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ErosWired

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  1. ErosWired

    The Shirikodama

    By ErosWired,


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

    4,000

    By ErosWired,


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

    A Nuclear Option

    By ErosWired,

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

    The Clock Strikes Nine

    By ErosWired,


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

    3 1/2

    By ErosWired,


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

    This Is How I Know

    By ErosWired,


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

    Nine

    By ErosWired,


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

    Three

    By ErosWired,


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

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

    Eight

    By ErosWired,


    HIV
    The 14th of this month was my 8th anniversary. I am now an 8 Year AIDS Survivor.
    Eight years since I stopped being the person I used to be and started being this one. Because that’s what the Enemy Virus does, it climbs inside you and in every practical way becomes a part of you. Not just in the sense that there’s no way to get it out, but also in the way it becomes a part of your every waking moment - your habits, what you eat, the decisions you make, how you look at the world, and how the world looks at you. I am not who I was eight years ago.
    Of course I’m not. Nobody is. Nobody’s the same person they were last week. But because of HIV the possibilities of the person I could have become became constrained. From now on, anything I do in the future has to be contingent on whether I will be able to obtain the sophisticated medication that keeps me alive. I can’t plan to travel to certain parts of the world; they won’t let me in because of my HIV. I can’t leave it behind at the checkpoint like leaving behind a disallowed object at airport security - it’s not something I have, it’s now something I am.
    In that sense, marking eight years loses some of its meaning, like counting the eighth year of eternity. Except my eternity, because of HIV, isn’t going to be as long as a negative person’s eternity. ART notwithstanding, my life expectancy is shorter, and my quality of life is less. I may have ticked over 8, but I don’t expect to live to 80.
    On the other hand, eight! I’ve held the walls against the goddamn Enemy for Eight solid years after it did its damnedest to take me out and failed. There are no cracks in my defense so far, and my resolve has not weakened. I’m not one of those who’s holding out hope for a cure - there will be one in time, I have utter faith in science, but I doubt it will come in time to apply to me. I expect to be fighting till the end.
    Looking back across eight years of suffering and struggle and vigilance sometimes sharpens the question in my mind - why? Why are we made to suffer? Why are we handed such fate? I am one who believes that all things happen for some reason, and I often struggle to comprehend the reason for this.
    I try to make good come of it - I don’t shy away from telling my story to people, here and elsewhere. My strengths are in words and information, so I do my best to spread knowledge and understanding, and dispel stigma about what it is to be Positive. Even so, sometimes that feels like shouting in the dark, because I can never be sure I do any good, that my suffering has any point.
    Until now.
    Yesterday I got a call.
    My gay nephew, who is 32, was just diagnosed with HIV. (If any of you sick motherfuckers dare say ‘congratulations’ I will find you, rip off your head and shit down your throat.) I do not yet know his CD4 count or viral load, but he is also very sick with MRSA. This is my sister’s family. They are frightened, confused, uncertain…and they are going to need me, because I’ve lived with, and survived, the same thing - for eight years.
    Now I know why.
    In my tribe there is a saying: ‘If you’re bleeding, look for a man with scars’. - Leela of the Sevateem
  10. ErosWired
    I hosted again in Louisville last night, having discovered serendipitously on my last visit to town that Sunday nights are apparently neither remembered as the Sabbath nor kept holy among the man-fuckers in Louisville. The trip was reasonably successful, with seven loads and six men serviced.
    Well - seven, sort of.
    He was the third to come along. He hit me up on Sniffies, and at first he said he wished he could fuck me but he had no car (cue sound of violins), so I cut the conversation short. Not long after, he messaged back to say maybe he could get himself there.
    Nice looking young guy, bit stoner-y, great legs. The first thing he says is, “I’ve been walking around all day, would you mind if I rinsed off in your shower?
    Red Flag 🚩 #1
    Sure, go ahead. I mean, some guys are funny about wanting to be garden-fresh for sex, and that’s fine.
    He took a shower like he hadn’t washed in a week.
    He comes back out and asks me to suck him to get him hard.
    ”I’m a grower,” he said, “but I’m a little high.”
    Red Flag 🚩 #2
    The oral isn’t working. He lies down for it. Still nothing. He asks if I have a cock ring; I lend him a neoprene one. Still no wood. He wants to know if my ass is loose enough to take a soft cock (! !!) because he might get hard that way. N-ope.
    At last, he figures it mist have something to do with all the G he did before he came, apologized, flopped down on the bed and asked if he could charge his phone on my charging cable.
    Red Flag 🚩 #3
    I don’t want this limp-dicked, patially-G-hawed dude hanging around my hotel room, regardless of how clean he is (and he damn well better be since he used all the towels) for who knows how long to charge his phone.
    But I have a solution: I have an extra portable power supply, one of the small cylinder-shaped ones, fully charged, and I tell him he can have it since it works with his cable. At that point my daughter calls unexpectedly and I tell the guy I have to take the call. He says, somewhat reluctantly, “I guess you’d like me to leave, then.”
    Red Flag 🚩 #4
    “If you don’t mind.” He walks out, then back in again, seeming to look atound for something, and I herd him back out the door.
    About an hour later, he messages me again on Sniffies, wondering if I could do him a big favor. The truth is, he’s just gotten out of jail and rehab and detox, and has nowhere to go to sleep and hasn’t slept in several days, and could I help him out with a room to sleep in for the night?
    God. damn. It.
    If you read my first blog entry about no good deed going unpunished, you will not fail to see certain parallels here. I did, by God, and told him that the last time I did something like that it went very, very badly, and I was not putting myself in the same position again.
    He said he understood, but could he charge his phone because the portable charger was almost out of power. ! !!
    ”You have to plug the charger in to power it back up. It’s like a rechargeable battery.”
    He said he understood. In a minute:
    ”What about if I got the room in my name?”
    ”I cannot afford to get you a hotel room. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
    At least he didn’t call me an asshole.
     
    Oh, and by the way, remember my No Good Deed Vol. 2 entry about the guy who fucked me then stole my dildo? The guy after this guy fucked me then stole my poppers.
    History doesn’t repeat itself so much as sodomizes you repeatedly up the cunt with a cactus. But only if you do something nice.
  11. 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.
  12. ErosWired

    VHS

    By ErosWired,


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

    Dead Man Walking

    By ErosWired,


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

    Ten

    By ErosWired,


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

    Winter Wonder Land

    By ErosWired,


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

    Grandmasster

    By ErosWired,


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

    Fuck By Numbers

    By ErosWired,


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

    Note that the highest length notated on the chart is 22cm - 8.66 inches - putting it in the 99.9th percentile. Extrapolate that upward and you begin to get into orders of magnitude in rarity.
    All those 10” cocks everybody’s getting pounded with? They belong to men that are one-in-thousands.
    Now, they aren’t mythical like unicorns - they really are out there. The porn at least proves that much. And, some of the stories told here are completely true. I personally am very careful not to exaggerate or embellish what happens to me, and I can honestly say that yes, I have been fucked by an 11” cock, and by a 10” cock. But only one of each (though the 11” had me twice). Since I’ve taken more than 1,000 cocks, it’s not statistically odd that I might have had these encounters, nor the handful of 9s and 8s I’ve taken.
    But if one were to somehow tally up every fuck chronicled on this forum and sort them by the size claimed for the Top, I’m absolutely sure the result would be impossible to reconcile statistically with the chart above.
    Guys, you don’t have to be huge to be a terrific Top. Bottoms, let’s face it, huge is largely a fetish - a really good fuck is all about your attitude and the Top’s skill. Maybe we can all re-calibrate our expectations a little and accept ourselves and each other as we are.
    I’m just a little over 7”. If length actually mattered, that would put me right about the 99th percentile, and some might bemoan a tragic waste of a good cock on a total bottom. But as I don’t penetrate at all, I might as well not have a cock at all, and so that 7” number becomes meaningless. We’re not numbers. We’re men. Always remember that. Otherwise, it’s just fuck by numbers.
  19. 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.
  20. 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...
  21. 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... )
  22. 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...
  23. 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.
  24. 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
  25. 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.

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