because they realize I’m nothing but a used cunt? But then, what about those Tops who talk about how much they enjoy fucking a sloppy, loose hole that’s been reamed by several cocks already? I’ve had so many Tops hold off coming to fuck me until I have another load already in me.
    And then, flip the scene around - take the pretty, buff, self-conscious and obviously posing dude at the bathhouse who’s waiting for just the perfect one to hook up with - hard-to-get, attractive, few in number, ought to be highly valued. Yet so often I see such guys spoken of in scorn by Tops expressing how little they’re interested in fucking them.
    What would happen if that attractive, buff, guy was also a cumdump slut who “everybody has fucked”? In a case of two negatives somehow making a positive, I’m guessing there would be a line for his ass.
    Clearly, I’m finding Slut Economics even more baffling than the regular kind...
     
  20. ErosWired
    I got AIDS from barebacking. Not just HIV - AIDS. As in, I didn't just get the unstoppable, irremovable virus in my body, it actually had time to eat me alive.
    HIV destroyed my body's ability to defend itself from disease, an ability that it had developed over the course of my entire life. By the time the doctors diagnosed me, every random bacterium, virus, and fungal spore had an odds-on chance of killing me.
    Some of them tried.
    Pneumonia, fungal meningitis. The latter almost finished me off by causing two small strokes in my brain. I would have died, too, if I hadn't been lucky enough to have a complete Circle of Willis - a circular path of blood vessels in the brain - that kept enough blood flowing to the blocked area to keep me alive.
    Even after I pulled through and started ART, I got an onset of molluscum contagiosum around my cock and balls - normally this is easily resisted, but it took months to clear. Then an old friend returned from childhood: chicken pox, in the form of shingles, activated because my immune system started to recover. That was misery squared for about three weeks.
    My CD4 count inched up slooooooowly, and I had to take prophylactic doses of antifungals and antibiotics until the count reached around 200. It's now around 300 after three years, where it ought to be at least 500, and it may never get that high again.
    I started on Atripla, then Triumeq, and now Genvoya. Every. Single. Day. Atripla sucked because it had to be taken at the same time each day, coordinated with meals, so there were times when I could, and could not, eat. It also made me gain weight, and shifted that weight to unattractive areas of my body. It has taken a long time, a complete change in my lifestyle, and a heartbreaking change of diet to alter that.
    Most recently, my doctor informed me that, as a result of my medication, I have developed a low-grade case of diabetes. Yep, you heard that right - meds-induced diabetes.
    Why am I bringing all this up? Because these are the consequences.
    I'm alive. I'm relatively healthy. I'm not sick, my viral load is undetectable, my chance of infecting someone else with HIV is very, very low, and my chance of getting another opportunistic infection is also very low as long as I take my HIV meds daily. But that doesn't mean I don't have to pay a price for my barebacking. From now on, I have to live very carefully. Until science catches up with this enemy virus, I have to live with diabetes. I have to watch what I eat, knowing that badly prepared food could do far worse than give me a bellyache. I have to work extra hard to keep my body from changing shape into something I don't want to look at.
    And I have to live with the understanding that my life expectancy, even with these miracle meds, is my mid-70s. That's at least 10 years less than I should have had. Now, I never particularly wanted to live to be an 80-year-old, so that's no great loss for me, but in a general sense, is the feeling of a raw cock up your ass worth ten years of your life?
    I can't answer that for you, because I can't answer that for me. Even after everything I've said above, I'm still not sorry for the day I took 34 loads in my ass. I wish I could do it again tomorrow, and the day after that. Being that kind of bottom completes me. I've accepted that part of the reason I'm here is to serve other men in just that way, and it gives me great joy every time a man experiences his climax inside me. I feel as though what I lose in quantity of life I perhaps gain in quality of life at that moment.
    I only wish I had more opportunity to give.
    But maybe that's what these HIV meds do, after all - not more opportunity to give the virus, but to give ourselves.
  21. ErosWired

    A Little Push

    By ErosWired,

    I hadn't planned on it, and didn't expect it.
    Well - I didn't expect it.
    I was cleaned out, and lubed up. What I planned on, or at least hoped for, was a pleasant encounter with some willing top who might like the look of me and have some fun. You never knew at this campground, but it was a gay campground, so the odds were good, and even if the goods were sometimes odd, I didn't much care. But it was a crapshoot, because I was there alone, and it always seemed like the action happened to the guys who arrived with friends. Groups begat groups, action happened more readily within groups, and action begat... well, begetting. A guy alone found it harder to get noticed, to get selected, to become a focus of, shall we say, attention.
    Not that I'm ever looking for 'attention'. I don't care if they ever even see my face. For that matter, I don't care if I ever see theirs. One of my greatest memories from that place is the dark night where an unknown guy fucked me deliciously for a good ten minutes before he blew, then handed me over to another who plugged right in. The first guy then paused by my head and said to the first, a stranger to him, "You'll love that. He's got a fantastic ass." He left, and I never saw his face.
    This time, I wandered around for a while, finding no joy, and at last made my way into a shed where they kept a fucking bench. Two men stood nearby touching each other, and others stood in conversation around the walls. No one particularly noticed me as I stepped over to the unoccupied bench. I pulled down my underwear and bent over with my belly against the leather and my elbows and knees against the rests, not really expecting anyone to take the unasked-for offering.
    Nobody did for a few minutes. But then the two men touching each other suddenly began touching my ass, and soon, fingering my hole. Without a word, one of them lined his cock up and slid it forcefully inside; it was just the right size to stretch me open without much pain. His vocals turned heads. After a few minutes I felt him fill me, and then his friend swapped out and did the same. By the time he pulled out, I was glowing - two for the price of one! I started to raise up, but suddenly felt two fingers at the small of my back give me a little push back down. Slowly, I resumed my position on the bench.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the two guys standing beside me and the bench. They weren't moving to jump back in again, but I couldn't tell what they were doing. I only knew they wanted me to stay there.
    A few wordless minutes later, a different set of hands spread my ass apart and stroked my taint up and down across my hole, the finger probing inside, smearing cum in and out to lube the opening. Then an larger cock entered, and began fucking. The grunting was more gutteral than before, lower and quieter - a bigger man, who finished more quickly, but filled me just the same. After he pulled out, I started to raise up - but there it was again, a little push.
    This time, a pair of eager, uncertain hands. Hands that weren't sure quite what to do. Hands that kneaded my globes and my calves, a cock that smacked against my hole repeatedly, a cockhead that jabbed the wrong place a couple of times before getting it right, hips that pushed with a lot of energy. Some barely legal kid, probably. He blew in a few seconds, but it kept on going. He finally pulled out. Men clapped. When I was sure he was done, I raised up - 
    A little push.
    This time, an older man. You can tell sometimes, because the hands stroke your ass with reverence, with appreciation, with gratitude for the gift they know they are about to receive. Fingers knew what to touch, and where. I know I gasped, and I know my face betrayed the reactions running through my body (it always does - remind me to tell you about the time with the lumi-lights). The fingers (multiple) took the time to visit my prostate and then stroke me to dripping before he mounted me. Viagra or no, he had no problem staying hard or completing the act, which he did with a shuddering sigh and pulses that I felt all through me.
    When he was done, there was silence in the room, and no one seemed to move. I felt a wave of contentment. I had not anticipated the chance to serve so many, nor the exquisite rush of having a roomful of eyes watch me do it. I pushed my torso up from the bench -
    A little push.
    What?
    A built guy positioned himself in front of me with his cock at mouth level. "Suck it," he said.
    I couldn't raise my head enough to see his face, and he was insistent enough that as soon as I opened my mouth even a little he jammed his cock into it. I lavished my tongue all around it, let it explore the hollow of my throat, but he quickly pulled it out again. "See this cock?" he said, turning it sideways so I could examine its thick, veiny purple size. "This is going into your ass, and then it's going back in your mouth."
    He disappeared from in front of me and I quickly felt his strong hands cleave me apart and position his cock to piston into my cunt. He was rough, and he took his time. My head bobbed up and down and my back arched from the brutality of the raw fuck. When he finally burst, he did it with a barking shout and yanked my hips back as hard as his muscled arms could bury him into me. After the pulsing stopped, he circled back around, panting, and said, "This was in your ASS," and thrust it into my mouth, tasting of cum, sweat and ass. I cleaned it off with my tongue. When he left, he smacked me on the ass.
    I lay there for a few moments, worn out. Not only unexpected, but more than I had had in mind. I gratefully got up -
    A little push.
    In all, twelve men fucked me on that bench. I have to assume the first two in some way silently invited the other ten to use what they had appropriated as their free giveaway cumhole. I don't understand the dominant male mind that finds such a thing a turn-on... I'm just glad they do. I wish more did. I wish more men would feel free to give me a little push.
    That's all it would take, any time.
    If you're a top who would enjoy doing something like that, can you explain what that feels like for you? Why you would enjoy doing it? I really want to understand.
    And if you're a top who wants to try it...
  22. 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.
     
  23. ErosWired
    [I want to preface this entry with a word to any readers whose heritage is Native American. The experiences I describe below are a true account, and my narrative of them is as objective as I can make it. My interpretation of the meaning of the events is naturally filtered by my own cultural lens, but also by my professional role, one that has to a degree sensitized me to the history, realities, and sensitivities of Native Americans. I assure you that my contemplation on the nature of the experience derives not from crude stereotyping or assumption but from my observations and from a spiritual sense inherent to myself that I find difficult to describe but that I can only swear to be genuine.]
    I once hooked up a few times with a Top who was a nice guy, but when he fucked me, a strange sort of change came over him. He was, as it happened, a Lakota, and each time he started dicking me down he would suddenly become very aggressive, grab me by my neck from behind with one hand and grab a handful of my hair with the other and force my head down flat sideways on the bed, my torso stetched out so that my pelvis was ground under him for deepest possible penetration.
    Then he would lean over and start saying angry, harsh words in my ear in Lakota, but which I couldn’t understand, and he would punctuate each phrase by spitting on me - on my back, on my ass, on the back of my neck. After some of this, he would then fuck me savagely until he came, then yank my head back by my hair as he let me go.
    The next moment he was exactly the same as before we had started, almost as though a different person had walked into the room (naked).
    I realize this sounds spacey and all New Age and shit, (never mind race stereotyping) but I always felt as though that guy wasn’t actually the one fucking me. It felt as though the person fucking me was full of rage, and these fuckings were actually rapes counted as coup for far worse wrongs done to helpless people generations ago. It was the spitting - something I really don’t like anyway - the hate and ferocity embodied in each blast, each one bursting through tight lips like a knife blade into my naked back as he stabbed me repeatedly lower down, that told me this wasn’t about sex.
    Lying there under the domination of his hands, listening to those unfamiliar, berating words spat at me, followed by the smack of his saliva, feeling cruel force ravage my body and then triumphantly fill me with itself - I could not escape the thought that this man must be channelling the spirits of some warrior of the First Peoples come to claim justice for his people from mine.
    Not long ago I took one of the AncestryDNA tests to find out where my people came from. I’m basically 100% British Isles. No wonder I ended up the target ass for his justice fucking. And do you know what? I’m okay with that. My ancestors did horrible, horrible things to people, rape included. Maybe I’m nuts and this is all in my head, but if raping my ass can give a few of those poor souls their rest, then let them rape me. The bill is overdue.
    I just wish they wouldn’t spit.
  24. 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... )
  25. 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. **

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