ErosWired

I like that observation. I have always made it a point to pay the Top some compliment afterward even if he wasn't all that. In a busy anon group I haven't always been able to speak individual praise afterward... but I'm a vocal bottom. Can't help it. I figure I'll end up saying something out loud that most Tops would take as a compliment.

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... )

Bear with me, now. I have been aware of the existence of anal tattoos for a while, but have not given them proper consideration, as in, actual concentrated contemplation, before now. But seeing a picture of a person's ass with octopus tentacles seeming to explode from the central orifice begged a question, and, with a minimum of Googleinvestigation, hey presto! - Yep, all the way to the center. A Google image search on certain topics is not for the faint hearted. You never know just what you're going to get. What I did discover from a cursory... inspection... is that anal tattoos appear to be predominantly a female thing, but somehow I question whether this is actually true. There were male examples. Most common were butterflies and stars (including starfish) as well as sunbursts (of a sort) and tribal-ish treatments, as well as text messages of various descriptions, largely along the lines of "<insert cock here>". Not all, however, were so inviting. One example: a ring of barbed wire, which would make one think twice. A spiderweb, complete with realistic-looking spider facing inward. An actual spider. A very realistic-looking starfish (for those into fucking sea life) and oh, yes, an octopus. The correct plural of which, for your information, is octopodes, but if you have fucked more than one ass with an octopus for an anal tattoo, you have earned the right to call them what you want as far as I'm concerned. Not all text messages are welcoming either. One said simply, "Let it be." Another was a plainly instructional "Spit First". Male anal tattoos tended to be more star or burst-like, or tribal, with angular or graphical forms. One had his hole surrounded with what appeared to be target sight from a ranged weapon (perhaps, suggestively, a missile launcher). I did not find any with animal renderings, although I did see one with ornate flower petals.* Explain, please: Why? Why does anyone do this? I am tatt-less, a tabula rasa, so to speak, not because I fear the pain of the needle (a former master immensely enjoyed skewering both my testicles with long needles one day) but because I hesitate when I think of confronting my 80-year-old inked self and trying to explain why I though it was a good idea. Trying to explain why getting a tattoo around my anus seems like a bridge too far. Because I've never been under the tattooist's needle, I can't empathize with the pain of getting a tattoo there, but given that being rimmed instantly has the desirable effect of turning me into a mindless slut, I can only think that the opposite sort of treatment would have an effect as potently undesirable. Yet people find reason to endure it. How common is this in men? How many bottoms have taken this leap? What have they chosen for their design? Tops, do you find this a turn-on or not? I don't really understand why anyone would think to do this in the first place, but what really scares me is that I'm almost afraid that, for the right man, I could be talked into it. Nothing ostentatious, mind you, no octopodes. Something tasteful. Is that possible? Is "tasteful anal tattoo" an oxymoron? Your thoughts? *In Japan, the chrysanthemum is associated with the anus because of the visual similarity of the blossom, an a "chrysanthemum tryst" meant gay anal sex. It's the centerpiece of the Japanese Imperial flag. Just sayin'.

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...

I got AIDS from barebacking. Not just HIV - AIDS. As in, I didn't just get the unstoppable, irremovable virus in my body, it actually had time to eat me alive. HIV destroyed my body's ability to defend itself from disease, an ability that it had developed over the course of my entire life. By the time the doctors diagnosed me, every random bacterium, virus, and fungal spore had an odds-on chance of killing me. Some of them tried. Pneumonia, fungal meningitis. The latter almost finished me off by causing two small strokes in my brain. I would have died, too, if I hadn't been lucky enough to have a complete Circle of Willis - a circular path of blood vessels in the brain - that kept enough blood flowing to the blocked area to keep me alive. Even after I pulled through and started ART, I got an onset of molluscum contagiosum around my cock and balls - normally this is easily resisted, but it took months to clear. Then an old friend returned from childhood: chicken pox, in the form of shingles, activated because my immune system started to recover. That was misery squared for about three weeks. My CD4 count inched up slooooooowly, and I had to take prophylactic doses of antifungals and antibiotics until the count reached around 200. It's now around 300 after three years, where it ought to be at least 500, and it may never get that high again. I started on Atripla, then Triumeq, and now Genvoya. Every. Single. Day. Atripla sucked because it had to be taken at the same time each day, coordinated with meals, so there were times when I could, and could not, eat. It also made me gain weight, and shifted that weight to unattractive areas of my body. It has taken a long time, a complete change in my lifestyle, and a heartbreaking change of diet to alter that. Most recently, my doctor informed me that, as a result of my medication, I have developed a low-grade case of diabetes. Yep, you heard that right - meds-induced diabetes. Why am I bringing all this up? Because these are the consequences. I'm alive. I'm relatively healthy. I'm not sick, my viral load is undetectable, my chance of infecting someone else with HIV is very, very low, and my chance of getting another opportunistic infection is also very low as long as I take my HIV meds daily. But that doesn't mean I don't have to pay a price for my barebacking. From now on, I have to live very carefully. Until science catches up with this enemy virus, I have to live with diabetes. I have to watch what I eat, knowing that badly prepared food could do far worse than give me a bellyache. I have to work extra hard to keep my body from changing shape into something I don't want to look at. And I have to live with the understanding that my life expectancy, even with these miracle meds, is my mid-70s. That's at least 10 years less than I should have had. Now, I never particularly wanted to live to be an 80-year-old, so that's no great loss for me, but in a general sense, is the feeling of a raw cock up your ass worth ten years of your life? I can't answer that for you, because I can't answer that for me. Even after everything I've said above, I'm still not sorry for the day I took 34 loads in my ass. I wish I could do it again tomorrow, and the day after that. Being that kind of bottom completes me. I've accepted that part of the reason I'm here is to serve other men in just that way, and it gives me great joy every time a man experiences his climax inside me. I feel as though what I lose in quantity of life I perhaps gain in quality of life at that moment. I only wish I had more opportunity to give. But maybe that's what these HIV meds do, after all - not more opportunity to give the virus, but to give ourselves.

I got tested regularly at six-month intervals, not including the times when my doctor had me tested for cause because he knew that I had sex with men. I never had a re-test for a negative result, however, so none of he negative results were ever suspect. I just had a run of very, very bad luck as far as the test results. In hindsight, there were other clues that the doctor *should* have seen, like low B12 levels and other markers, that should have pointed to HIV infection, but he's a GP without a great deal of experience in HIV diagnosis and simply didn't connect the dots.

Positive and on meds since September 2014. Undetectable for over a year, haven't missed a single dose of meds in three years. Guys said I was a 'power bottom' before, no reason not to be one now. I'm not a chaser, though - not looking to get *superinfected*. :b

Undetectable does not equal Negative. It simply means that the viral load is extremely low, radically reducing the risk of infection. If you're on PReP, you have an added margin of safety, but wherever the virus exists, there is risk. I've been undetectable for over a year, but I will only bottom now because topping is a higher-risk activity, and... well, I was born to bottom anyway.

I had a sphincterectomy also, and I would emphasize - be patient - give it enough time to heal! I was a little too eager, and jumped back in the saddle (or, kind of, was the saddle) a little too soon, and it set my recovery back a while. No more fissure problems now, though. Also, be sure to regulate your diet to keep enough fiber moving through you, and make sure you always get enough water. It's very important.

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

I have one nephew who is very much out. His brother is totally straight and married, but completely stands up for his gay brother. The whole family does, which is something in Kentucky.