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ErosWired

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  1. ErosWired

    Slut Economics

    By ErosWired,

    My understanding of the principles of economics is rudimentary at best. And why would I need it anyway, as I never have any money? Of course it could be the reason I never have any money, but that’s beside the point here. I do grasp, at least, the concept that people tend to ascribe greater value to things that are harder to obtain or are few in number, and lesser value to things that are easier to obtain or are in greater number.
    Gold is valuable because, aside from its lustre, it is harder to obtain and less plentiful than eggs. A viable ivory-billed woodpecker egg, however, would, to some people, be worth more than its weight in gold. Go figure.
    How, then, do we calculate the value of a cumdump slut? This is a bottom of remarkable promiscuity, with little or no discretion over whose cock he will take into his warm and waiting hole, who goes out of his way to frequent locales where he can be readily identified and used by any who pass by, and who actively and lewdly advertises himself as a mere vulgar sexual receptacle. This is a person whom we here on this site accept among our ranks as a matter of course, but for whom the general populace would display revulsion and scorn. (This description is becoming more painful the more I resemble it.) If one were to casually scan over the posts on this forum, one would have to conclude that such libertine cumdump sluts are legion, lurking in numbers in every nook and cranny of the globe, simple for any Top to find at any time.
    Even if we aren’t actually spaced every three meters apart, it’s clear there are quite a few of us. And when you find us, we’re easy. Sooo easy. So, going by the previous economic principle, our relative value as sexual targets should be relatively low.
    For some, perhaps it is. For some, we may constitute a class of untouchables that they wouldn’t fuck under any circumstances. Sometimes, as I’m lying ass-up on a hotel bed waiting for the next anonymous stranger to insert his penis into my body and fill me with his reproductive fluids before leaving without a word, I wonder about the type of men who actually respond to my ads - who actually go out and fuck strangers. Somehow, there is a demand for those of us who slut, even though our value ought to be low.
     I understand that some Tops enjoy the no-strings freedom that comes with an anonymous fuck, and because they are virile Men, prefer getting off by fucking to masturbating. I also understand that the natural submissive tendency that draws most cumdumps to their sluttery likewise draws certain types of Dominant males like moths to a flame. But in both these cases, desire could be satisfied without resorting to using the sluttiest of us.
     I have never heard of a place where “Everybody’s fucked him” is a compliment. On the contrary, it comes across like an expiration date. I’ve certainly found that my usage at the bathhouse I frequent has tapered off markedly from the time I was “fresh meat” there. Therefore I have to conclude that some value is placed on ass based on how readily available it is. I do have a number of repeat visitors (always an honor) who have apparently enjoyed me enough before to come back, but clearly not all of them. For some, the value diminishes. Is it because they realize I’m nothing but a used cunt? But then, what about those Tops who talk about how much they enjoy fucking a sloppy, loose hole that’s been reamed by several cocks already? I’ve had so many Tops hold off coming to fuck me until I have another load already in me.
    And then, flip the scene around - take the pretty, buff, self-conscious and obviously posing dude at the bathhouse who’s waiting for just the perfect one to hook up with - hard-to-get, attractive, few in number, ought to be highly valued. Yet so often I see such guys spoken of in scorn by Tops expressing how little they’re interested in fucking them.
    What would happen if that attractive, buff, guy was also a cumdump slut who “everybody has fucked”? In a case of two negatives somehow making a positive, I’m guessing there would be a line for his ass.
    Clearly, I’m finding Slut Economics even more baffling than the regular kind...
     
  2. ErosWired

    No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

    By ErosWired,


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

    You’re close enough I can walk, address?
     I give him the address. Then I chance to click on his profile and read “I don’t have anywhere to stay, if you can help me out I’d really appreciate it”
    Goddamn it.
    Wait a minute. I just read your profile. I’m offering you a fuck, not a place to stay. You come in, you fuck, you leave. That’s how this works. You cannot stay here.
    [Long pause]
    Understand
    Whew. Bullet dodged.
    In come the first two guys. Both very overweight, shall we say “lightly washed” in the groin area, and soft. They both fling themselves down on their backs on the bed, classic pose of lazy Tops expecting head.
    Goddamn it.
    Guy 1 is a young Man Of Color with a BBmicropenis. The other, a young latinx dude with button-like proportions which thankfully turned out to be of the ‘grower’ variety...but somewhat pungent in a way that may arouse some followers of these forums. Myself, not so much. Nonetheless, my duty was plain, and my training compelled it. I had them both hard within about five minutes. Guy 1 gets up and moves behind to mount me.
    There is a pause, marked by crinkled rustling. He’s getting out a condom and putting it on.
    Goddamn it.
    He has, to be fair, a rock-hard 3-1/2 inches, so I definitely feel it. He thrusts a few times, pushes my head down on his friend’s cock a few times, pulls out, crinkle-rustle, puts on another condom, thrusts a little more, then reassumes the position. He motions for his friend to get up.
    ”Both of the condoms broke, though,” he said.
    He broke...two...condoms...in a row... with a few jabs from his shortstick?
    The friend seemed hesitant, so I explained U=U, my status, reassured that he did not have to do anything he wasn’t comfortable doing. He decided to fuck, but fumbled around my hole until he went soft. I sucked him back to life and he fucked me for a couple of disinterested minutes before returning to the position.
     I make it a point when working with multiple men at once to make sure my service is equally distributed, so I next applied tongue to Guy 1 again, and in pretty short order he whitewashed my tongue. I swallowed and went back to his friend, hoping to finish off the episode quickly.
    Twenty minutes later my jaw locks up and he shows no sign of being close. In fact, he’s been basically expressionless the entire time, giving me nothing to guide me.
    He says, Do you like to ride? And gestures at his cock.
    Lazy. Top.
    He lies there like a beached manatee, doesn’t even help guide himself into my hole, and I do my best to ride him, but his heft prevents me from really getting any leverage on his pelvis so I don’t know if I’m doing much of anything except keeping him inside me.
    At a point where I’m doing a desperation move with my back arched backward, my hands gripping his ankles and my ass pistoning back and forth rapidly to try to score some angular friction, out of the side of my eye I see the door to the room open. In comes a guy with a rucksack and a guitar. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. It’s obviously the guy with no place to stay.
    Goddamn it.
    Guy 2’s cock slides out of me; he’s ready to stop. No expression; I have no idea whether he enjoyed using my body or not. They get dressed to go, and Guy 1 comes up, thanks me for a good time, gives me a hug, and mutters in my ear, “I’ve seen him around. He’s a little crazy. Be careful.” They depart, leaving me buck naked in a hotel room with God Knows What.
    Momentarily, God Knows What (hereafter GKW) finishes his business and emerges from the bathroom in his underwear, blue and shivering. He has clearly been walking around outdoors for quite some time in the near-freezing weather.
    For God’s Sake.
    I ask him if he would like to take a warm shower to warm himself up. He says that would be very nice. I start his water, get him a towel, and leave him to his (lengthy) shower. As I wait, I put on some clothes. The last thing this guy needs is to be spending his energy fucking me if he’s on the street. I check to see where the local shelter is located; I can’t let this stranger stay in my hotel room, but I can warm him up, make sure he has something to eat, and offer to take him somewhere where he can be out of the cold.
    Guy 1 messages me and asks how things are going. I tell him what I’m doing, he says, “Aww, you’re nice.” I don’t know about nice; I was a park ranger, and this is practical.
    The guy comes out, looks better but still a little pale, I offer to make him a cup od warm coffee. Yes, please. Sugars? Three. Cream? Two. I make the coffee in the bathroom. When it’s done, I emerge to find GDW talking on his headset phone with what appears to be the boyfriend whose car he lately got out of and walked away from because his boyfriend was entertaining a pair of drug dealers and GKW didn’t want to be around them for fear of being caught up in some sort of police sting. I listened to him unroll the panoply of his convoluted drama, complete with broad hand gestures the boyfriend couldn’t see, for about five minutes, before I said, rather pointedly, “You’re going to have to call him back.”
    After a minute he wound up the call and I asked if he has had anything to eat; he had had something in the afternoon. I explained that as I had told him, he couldn’t stay here, but I would be glad to drive him to the local shelter or anywhere he needed to go.
    ”Oh, I never go to shelters.”
    Well.
     I suggested that if he felt he was too good for a shelter when he had no other place to go, it was best he just be on his way.
    And, then, of course, he flips out.
     I am now bullying and abusing him - how dare I - just because he’s having a problem doesn’t mean I have a right to push him around. Then he fires off :
    ”I have Asperger’s!”
    Indeed?
    ”I have Asperger’s.”
    This catches him up a bit; he wasn’t expecting that.
    ”So... so you understand!”
    ”I most certainly do. I’ve struggled with Asperger’s for well over 35 years.”
    ”Well I’m 37!”
    ”So basically I’ve been dealing with it as long as you’ve been alive.”
    I suspect that this line of attack has worked out very differently for him previously, and he’s learned to use his autism as a means to manipulate people. With me, it’s like oil on Teflon.
    He falls back to abusive language. I tell he’s going to have to leave the room immediately, and if he doesn’t I will be forced to call for the police.
    ”Who do you think brought me here?” he said. “If you touch my stuff I’ll call them myself.”
     I picked up his bag and his guitar and set them by the door. I went over to the phone by the bed an picked up the receiver. He quickly started putting on his clothes. I paused.
    ”Are you afraid to call them?” he said “How will you save face?”
    ”I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about me doing this.”
    He quickly finished dressing, picked up his headset, called someone and said, “Can you come pick me up? Can - Can you please - just come pick me up?” (Note that apparently the person  he was talking to already knew where he was.)
    Then he hesitated, drank half the cup of coffee that I had made him in a couple of gulps, told me what a fucking asshole I was, and left.
     
     I mean.
    Goddamn it.
    The thing is, I know better. Of course I have better sense than this. The trouble is that one Biblical account of angels disguised as travelers who seek shelter, and we are instructed never to refuse shelter to one in need because you never know. (The practical application of the scripture being to encourage mutual social support.) Add to this a 30-year career as a park ranger, for whom the sight of a person who walks in chilled from exposure to the elements triggers an almost visceral response.
    Still, I had the presence of mind to decide, first thing, that 1) letting him fuck me was out of the question; 2) I needed to put on some clothes; and 3) I needed to put my self-defense weapon where I could easily reach it. He never knew it was there, but it was there.
    By this point I was not only ready to call it a night, I didn’t care if I never saw that godforsaken town again.
    Thirty minutes later, as I was preparing to close up shop completely and go to bed, I got a Grindr hit asking for an anon quickie right now.
    Goddamn it.
    You see, I know I keep saying it, and I don’t expect that any of you actually believe me because it just sounds too much like a fantasy, but when a Top asks me for my ass, I feel psychologically compelled to obey. A man used actual techniques to train me to react this way. So I agreed to take one more fuck.
    As it turned out, one more absolutely, toe-curlingly delicious fuck by a young guy with superb thighs. He wanted me missionary and I’m so glad he did - the bliss spread across his face in waves as he slicked in and out of my hot cunt, and when he finally shot what I later discovered was a huge load deep inside me, the smile on his face as he came in one instant made up for everything that had happened before.
    So, what is the moral of this tale? I’m not really sure. I want to be able to continue to place my trust in the essential good nature of people; I’m a trusting soul to start with, but if I’m going to achieve my goal of giving Tops the ability to take absolutely anything they want from me, I have to not only remain intimately vulnerable, but become radically more so.
    When I returned home this evening after a 5- hour drive, the moment I walked in the door I got a message on A4A: Did I want to fuck now?
     I let the guy know I had just gotten in and that it would take some time to prep myself, and he could probably find another willing bottom in the time it would take me to prep. I said I would, however, go ahead and begin to prep myself in case he didn’t find anyone, because he should not have to go without ass if I could prevent it.
    ”Thanks,” he replied.
    Then:
    ”Could you come pick me up for a while? You’re not far away.”
    Goddamn it.
  3. ErosWired
    Last night while I was slutting my ass at my usual hotel and Top #3 with the big cock and the aggression to match was railing me, I happened to catch sight of myself in the nearby mirror.
     I saw my body positioned in a way that any observer could not mistake for anything other than deeply submissive receptive sexual intercourse. My legs were splayed broadly to the sides, my ass hiked up and cocked at an angle to point my hole upward, my back was arched backward in a  crescent, my head flung back along the same curve, and my arms supporting me straight ahead with fists full of bedspread. And of course, a man was fucking me.
    But that instant of seeing myself “from the outside” made me acutely aware of how I must appear to other Men who see me when I take cock or wait for it ass-up. Even I could look at myself and see something somehow not quite male - something that had been devolved to another purpose so as to be useful to actual Men. This was emphasized when the Top later put his hand on the small of my back to force my torso flat onto the bed so that he could concentrate on drilling my hole.
    Even though I knew the person in the mirror was obviously me, the mirror made it easier to consider myself more as a sexual object than as a person, and read the Top’s use of me in that context. I’m still not sure how I feel about it all, except that the experience deepened my sense of submission, of worth only as a sexual outlet, and as a person easily controlled by the sensations in his own flesh. In the mirror, my body betrayed to anyone watching exactly what that fucking felt like for me - and even made me see it in a more intimate, revealing way.
    No wonder an audience tends to gather when my bathhouse room door is left open when I’m being fucked...
  4. ErosWired
    When I was young I read lots of books.
    My parents let me read what I wanted, which was good, because I had zero interest in sports or any of the other things that usually make boys boys. (I wasn’t into the things that make girls girls, either, in case you’re wondering.) Star Wars had just premiered and in a few years I would discover Dungeons & Dragons and computers, but the books were always at the center.
    They were stories about heroes and heroines, protagonists who had to face uncertain situations or dangerous enemies, find advice from the wise, struggle with their own inner weaknesses, and find a way to emerge ethically victorious at the end. There were a lot of such stories, and if you read enough of them at a certain formative time in your life, they shape you. Principle among these for me were the works of Tolkien, with their epic depictions of the noble Men of Numenor and others great and good.
     I found later in life that I had no real-life idols I looked up to or wanted to emulate - mine were all in books. The real human ones - like my father - failed to meet the noble standard of my heroes, the standard I set for myself to reach.
    Therein lay the seed of the problem. I hadn’t hit puberty - I bloomed late, and being Autistic, I didn’t catch on to what was happening to me when it did happen. And why would I? You see, in all those books, all those stories, and especially in Tolkien - there is no sex.
     I grew up in a home where sex wasn’t discussed. My Dad’s birds-and-bees talk with me consisted of “mutter mutter mutter keep it in your pants” and I didn’t even understand what “it” he was referring to. So, like Queen Victoria, I determined that I was going to be Good.
    And I was. I strove to be perfect in everything I did - “Be perfect even as your Father in Heaven is perfect”. My father cussed like a sailor, yet not one off-color word passed my lips. I was a straight arrow, square as a cube, insufferably correct, and ethically anchored.
     I was also socially inept and sexually clueless, but I didn’t know that. All I knew was that most people didn’t like me even though I tried hard to be a good person, and the people who didn’t like me liked pop culture and had started going on about this “sex” thing. Fine. If they were going to reject me, I would reject them, and everything they liked.
    Fast-forward to college. Sex at last made itself understood to my brain, and it was incompatible with everything I ever read about, admired, aspired to, or wanted. It as carnal, animal, messy. It wasn’t Good. And there was this word associated with it, the word that, then, I considered the worst thing I could say: fuck.
    Still more confusing, I found that my curiosity about sex revolved around sex with other men. As a freshman, I went to my first AVS and bought my first gay video.
    It changed me. Fuck me! Fuck me! God yes, fuck me! Men actually did the thing my rebel body was shouting for!
    But not me. I resisted the rebellion with all of my reason and my willpower. I destroyed the porn tape, glad to be rid of the damn thing... then, before too very long, I bought another. After I purged the indecency from my body I destroyed that one in its turn. But eventually I would get another.
     I was still a coital virgin. In high school I had had a girlfriend who would work my cock with her hand until I came, but I didn’t understand what was happening and certainly didn’t have sex with her. Now I was on a campus where 95% of the students belonged to one of the fraternities or sororities, and sex was everywhere around me. I was a ΓΔΙ (Gamma Delta Iota) - a God Damned Independent - so I wasn’t marinated in sex and alcohol like the rest of the idiots. Yet I had a need in common with them, a drive at that time of life screaming to be met, and I ensured I had no opportunity.
    The struggle became a kind of inner warfare that split my mind in two - two different facets of me so incompatible and so consumed with mutual loathing that they persist to this day.
    It was only the year after I graduated that a very kind and dear friend ended at least a part of my conflict by seducing me and taking my virginity. I will always be grateful for her mercy, even though the act left me even more confused - was that what everyone got so worked up over? But that’s irrational...
    Fast-forward. Graduate school, job, no sex again until marriage (to a gal with a record of some 74 guys she had been with). Sex was expected, and sanctioned, and she had a potty mouth and I suddenly found my resolve slipping. During the moment, to my shock, I even used the F-word.
    The sex was good enough to produce two children - my son’s conception was one of the most unusual and memorable ejaculations I’ve ever had - but not good enough to keep her happy. After 11 years, it was over, and at age 37 I looked at myself and found a wreckage of all my early asperations and resolve. I had been dragged down into divorce like any regular person, prey to emotion and physical appetites that I had had to concede to in order to meet her needs. Now there was no her, just me, horny and prone to swear, and now actively thinking of finding out if I really was attracted to other men, and what that would be like. I went to Louisville to a gay bar even though I didn’t drink, got picked up by a guy and fucked the first night, and loved it.
    Loved it.
    Loved.  It.
    Eros was god of love and sex in the ancient Greek world. Among other things, he was said to be the protector of homosexual love between men. Though originally a primordial god, later tradition makes him the offspring of Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. He carried a bow with arrows that could cause mortals to feel passion beyond reason; the Romans called him Cupid.
     I am convinced that the son of a bitch found me early on and realized that here was a mortal who made a mockery of him and his power (erotic power, named after him). He made his plans right there and then that he was going to take me down about 300 notches by hitting me with arrows at just the right times. By the time he was done with me, he figured, this good, upright, uptight boy would be a sex-addicted slut happily wrapping his tongue around men’s phalluses and taking their seed in his hole so often he would surpass even that whore Messalina.
    Fast-forward to now.
    His arrows don’t miss, and one offends the gods at his peril. The person I was in the beginning would have been unable to contemplate what he - I - have actually become. Far from his ideals, I have now been trained, and my mind shaped, to accept that I am intended for the random sexual use of strangers, a willing and eager receptacle for their fluid, my body conditioned to accept their rutting, excited by the sound of squishing juice and slapping skin, grunts and groans, and the scent of copulation. He still lives in my mind, proud and undeterred, but pinned down by arrows, while his hated rival has his way with my body and takes full advantage of the corruption Eros wrought.
    Had it not been for sex and its nearly irresistible power over the mind, I might have reached some aspect of the refinement I aspired to as a human being. Because of sex, my mind is corrupted, my body has been enjoyed by hundreds of men in degrading ways and I will gladly allow the same from hundreds more, and men know and use me now for what I am...
    unrepentantly, and as of this post, a whore.
    Thanks a heap, Eros. You motherfucker.
     
  5. ErosWired

    Sexyhungry

    By ErosWired,


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

    Dominant Duty

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Elsewhere in the forum I was talking about men who place themselves in long-term chastity and surrender the key to a Dominant. The Dominant denies the submissive the ability to touch his own cock and have a penile orgasm at any time unless the Dominant expressly allows it—and that time sometimes never comes, depending on the arrangement and the intent. The Dominant may intend simply to demonstrate his continued control of the submissive by allowing the orgasm only after a show of reluctance or as a show of generosity. On the other hand, the Dominant may withhold it altogether in a much deeper bid for control of the submissive's sexuality by training the sub to transfer his origin of orgasm from his penis to his anus and/or prostate. Either way, orgasm denial is a potent expression of control and a classic example of Power Exchange.
    Orgasm denial isn't my thing—forced orgasm is, and though the control that exhibits is different, it still touches the same need within a submissive mind. The thing we all have in common is that we find an inexplicable fulfillment when a Man exerts control over us by using us sexually, and we are willing to give those Dominant men the ability to do what they want. Indeed, many of us see it as a duty. I do.
    It's a good thing we do. Generally speaking, the kinds of things Dominant men enjoy doing to us submissives are not normally considered acceptable practice in the world of plain old vanilla sexual relations. This symbiosis-of-sorts scratches a mutual itch. The Power Exchange that voluntarily takes place allows Dominants to exercise their aggression and submissives to feel controlled.
    Usually.
    There is, however, a point that I sometimes think gets lost among Dominants who get involved in Power Exchange, particularly those who are on the milder fringes of it, or who are less experienced. This is an exchange, which means it goes two ways. Two givers, two getters, and the exchange has to be more or less equivalent.
    Now that sounds a bit odd, given the nature of the thing; you've got a guy who basically says, You can have/do whatever you want with me and another guy who says You get no say in what I'm going to do with you and I'm going to take what I want and both of them sign off on this because that's essentially what the whole thing is about. Except there's some fine print at the bottom of the first guy's statement, so if you read it all, he says, You can have/do whatever you want with me but you have to do it on a regular basis because this is something I need and I'm trusting you to fulfill it.
    This is important. Human beings have a set of fundamental basic needs that must be met, laid out by Abraham Maslow in his Hierarchy of Needs. Maslow places the need for sexual expression at the most fundamental level of human need, and it is the building-stone upon which other aspects of the whole person rely, including such things as self-esteem, sense of belonging, and interpersonal relationships. The submissive, in the act of sexual submission is attempting to meet this core physical and psychological need.
    When a Dominant accepts a submissive's submission in a formal way, for instance in becoming the keyholder for the submissive's chastity, the Dominant has then physically deprived the submissive of the ability to obtain physical sexual release, and has made the submissive dependent upon him in both a physical and psychological way. The submissive can no longer provide for his own needs. The Dominant benefits from this arrangement, obviously, by having the freedom to act upon his Dominant, aggressive impulses to exert control over another man, to revel in the feeling of power that results when he freely violates what would otherwise be an inaccessible part of the submissive's sexuality. The submissive benefits from the feelings that ensue from being controlled, humiliated, violated, used—or conversely, from the sense of being able to provide something of value to someone (this is the case for me).
    The problem is, the Dominant is not constrained; the submissive is. The submissive is entirely dependent upon the Dominant for meeting his continuing need for sexual expression. If the Dominant says, "That was fun, now don't touch yourself for a month" and the submissive hears nothing from the Dominant again for an entire month, and then the Dominant says, "Yeah, I've been busy, I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks" what we end up with is neglect. The Dominant has left the submissive with no means (short of abandoning their agreement or ending their relationship) of meeting his basic need. The Dominant, on the other hand, suffers no such handicap, and may in fact be fulfilling himself in other ways—or with other men—to the degree that he forgets about the submissive.
    This is not acceptable, any more than it would be acceptable to leave a fish in an aquarium and not feed it for a month.
    Dominants take on a Duty of Care when they agree to Dominate a submissive in an ongoing fashion like this. "Care" may seem an ironic term considering what the Dominant may actually do to the submissive, but the point is that the Dominant must use the submissive on a reasonably regular basis if he wishes to continue to enjoy the benefits of having a submissive to use. Even if the Dominant's libido is at a low ebb, the submissive's needs still need to be attended to even if only in some nominal way.
    I have served many Dominants, in many different situations. No two have treated me the same way. Each of them has taught me something different about submission, and I owe much to all of them. But none of them has ever really exercised his Duty of Care toward me. So I encourage all Dominant Tops to give careful consideration before you agree to working with a submissive, that you understand what your duty is, and that you do it.
  7. ErosWired

    Numerology

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    Don’t get me wrong, I’m so not hung up on numbers. My last entry happened to be about the convergence of the number 2,000 with my sex life, but that’s just a coincidence. It’s also true that my post on the forum tend to betray a kind of fascination with things like how much cock, measured in miles, has rutted my cunt, or how many average loads it takes to fill a gallon milk jug full of cum - but that’s statistics, that’s science. Numbers for their own sake - not my fetish.
    In fact, I mostly suck at math. Always hated it. Anything to do with the relationships between numbers just hit my brain like oil on Teflon. I’m a letters sort of guy.
    Still very much science-y, though, so you can imagine the skeptical view I take when someone pops up - like they have since the Middle Ages - and says they can divine the hidden truth about things by adding up the numerical value of the letters in words. That is, numerology.
    First, letters don’t have numerical values unless somebody arbitrarily assigns them one, and different schools of numerology have used different systems of numbers for the same letters, so who’s to say whether the Pythagorean, Chaldean, or Agrippan methods are correct, assuming they aren’t all complete hooey.
    So I decide to give this a little test, just for fun. I take the letters of my first and last name, and the letters of two or three phrases, and see if the ‘numerology’ divines anything using the Pythagorean method (because it uses all the letters in the Latin alphabet).
    A little summing later, and I compare.
    And I discover that my name has both the same number of letters as ‘A FAGGOT CUMDUMP’, but more importantly, the same numerologic sum even though the letters are different.
     
    Well, Fuck.
    What makes this particularly irritating is that I want to be able to laugh and thumb my nose at numerologists and say, “See? You’re talking out your numerical asses.” But it got it right.
    Now, I’m not sold, of course. Maybe just another coincidence, and why wouldn’t it be? I’m sure I could juggle around words and phrases until I came up with any number of such combinations.
    But there will always be a tiny little seed of doubt now sprouted in the back of my mind: What if there really is some greater cosmic energy out there with the power to reveal fundamental truths about ourselves, and I just tapped into it.
    What if the Universe just confirmed that I am a faggot cumdump? That sort of puts a guy in his place in a solid way.
     I could resist the thought easily by telling myself, Nah, you suck at counting. But then I would remind myself, Maybe so... but you’re -really- good at cunting.
  8. ErosWired

    2K

    By ErosWired,


    Sexual Identity
    This blog entry marks my 2,000th posting on Breedingzone since I joined on this month in 2017. I would never have imagined I would have had that much to say on the subject of fucking, especially considering the kind of person I was in the beginning.
    That number 2,000 has a peculiar resonance around me just now - twelve days ago was the 20,000th day since I was born - I’ve been alive 2,000 to the tenth power days.
    I recently figured up that I had to have taken my 1,000th cock, so 2,000 is double my fuck tally. I’ve also ticked over my 2,000th day as an AIDS survivor about a little less than two years ago.
    I figured up that in the year before COVID struck, my travel to CumUnion in Indianapolis, round-trip, added up to about 2,000 miles of driving. That took a little time to sink in - I drove 2,000 miles for the express purpose of taking other men’s cocks up my ass. It’s funny how things add up on you before you realize it.
    But that’s the thing about this 2,000th post on a site about bareback gay sex - there was once a version of me who could never have imagined I would become what I am now, and is still in here somewhere, stunned at the way things overtook me. I went from a straight-arrow, starched-shirt, sexually clueless innocent (I was still a virgin when I graduated from my undergraduate years) to a trained sexual submissive for service to men, veteran of years of use in BDSM scenes, tortured, debauched, and devolved. In high school guys called me a fag and I didn’t even know what the word meant - now I realize that by some men’s definition, I am a faggot... and I can’t deny it. My body is owned by a man who cunts me at his pleasure. My former Master took a latent instinct and forced me to confront and accept that it was my true nature.
    Two thousand posts - practically a book in which I tell the whole world that I’m a cumdump for men. As statements go, that’s pretty unequivocal. There’s no way of knowing how many men have read what I’ve written and know what I am - for every member who posts, how many lurkers simply read? Slowly, the numbers accumulate, people who know the nature of me.
    I can’t tell whether this troubles me or not. Yes, there’s a sense of humiliation I feel when I have to accept that references to cumdump, faggot, cunt, pussyboi, all apply to me. I feel torn because I feel the shame of submitting to other men, yet feel in the core of my being that I am in my right place and being used as I was born to be used. 20,000 days have all led up to this moment.
    Or have they? Could I have simply turned left instead of right at some point and never become this at all? Or am I predestined to someday take my 2,000th load? Who knows? Except I’m already halfway there. And, I was fucked again three times last Saturday and once last night.
    These things add up on you, you know.
     
  9. ErosWired

    Lucky Seven

    By ErosWired,


    Life with AIDS
    I just, this moment, realized that yesterday was the anniversary of the day I walked out of the hospital in 2014 to begin life with AIDS. I am now a 7-year AIDS survivor.
    There are flavors of irony in this moment all mixing together as I contemplate this conjunction of events. First and most immediate of these is that I’m currently lying naked on my bed with another man’s load of semen in my cunt, so fresh it hasn’t even had time to start leaking out. Ironic, on this day, that they call it ‘getting lucky’.
    It’s ironic that I started this seven-year ordeal, I believe, in much the same position as I was in half an hour ago, bent over taking a rutting up my ass by a gang of men. Ironic that I mark the moment with a confirmation that Fate has intended me to serve this way, and that perhaps there was ultimately no avoiding what happened to me...or what I’ve become...or what this will eventually lead me to.
    It’s ironic that just before I got just now, I took the bandage off my shoulder from where I was just injected with my third dose of Pfizer’s vaccine against COVID - a booster I need because my immune system is impaired. Ironic because today, in the second year of the pandemic, I’m alive and living with an incurable virus thanks to an infectious disease doctor who saved my life seven years ago - and lost hers to the coronavirus last year even as she tried to defeat it. Rest in peace, good doctor,
    By any measure, I’m lucky to be alive - the Enemy Virus came very close to finishing its work with me in 2014. By the time I learned it was within me, my immune system had already been destroyed. Not enough of it remained to ward off the pneumonia, the fungal meningitis, the strokes that nearly ended me. But I was lucky - by a chance of anatomy, the circulatory system in my brain was able to prevent the strokes from doing serious damage.
     I was lucky - my immune system began trying to rebuild itself, and in time it was able to beat back the infections of molluscum and thrush that most people never have to contend with. The price to be paid for rebooting your immune system, though, is sometimes it forgets the battles it already fought, and the result is shingles even though you had chicken pox 40 years ago. Luckily, I got through it all, got newly immunized, and now I’m as healthy as a 54-year-old man with AIDS can expect to be. My HIV doctor even tells me now that my life expectancy isn’t as curtailed as was thought - it’s probably getting closer to what a neg person’s would be... though it’s still shorter. But it could have been very much shorter. Lucky to be alive, seven years on.
    Alive as a pandemic ravages a world that is inexorably heating up and becoming more populated, more polarized, more polluted and less livable by the day.
    Lucky me.
     
    ...As you can probably tell, I am definitely am not getting fucked enough these days. 😐
  10. ErosWired
    This weekend I attended the October CumUnion in Indianapolis, one that I will remember as "Bigcockapalooza" because the whole damn weekend long I got fucked by one big cock after another. I'll remember no. 3 particularly, because he speared me with all eight thick inches of it in one single strong thrust. But that fuck was only the third of 20, so there would be plenty to come. The great big cockhead, the long, long nine-inch session, the ram-it-home guy... and all of these before the main event even got underway.
    But there were plans. I had agreed to hook up with breedingzone member @FelchingPisser and let him have full use of me. In fact, I even gave him the Deed to my body, made out in his name(see below), for the duration of the weekend - I was his to do with as he pleased. And, he pleased. If you haven't had the privilege of being bred by him, he has fearsome endowment, but more importantly, mad skills in using it, and unbelievable stamina. Over the course of four hours, he fucked me five different times, ending with a full breeding.
    I don't want to exaggerate the experience, and I don't want to gush - but I feel the need to express the remarkable nature of some of what I experienced while servicing him.
    Our first coupling was more of a get-reacquainted fuck, reminding each other of what we felt like, stretching me to accommodate him, remembering good angles, and so on, just a teaser of things to cum before he went out to sample the other offerings at the bathhouse. I can't relate his thoughts at that point, but I felt a shiver of excitement that I would be responsible for pleasuring him later.
    I have signs that I post in my room when I go to the bathhouse - they read: "Cunt for your Cock", "Fuck the Slut", and "Go For It - You Don't Have To Ask, That's What He's For". As other men came in and fucked me, I looked up at the first sign (which hangs right over me, with an arrow pointing down) and more than usually, I began to think of myself as a cunt, a pussy, a focal point for men to enjoy themselves. I wanted to be that thing.
    When FelchingPisser returned, he intended to take me in the sling, but by the time we got to the sling room, someone else had occupied it. So we returned to my room for a second round there. What happened then has never happened to me before - he penetrated me so deeply, so intensely, rode my prostate so precisely, and - well, I don't know whether I forgot to breathe, or held too long on the edge, or exactly what happened, but for an instant I actually blacked out from the intensity (no, I hadn't taken any kind of drugs) and when I came to I was completely disoriented with a massive cock reaming out my ass. In a way, it was the purest fuck I have ever experienced, because the only thing I was sure of was that I was being fucked, and fucked completely.
    Later, we did end up at the sling, a first for me because no one had ever fucked me in a sling before. Again, unbelievably intense (really, you have to see his erect cock to fully appreciate the effect), especially when he decided to jackhammer my prostate. By the time we took a break, I could barely stand. In hindsight, I realize now that I take the vast majority of the cock I take on my belly - I hadn't realized how sensitive I am to assaults while I'm on my back. In a sling, you can't leverage your hips the way you can on a bed; you're far more vulnerable to a Top's whims. I'm definitely going to have to do more sling-work. I am much obliged to FelchingPisser for the tutorial.
    The fourth encounter, as I expected, took place in the steam room. He had enjoyed me there the last time we had met at CumUnion, so I was sure he would want me there again because of the likelihood that others would join in. What I hadn't expected what for him to say, "I brought my friend - he's bigger than I am."
    I barely had time to think Bigger than you? How is that even possib- before a massive, curved anaconda touched my anus and then slithered all the way up, balls deep. There's something about steamroom serial fucking, the way several guys will go at an ass sort of brutally, then all clear out at once, leaving you weak-kneed and hole-gaping, that never fails to leave me feeling  like breeding genitalia. A cunt on two legs. When I stumble out of the steamroom shortly after, and I see the eyes watching me shower off, with those odd little smiles, I know that they know. They know what I am.
    I had a little time to think about what I was as my time at the bathhouse drew short that night. More than 15 men had penetrated my body with their cocks since I arrived for the weekend. More than two dozen men had done to men what men do to women, and most of them had left their semen inside me. I still held all of it. Anyone could insert his finger into my ass and feel the proof that there is no difference whatsoever between my male ass and a woman's cunt. There are men who would never, ever allow themselves to be used that way. Those men will always be able to say that they have never surrendered their masculinity to the pleasure of another male. I can never say that again. There are some men who have no problem maintaining their masculinity even in the face of this, but for me, I can't turn my mind away from the image of my ass taking cock in the most submissive way, not as a man, but as a cunt.
    The final fucking of the night underscored that fact for me. FelchingPisser and his enormous friend came to my room not long before I was going to have to leave. It was time for them to nut, and they were going to nut in me. A small entourage tagged along behind them, and without wasting any time, they began to breed me. I say "breed" not in a metaphoric sense, but in the actual sense of animal reproductive breeding - their rutting was animal, and so was mine. They penetrated as deeply as physically possible, pushed as hard as possible, thrust as rapidly as possible, to get their cum as far inside my cunt as possible. The sounds of liquids turning into froth seemed extra loud to my ears. They slapped my ass again and again, the watchers, cheered them on, cocks exited and entered in turns, and when it was at last over, the final thing I remember was an exquisite sensation of cum dripping, drop by drop, off the lip of my cunt.
    @FelchingPisser, Sir, it was a rare honor and privilege to serve you. My experience with you reshapes my state of mind, and will help me better service other Tops. Thank you. My ass is yours always.
    .
    *** Now you can read FelchingPisser’s own sizzling account of the same evening on his own blog. Check it out at http://felchingpisser.blogspot.com/?m=1***
  11. ErosWired

    Cum By The Cup

    By ErosWired,

    I stumbled across this quite by accident:

    (That's a transparent lie, of course. It wasn't accidental at all.)
    Read the part where it says "Serving Size".
    1 cup (240 ml) (70 ejaculates).
    The accepted standard single serving size for cum is 70 loads.
    No wonder I'm starving.
    I remember the first time I tasted cum - it was my own. I was a young teenager, and wondered what this stuff was, and put some on my tongue. I don't remember what I thought at the time. I do remember the first time I thought of taking it straight from my cock to my mouth, though; I was all for it (and much, much, much more flexible) and was incredibly turned on as I watched my own cock swell to the point of bursting like looking down the barrel of a gun. But when I popped, something odd happened. My aim was good and I got a mouthful, but at that moment, all the eagerness to do it instantly evaporated, and I found myself with a mouthful of cum and no sexual desire. I was torn between swallowing it and spitting it out. Swallowing it would mean accepting what I had just done. Spitting it out would mean having to deal with it further.
    I swallowed it.
    I don't know if that choice marked a major life choice or not, but it wasn't the last time I lined up my cock for that shot. In fact, I kept working at it until no aim was needed, and I could suck my own cockhead. The feeling of my own cum shooting into my mouth is somehow not the same as taking another man's load - it's a double-mind-rush of orgasm and explosion of taste and acceptance of penetration at the same time.
    Alas, my youthful exuberance came back to bite me later in the form of a ruptured spinal disc. It may have been a high price to pay for the experience of autofellatio, but I won't say it wasn't worth it. I only know it ain't happening again.To be honest, my mouth has never been my favorite hole. I would ten times rather take your load in my ass, and I only feel truly bred when a man has taken me like a stud takes his bitch or his mare. But today... today I need my Recommended Daily Allowance.
  12. ErosWired

    Three Years

    By ErosWired,

    In July 2011 I got pneumonia. No big deal; I went to the doctor, got treated. The odd thing was, the next month I got it again. My doctor said, "Nobody gets pneumonia twice." But he treated me anyway and sent me home. Later in August I got a cracking headache, worst I've ever had. My brother had to take me to the emergency room, but they sent me back home. By the next day, I was at the doctor again, and an astute nurse spotted the signs of possible meningitis. Back to the hospital. Long story short, by early September I had been diagnosed with fungal meningitis, and had nearly died from two small strokes related to it.
    I lay in my hospital bed and one morning a small United Nations of doctors from different nationalities lined up by my bedside and delivered their verdict. "You have AIDS."
    "What?"
    "You have AIDS."
    "Are you saying I have HIV?"
    "No, AIDS." (The guy didn't pull any punches.)
    My C4 count stood at 49.
    My new infectious disease specialist put me on ART immediately. I've been on Atripla, Triumeq, and now Genvoya. I've had shingles, and watched my body shape change as a result of the meds, and have had to change my lifestyle because the meds have given me a case of med-induced diabetes. Many things about all this suck ass, and not in a good way.
    I tried to figure out how this could have happened - I had gotten tested regularly. My tests had been negative. There had been no indication at all that I had had HIV in my system that could have turned into AIDS. I had been careful.
    But not careful enough. I knew that. I had no idea who had given me this, and would never have any way of knowing. There had been too many men. The most likely time had been the day I took 34 loads in my ass, probably without a single condom; there was no way of knowing. There had been other times, many other times, but every time I had been tested, the tests had resulted in negatives. Not all of these were over-the-counter tests, either. Two years earlier, my doctor had hospitalized me for a mystery illness that he chalked up to some unnamed virus that came and went. At the time he gave me a full-bore HIV test, which came back negative. Yet I'm now certain that that "mystery illness" was my seroconversion.
    I quizzed my doctor later: How could this have happened? I had been under his care for years - how could HIV have flown under his radar long enough to have turned into AIDS and nearly kill me without his seeing it? He explained that the problem with modern HIV testing isn't just false positives, but also false negatives. The truth is, the science just isn't good enough yet to give us certainty in diagnosis. I was just unlucky as I could possibly be.
    On the other hand, I was as lucky as I could possibly be. I survived. I've now been undetectable for over a year, and have not missed a single dose of medication since I began three years ago. My cell count is now at 300, which is not too bad for someone my age, and it may improve.
    I don't hold any bad feeling toward the man who gave me HIV. I hope he discovered his infection soon enough to be treated before it wrecked his immune system. In honesty, I can't say that I regret the behavior that resulted in this, because the day I took 34 loads was a highlight of my sexual life. I would do it again in a moment. What I will never, ever do again is top anyone. I will put no one at risk. I will not be the one who passes this down the line.
    This blog is called News From The Front Lines because we are at war with an Enemy, and I am committed to fighting that enemy inside my body, and in the world outside. I will use my words, and I will use my body as the means to fight, and if I can prevent even one person from ending up where I am now, then I will have justified my survival where so many others have died.
    More dispatches to follow.
     
  13. ErosWired
    I’m not a particularly vain person. This is possibly because I don’t usually notice other people’s appearance either. It doesn’t register to me as significant until I discover whether or not they have a brain isn’t instantly tiresome (so many are). If their appearance isn’t important, my head reasons, why would my own be?
    Except, of course, for the vast majority of humanity - a primarily visual and basically not at all telepathic species -appearances are huge. People judge books and pretty much every other fucking thing by their covers. Especially the fucking things. That’s where the trouble lies for people like me, who really somewhat keenly want to be a fucking thing.
    I’ve said it many times on BZ - I’m no Adonis... more if a Caliban, really, to keep with the motif and because I don’t actually have live snakes instead of hair. I don’t rate, I never have in my whole life. I mean, I suppose I’m not hideous - I don’t curdle fresh milk when I pass by or anything - but I find mirrors a little too honest to stand and look at them.
    From time to time some guy or another will comment to me that I’m ‘cute’ or ‘handsome’ or (inexplicably) ‘hot’, which I hold up as proof that there’s no accounting for taste - but I also know what constitutes a smokingly attractive man in a broad and generally agreed-upon sense, and I’m not it.
    Lots of men, and particularly as we age, face some degree of appearance-angst. The muscle tone starts to slip, the pecs aren’t as full as they were, the calves aren’t quite as rounded, you can’t really bounce a quarter off that ass anymore. The skin looks a little drawn. The hairline has crept back a little, perhaps, the eyebrows aren’t so dark, there’s a hint of silver in the beard.  There are a couple of crinkles in the corner of the eyes that won’t go away. Each thing in itself is a small matter, but taken together... and worse, stood up against a bathhouse wall next to a 24-year-old jock with a head full of jet-black hair... they add up to potential self-dissastisfaction.
     I point out signs of aging, but it’s by no means limited to that - in our body-hyper-conscious gay world, how often does a young man suffer in silent misery because he has an extra ten pounds around his belly, or lacks a confident jawline, or just wasn’t genetically “gifted” in all the ways that mark a member of The Beautiful People?
    Sometimes I pause just a tad too long in front of the mirror, and then I touch my face and start to wonder: What would it be like if I could have this changed? It’s not completely out of the realm of physics... What if I had just - reasonable changes made, an angle changed, some mass rearranged, so that what is unhandsome looked attractive? What would happen then?
    I have the kind of visual imagination that allows me to see that result in front of my inner eye, and then I realize that it might work... but the person I’m looking at isn’t someone I know. So if that face were on me, who would I be? My mom wouldn’t recognize me or feel the same as she would around regular homely old me.
    Okay, I think, well, then, what if it’s nothing so drastic? What about just knocking that pesky gray out of my hair and getting it back to its normal color - fortunately, I’ve still got a head full of it...that, at least, is in my favor, right?
    Ah, but it’s just the same as bodybuilding, trying to keep a specific appearance going against the irascible forces of entropy: If the balloon has a hole in it, it will inevitably deflate unless you keep pumping forever. And you can’t keep pumping forever.
    So, back to solutions with the greatest possible duration, up to and including permanent changes. Hey, I know about body mods. I’ve had a steel bar straight through the meat of my cockhead for, like, 13 years now, and it’s not going anywhere. Some, wide-eyed and gesturing NopeNopeNope, might think that puh-lenty Illustrative of a step too far to change the way one sees oneself, or the way others see you; I can’t say, because I got my ampallang piercing for completely unrelated reasons.
    Has it drawn interest to me? Possibly. Has it drawn interest to my cock? Fuck yes, it has...the one place I don’t want men all over me, goddammit. Has it changed the way other guys perceive me - has it made them more interested in me sexually? Who knows? They don’t even find out about it until they see me naked, and I don’t share cock pics.
     I keep meaning to start working out on a regular basis, to reverse the damage done to my physique by AIDS six years ago, and the ravages of ART since then. I’m gradually slimming back down. Then I pass by the mirror and it says to me, “What for? I mean, look at you! You’re no prettier than you ever were, you’re never going to be hott, and even if by some modern plastic surgery miracle it were possible to turn you pretty, Quasimodo, why do you need a pretty face when all they want from you is your warm, wet ass?”
    The silvery motherfucker makes a sharp argument, but I still, still find myself wishing I could walk through the bathhouse and know that the confidence I project with my buck-naked body isn’t just me obliviously embarrassing myself.
     I think there must be something nice about being attractive, and knowing that other people lust after you. I’ll never know that feeling, I suppose. But I do wonder how far anyone else would go to get that... and if it would be worth it.
  14. ErosWired
    Bear with me, now.
    I have been aware of the existence of anal tattoos for a while, but have not given them proper consideration, as in, actual concentrated contemplation, before now.
    But seeing a picture of a person's ass with octopus tentacles seeming to explode from the central orifice begged a question, and, with a minimum of Googleinvestigation, hey presto! - Yep, all the way to the center.
    A Google image search on certain topics is not for the faint hearted. You never know just what you're going to get. What I did discover from a cursory... inspection... is that anal tattoos appear to be predominantly a female thing, but somehow I question whether this is actually true. There were male examples.
    Most common were butterflies and stars (including starfish) as well as sunbursts (of a sort) and tribal-ish treatments, as well as text messages of various descriptions, largely along the lines of "<insert cock here>".
    Not all, however, were so inviting. One example: a ring of barbed wire, which would make one think twice. A spiderweb, complete with realistic-looking spider facing inward. An actual spider. A very realistic-looking starfish (for those into fucking sea life) and oh, yes, an octopus. The correct plural of which, for your information, is octopodes, but if you have fucked more than one ass with an octopus for an anal tattoo, you have earned the right to call them what you want as far as I'm concerned. Not all text messages are welcoming either. One said simply, "Let it be." Another was a plainly instructional "Spit First".
    Male anal tattoos tended to be more star or burst-like, or tribal, with angular or graphical forms. One had his hole surrounded with what appeared to be target sight from a ranged weapon (perhaps, suggestively, a missile launcher). I did not find any with animal renderings, although I did see one with ornate flower petals.*
    Explain, please: Why? Why does anyone do this? I am tatt-less, a tabula rasa, so to speak, not because I fear the pain of the needle (a former master immensely enjoyed skewering both my testicles with long needles one day) but because I hesitate when I think of confronting my 80-year-old inked self and trying to explain why I though it was a good idea. Trying to explain why getting a tattoo around my anus seems like a bridge too far. Because I've never been under the tattooist's needle, I can't empathize with the pain of getting a tattoo there, but given that being rimmed instantly has the desirable effect of turning me into a mindless slut, I can only think that the opposite sort of treatment would have an effect as potently undesirable. Yet people find reason to endure it.
    How common is this in men? How many bottoms have taken this leap? What have they chosen for their design? Tops, do you find this a turn-on or not?
    I don't really understand why anyone would think to do this in the first place, but what really scares me is that I'm almost afraid that, for the right man, I could be talked into it. Nothing ostentatious, mind you, no octopodes. Something tasteful. Is that possible? Is "tasteful anal tattoo" an oxymoron?
    Your thoughts?
     
    *In Japan, the chrysanthemum is associated with the anus because of the visual similarity of the blossom, an a "chrysanthemum tryst" meant gay anal sex. It's the centerpiece of the Japanese Imperial flag. Just sayin'.
  15. ErosWired

    Hollow

    By ErosWired,

    I’m lying belly down, ass up, on a queen bed in a hotel room in Louisville on a Monday night. A 30-year-old guy just left after fucking my ass in very competent style for a man calling himself a Versatile Bottom. I said as much to him before he left.
    He came hard inside me; I can tell by the way their bodies move and by the sounds they make when their climax is strong. His load had volume, too, because some of it spilled out onto the bed cover even though he shot buried deep inside my cunt.
    I never actually saw his cock, as he wanted anonymity, but I felt its size. I knew it was above average at least because he tried to double-penetrate me with my large dildo, and I couldn’t quite accommodate him. When he fucked me himself, I felt every plunge, every thrust, all attempting to meet his natural mandate to fill the vessel of my flesh with his own.
    There was a time, it seems like years ago now, when such a coupling as he just gave me would have filled me with a lasting sense of completion that would have lingered for weeks, if not months. Now, however, that man’s excellent fuck has not only failed to fill the void within me, it seems to have made me even more hollow.
    Clearly, this is not the way sex is supposed to be. This has all the characteristics of an addiction - needing more and more of the thing to get the same effect, until at last it no longer has any effect at all. Worse, the thing may begin paradoxically to generate the very need it was intended to meet.
    I cannot seem to get enough cock anymore; my sense of self-value, at least from a sexual perspective, is now bound to my ability to provide satisfaction to other men in transitory and, of themselves, hollow encounters, and as the physical imprint of each one becomes less and less lasting, so much moreso does the psychological imprint become more and more ephemeral.
    In a sense, it’s as though all those cocks are indeed reaming me out on the inside.
    I don’t know how to reverse this. I only know that I need more cock, and soon I will need it in quantities I cannot reasonably expect to obtain. I already harbor thoughts of placing myself in situations where I could fall prey to cruel, evil men, simply out of the hope that their chosen form of abuse would coincide with my need.
    My rational mind recognizes that I must find a way to quell the hollow hunger of my flesh before it consumes me completely, but right now, the hunger is very, very strong.
    A man is coming to fuck me. I hope he fucks me brutally, without mercy, for a long time - perhaps that will fill the hollow just a bit... at least, until he’s finished, and I’m hollow again.
  16. ErosWired

    Valeria Messalina

    By ErosWired,

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

    A Shout-Out

    By ErosWired,

    The night before December CumUnion in Indy I attempted to take a fist. I really thought I would get there, but it didn’t quite happen, despite the patient and experienced effort of the fister doing the work. Alas. I had not had anyone seriously take the time with my ass before, and I consider it a failure on my part that I didn’t open up readily for him. I think the fact that I bled slightly early on may have made him extra cautious; he said I should practice with someone with smaller hands.
    The effort wasn’t wasted, though - the night was still young when we finished, and my hole was as loose and receptive as it had ever been, just in time for me to slut myself at the hotel for the night. And it’s a good thing I was ready.
    I don’t fuck-and-tell very often, but sometimes the Top offers such a memorable performance that I feel I ought to give due praise. In this case, I want to give a shout-out to BBRTS member CubDomTop (not currently a BZ member) who bred me with two big loads and ample Top attitude.
    It ended up being one of my favorite kind of fucks, where the Top just loves using the hole and has stamina to spare. He rutted me until I started to lose energy, then picked up the pace just as I really began to struggle to keep up, and ended finally just fucked me limp into the mattress.
    But what I loved best, and what proved to me that he was really enjoying the hole, was when he flipped me over on my back, put my legs up, told me he was going to cum in me, and told me to keep my eyes open and looking into his. That sent me into climax in seconds, and watching my orgasm in my eyes seemed to power him up in a big way. He finished loud, hard, deep, and staring straight into my eyes.
    After we rested and I massaged him down a bit, he decided he wanted to breed again, and loaded me up balls deep a second time, telling me “That is a great pussy!” He’s already said he’s looking forward to having it again next time I’m in town.
    If you’re ever in Indy and looking on BBRTS, be sure to check out CubDomTop - highly recommend by this well-used cunt.
    **I have just realized that this entry is my 500th total posting to BZ - making me officially a Slut. I’m so proud. **
  18. ErosWired
    Last Saturday was my birthday. I decided that rather than spend it alone at my house with the cat (a poor conversationalist) I would depart early for the Vapors bathhouse in Louisville and hope that some generous Top(s) would offer me loads of birthday presents, and basically fuck me in two. I planned to leave late in the afternoon, so eI burned a little time during the day watching Netflix, specifically an episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine in which members of the station crew accidentally travel to the Mirror Universe. I only mention this because a ) it seems to have set the theme for the evening that followed, and b ) I hope maybe it will entice some of you more geeky types to fuck me - it never hurts to try.
    I started out heading to the local ABS, 7 minutes from my house, to buy a new bottle of poppers, because mine seemed to have lost some of its jolt. When I got there, the packed parking lot made me think: Hm! Perhaps the hour's drive to Louisville is surplus to needs... So I put on my silver servicee collar, went in, bought my poppers and entered the theater. I went directly to the gay theater, stripped down in front of a dimly lit room full of six or seven seated men, who promptly... remained seated. Until they eventually left, and were replaced by men who sat in their places and did not shift. They watched the gay porn, which was playing with muted volume while the straight porn from the next room blasted its volume loud enough for both. Eventually I noticed one guy jerking himself slowly, occasionally glancing at me, so I got up and sat by him, and whispered in his ear, "Would you like some help with that?"
    "No," he said, "there's an audience."
    I stayed 45 minutes without so much as a nod-come-hither from any of those Woody Wallflowers, and then I got dressed and left for Louisville. Think of that as my tumble down the rabbit hole into the bizarre.
    When I got to Vapors, I had barely got into my room and undressed when a college-age guy of probably Indian/Pakistani descent came in. It was his first time at the bathhouse (he said) and he asked about what people did and what there was to do. I explained about the facilities and the rooms, and that basically guys got it on just about anywhere, and what did he like? He topped, he said (joy) and would I like to play around (no shit) so he climbed on my bed and we got to it. Magnificent cock - just beautiful - at least 9.5" and not too thick. A superb fucking instrument. My pulse quickened a little at the thought of feeling it shafted all the way to the root into my tight ass, and I was going to reward him so-o-o-o well. But not instantly; I wanted some tongue time with it first, and he let me have it, until he finally said, "Can I fuck you?"
    My dear boy, how many angels can you fit on the head of a pin? That's a question you simply don't bother to ask. Yes, fuck me infinitely, world without end, Amen.
    He got me on hands and knees, lined me up, stuck the head in - 
    My ass spasmed. This happens with me often on the first fuck of the day/night/session/whatever. I'll get a spasm of pain on entry, and have the Top pull out, wait five seconds until it subsides, and then I can take whatever get shoved into me all night, no problem. This time, I asked him to pull out, I waited five seconds, then told him to come back in. I felt his cockhead rub across my wet pussy, but he didn't re-enter. After a minute, he said, "I'm sorry - I already came."
    He came from sticking the tip in and pulling it out. I invited him to return after he recharged, but he never did. He just left his load soaked into my sheets.
    After that, crickets. By now it was 10pm Eastern Time on a Saturday night, and there was no one around in a city bathhouse. It was cold out, but for pity's sake...
    I finally got up, took a solitary steam and soak in the whirlpool, and then went upstairs to see if anyone had encamped in the TV room. I did find one guy there - I almost overlooked him, seated with his back in the shadows, jacking off slowly to the porn on the screen. I just stood in the doorway for two or three minutes while the clip finished, and then the guy got up and headed toward the door and me. Suddenly he stopped, and said, "Oh! I didn't see you there." He reached out and started touching me immediately, saying, "Is this okay?" and within a minute and a half the one-sided conversation had escalated to "Would you like to come to my room?"
    Why the fuck not?
    He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat the whole time, from the moment he saw me, and I have to admit there was something charismatically chemical - or perhaps chemically charismatic - about him. I'm mildly autistic, so other people's charisma usually just bounces off me with no effect, but this guy had me from the word "ho". We got to his room and the making out began. Normally it takes a hell of a lot to get me honestly hard, but he had me performance-hard with just a few caresses, and within five minutes, he was lying on his back on his bed with his ass tilted up for me to fuck him, and I, total bottom who had not entered another man in over a dozen years, did. After some thrusting, he climbed on top and finished me, before jacking off to a shuddering orgasm that shot clear over my shoulder with me still inside him.
    Then we did it all over again.
    After I took my leave, I went back, cleaned off, and resumed my station. I did take one load from a rather modestly-dicked man, and then I looked over my shoulder to see a line of three more waiting. The next one came in, looked at me closely, then went back out. When I turned around a moment later, they were all gone, like someone had shouted, "Clean cup!" and everyone suddenly had to jump up and change to a different place altogether without any reason whatever.
    Then, more crickets for half an hour. At last, my CL notice announcing me as a bottom taking anon loads got a bite, a man who wanted to know if I could come to him, not far away. I though, well, it's one certain fuck-and-load, versus possibly nothing really satisfying the rest of the evening at the bathhouse, so I dressed, packed my things, and checked out. While I was checking out, a sudden influx of men began coming in, perhaps six or seven, mostly individual, mixed ages, making me wonder if I had just made a horrid  mistake. But the deed was done, and I went off to get my one certain birthday fuck.
    I arrived ten minutes later at a darkened apartment in which my summoner sat naked on a hard wood floor, evidently wanting to take the 'anon' part very seriously. He asked if I had any poppers, and said he had only used the kind that I had in my old bottle, so I pulled that out for him. I asked him what he liked, and he said, "I like to be fucked."
    Oh. Shit.
    He hadn't understood the ad. But I'm a sexual service submissive, and once I answer a call I don't just walk out if I can serve in some capacity. And I had, after all, just fucked another man, twice. "I can't promise you I'll be able to fuck you in a way that will satisfy you," I said.
    "Well, maybe you could just fist me," he replied.
    Wh-whathe-forcrying- I had never been fisted before, much less fisted someone else. I've studied up on fisting because I've seriously considered allowing a Dom to do it to me before, and I still may, but I had had no actual practicum. I told him so.
    He went into the other room and returned shortly with a towel, a two-cup glass measuring container full of resonstituted powdered ass lube, several pair of latex gloves, and a huge spreading dildo that he had been using to gradually train himself open.
    I sighed.
    "Have you ever taken a fist before?" I asked.
    "No. I had a guy try once, but he wasn't any good."
    "Look at my hands," I said. "My hands aren't huge, but they aren't petite, either. I know the basic theory for fisting, and I am familiar with the anatomy involved, and know the principal things to be cautious about. I cannot promise you that you will succeed tonight, but if this is what you want to do, I will try."
    We went to his bedroom, and I realized that if I was going to have any hope of relaxing him enough for this, I was going to have to start with massage. I gave him the abridged version of what I call my "high-risk" massage - the one that is risky because if I give it I stand a fair chance of leaving the Top either too relaxed to function, or outright asleep. His back was like one of the Red Queen's playing card soldiers, stiff and unyielding, but I finally got him relaxed enough to begin, and I discovered that he must have been using that stretching dildo fairly regularly. Then, for some utterly bizarre and, to me, inexplicable reason, it suddenly occurred to me that what his ass needed to relax better was a good fucking.
    So, for the third time that night, I, a total bottom, fucked a man. I didn't cum this time, but I gave a performance that I would have appreciated myself had I been the recipient. After that, he had indeed opened further, and, long story short, after about 20 more slow, careful minutes and lots of incredibly messy lube, I was up to my wrist in his ass - his first fist, and a milestone for him.
    "You're just awesome," he told me afterward.
    By the time I was ready to leave Louisville it was 5:30am, time for Krispy Kreme Doughnuts to open, so I stopped there and got a dozen. When I came out, I felt oddly as though I had stepped back through the Fucking Glass into the real world. I have absolutely no desire to fuck anybody. I am the fuckee, the cunt, the bitch, the boy pussy. I love it that way. In that Mirror Universe I saw another me who lived another way, and his sex life fucking weirded me out.
    As for loading me up on my birthday, thanks for nothing, Louisville. (The guy I fucked twice, by the way, was visiting from Nashville.)
    As for the rest of you, especially you geeks like me, live long and prosper.
  19. ErosWired

    Keeping Score

    By ErosWired,

    I joined BreedingZone a year ago this month. A year ago I considered myself a committed sexual submissive, because that's what I've been trained for, but I didn't think of myself as a cumdump, nor did I think about barebacking as a choice - it was just something Men did or didn't do when they fucked me. Once I became HIV+, I didn't have any sex at all until I became undetectable, and then I let Men know I understood if they wanted to use a condom. At that point, I was glad they were still willing to fuck me at all.
    Finding this site showed me that I could still thrive sexually given my status and my age, even as a total bottom. The input from the members here gave me the inspiration to go out and actually live a life that so many Men post about in fantasy but never have the courage to act upon. Looking back over this year, I realize how much more conscious I've become of my sexuality and sexual habits, and how much more open I've become in talking about it. Yesterday my bisexual son was telling me about the possibility that another boy interested in him might come to his party, and I was attempting to advise him how to manage the situation. After a minute he looked at me and said, "Is my dad trying to be my wingman?"
    I was not. There are some things I do not. want. to. know.
    About my own sex life, on the other hand, I've begun keeping closer track than I ever have. There have been several topics on these boards concerning load tallies and load counts and who has taken the most loads in a year, or in their lifetime. I don't count loads because 1) Sometimes you can't tell whether you got it or not, 2) If the Top mostly cums on your ass crack and then sorta pushes some of it in, does it count? Yes? No? There are too many variables, and in any case I wholeheartedly agree with @PERVERSATILE when he points out that "The load is the prize". What I count, instead of loads, are fucks.
    I keep track of them on my cell phone, in a simple ongoing page in the Notes app. Since Tops sometimes seem to enjoy keeping score by making hash marks on my ass with a pen when they finish with me, I adopted that as my sort-of standard. (In the not-so-good image accompanying this post, you can just make out a faint set of hashes on my right ass cheek; even "permanent" ink markers are no match for a good steam room.) The score I've kept looks like this:
    March (F-S) ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||
    April (F-S) ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||\ |||
    May (Th-F) ||||\ || (S) ||||\ ||||\ |||
    June (F) 0. (S) ||||\ ||~|\ |||
    July (F) 0. (S) ||||\ ||||\ ||~|\ |
    August (F) ||{++} (S) |||{++} ~~~
    Sept 13-14 (Th) |||| (F) ||||\ (S) ||
    October (F) ||| ff  (S) |{+}||\ |~||\ |||| f
    Oct 19-20 (F) ||||\
    \ = a crosshash, or fifth mark that crosses four
    |{+..} = the Top returned to fuck me again for the number of times indicated by the plus marks
    ~ = I gave credit for the fuck even though the guy was a little too soft or a little to wasted to penetrate me very well. As long as he thought he was fucking me he got credit. It's the Top's pleasure that counts.
    0 = zero fucks. What the fuck was up on Fridays in June and July?
    f = recently I've started keeping track of the number of times guys flake on me.
    Obviously, I didn't start keeping this record until March, when I started attending CumUnion in Indianapolis and hotel hosting regularly in Louisville, so it doesn't include fucks from October 2017 - February 2018, and obviously, I don't count the flakes. But the tally above right now stands at 142 fucks for the year - a dismal reckoning that reflects the fact that I'm stuck in the back of beyond in rural Kentucky and have to drive over an hour just to get to somewhere I can be a slut. If I lived in a metro area, that count would be much higher.
    That count, however, isn't the only count I keep in my Notes app.
    I have another one on another page, and it's been going on longer, since August 2014. It looks like this:
    8/29/2014
    CD4: 49
    VL: 85,000
    11/11/2014
    CD4: 160
    VL: 840
    2/11/2015
    CD4: 188
    VL: 50 (Damn. So close.)
    6/1/2015
    CD4: 250 (Dr. not pleased)
    VL: 65 (me not pleased)
    Quitting Atripla, starting Triumeq
    9/2015
    CD4: 285
    VL: Undetectable
    3/2016
    CD4: 315 (I had hoped for better, but Dr. is pleased, so I suppose I should be satisfied)
    VL: Undetectable
    2/1/2017
    CD4: 218
    VL: 65 (Dr. says this is a normal blip, not a concern)
    Quitting Triumeq, starting Genvoya
    3/28/2017
    CD4: 293
    VL: Undetectable
    2/27/2018
    CD4: 249
    VL: Undetectable
    8/26/2018
    CD4: [not checked]
    VL: Undetectable
    10/23/2018
    CD4: 300
    VL: Undetectable
    I have a new HIV doctor now
    I suppose you could say I'm keeping score against the Enemy Virus as well.
    I take a sort of pride in both of these lists, in ways that are different, but also in one way that's the same. I take pride in my fuck count not as an accumulation, but as proof of the number of Men to whom I have been able to give an ecstatic moment of pleasure. I know little or nothing about their lives - I may never even see some of them - but for the short time they are with me, they are safe, and warm, and made to feel incredibly good, and I have accomplished that, by my certain count, 142 times in a year. If I could have made it a thousand, I would have. I take pride in my CD4 and Viral Load count as wayposts along the road of my fight against AIDS, and my struggle back from the edge of death. The marks denote a long, narrow, rocky road, but I have kept on it without missing a step, and I'm proud of my determination.
    I take a pride in both of the lists because they're both, in their way, celebrations of life continuing in spite of age, in spite of disease, in spite of doubt, and in spite of fear. They are proof that I am very much alive.
  20. ErosWired
    Another trip to CumUnion in Indianapolis last weekend, and another solid tally of fuckings - but more of that in a bit. What stands out in memory are a few incidents of oddity, to wit:
    Almost the instant I got into my room and opened the door for guests, I felt hands on my ass, and I glanced back to see that there were two men in the room. The one fondling my cheeks began probing my hole, then after a minute stopped, and I heard moaning from the second man, rising to an abrupt stop. Then the first man returned his attention to fingering my hole with a warm lube.
    ”That’s his cum,” he said.
    He poked around at me a bit longer, then patted my ass and left. This annoyed me, because the second guy had clearly come in to fuck me, gotten jacked off instead, and all I got was a finger-smear of his load and no fucking.
    Next, another man came in and did fuck and load me. But the instant that man left the room, the first guy came back in and dived face-first for my ass, and ate out the load I had just received.
    He said, “I had been wanting that guy’s load, but you got it.”
    He then proceeded to fuck me fot a couple of minutes, but didn’t cum.
    The way I see it, the guy stole two loads from me - one out of my very ass - and then revenge-fucked me for attracting “his” loads in the first place.
    Later on, some guy with tentative hands starts feeling me up, and I can pretty much usually tell by the way they approach me - this guy just wanted to play with my ass. Damned finger-fuckers. They never use any lube, they ignore the fact that they have fingernails, and they expect you to take four fricking fingers after about 30 seconds.
    This guy poked and prodded around trying to find my prostate with no success, until, without warning, he crooked his finger into a hook shape and made a rapid 360-degree twist inside my anus. That was enough of that. I sent him away, reached into my pack and pulled out paper and marker to write a note to leave out on the table by the bed reading “~Please~ No Finger-Fucking Tonight. Thank You.”
    As I lay there, pen in hand, clearly, obviously engaged in writing...
    WHACK!
    A man dressed in a full leather apron and leather mask that covered his lower face wailed on my ass with a flexible leather paddle.
    WHAP!
    WHACK!
    These were not play swats, but industrial-strength BDSM-scene-worthy flogging strokes. I turned over and said, “Um, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
    ”What?”
    ”Would you please leave?”
    ”Sure, I guess so...”
    ”Could you not see that I was writing something?”
    ”Uh... huh?”
    ”OUT!”
     
    As usual, I was approached by men for whom contact with another man might be more difficult to achieve, and I did not turn them away - I gave a massage and a hand job to an elderly man who couldn’t hard, a hand job and some oral to an extremely onerweight man who had a disability, I let an older Asian man who spoke little English have a go at fucking me. And why not? The day will no doubt come when I will be grateful myself for such a kindness.
    But regardless of the oddities and vagaries that come with bathhouse bottoming, I had something to look forward to this time, and that something certainly did not disappoint. I had the opportunity to meet @FelchingPisser, and had the great privilege of surrendering my ass to him and experiencing his skills first-hand - something completely different indeed.
  21. ErosWired
    A small group of men entered my room at The Works bathhouse in Indianapolis last Saturday evening during CumUnion. I could tell it was a group by the sound of the shuffle of their feet, by their breathing, by the way the echoes off the walls of my small room shifted, by the play of the shadows around me. I took a light popper hit to loosen my ass, and it amplified my senses. My ass was up, facing the door (naturally) so I didn't turn to look at them. I never do. I'm a cunt. Why would I need to look at them?
    They were talking to one of their members:
    "What do you think?"
    "Like the look of it?"
    "Fuck yeah."
    "_____ used him earlier, said he was the shit."
    "OH yeah."
    "You gonna fuck him, fuck that white pussy?"
    They would be black, then. I didn't even bother with a mental note; I don't care what color a man is, I never have. Sometimes I don't even notice. Call it one of the few perks of being somewhat autistic. His color signified nothing... except... and this has nothing to do with stereotype and everything to do with my personal, intimate experience of fucking many black men... it meant greater odds on him having a big cock. Sorry, that's just the way it's been for me.
    "Yeah. I'm gonna do it. That looks like a nice pussy."
    Here again, no stereotype drawn from, just my actual experience: the black guys who have fucked me have almost always called my ass a "pussy" if they don't call it an ass. They never use "cunt". I don't know why.
    The man sounded young, perhaps shy. I decided I would take especially good care of him. His friends left him and he closed the door behind them. Okay, not an exhibitionist like they had been earlier, if they were the group I was thinking of. There had been eyes on me getting fucked earlier. Eyes on my face. Eyes on my face when my own eyes were rolling back in my head. Eyes on me when they left me lying like a rag doll after their rough-fucking.
    Good times.
    I could hear this man fumbling over by my shelf, amongst my lubes. "Try the coconut oil," I said over my shoulder.
    "Oh. Okay," he said. I positioned my ass for easy entry.
    When it came, I was mildly surprised. He didn't have a big cock, just average. But as is sometimes the case, I would rather have a craftsman in possession of simple tools than a novice equipped with an arsenal. This turned out to be a craftsman. I didn't need to take care of him. He took care of me.
    He started slow, sped up, went to ramming speed, back and forth. If he paused, I couldn't help fucking myself on him as though he were a stationary object. I was wearing my solid-steel chastity device that covers my whole cock, and he fucked three loads out of me that filled the inside of it and left my cock swimming in my own seed.I know the clock continued moving, because by the time had finished, 45 minutes of continuous fucking had elapsed, punctuated by long, long, long moments where he found that particular point where a Top's cock feels as though it has hit the absolute bottom of you and your ass involuntarily clamps down in a death-grip along the full length of his shaft, and we would stay that way for eternities at a time, welded together into one body while our minds unspun.
    At last he pulled out of me and ran a finger slowly, gently, over, into and out of my hole. "That is good pussy," he said. "Good pussy is hard to find."
    He said it in a matter-of-fact way, like a man of experience, a man who knows whereof he speaks. "That like to have worn me out," he said, sliding off the bed to gather his towel. "I would have like to have done more of that, but I'm old."
    I blinked. I turned over at last to look at him.
    Not young... but surely not old...
    "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"
    "Fifty-six."
    "Then I guess I'm old, too, since I'm 51. An old man couldn't do what you just did."
    He smiled shyly, opened my door, and left.
     
    Friends accuse me of trying to find meaning in everything, even where there isn't any to find. This man of 56 called himself old not because his looks convinced him that he was - I would have guessed early 40s, in fact - but I suspect because his life's experiences had the weight of an older man's. He bred my ass as a man of experience; and when a man of experience says something, his words have weight.
    If he tells me that good pussy is hard to find, I have to believe him.
    If he tells me my pussy is good pussy, it makes me want to share it all the more.
     
     
  22. ErosWired
    [I want to preface this entry with a word to any readers whose heritage is Native American. The experiences I describe below are a true account, and my narrative of them is as objective as I can make it. My interpretation of the meaning of the events is naturally filtered by my own cultural lens, but also by my professional role, one that has to a degree sensitized me to the history, realities, and sensitivities of Native Americans. I assure you that my contemplation on the nature of the experience derives not from crude stereotyping or assumption but from my observations and from a spiritual sense inherent to myself that I find difficult to describe but that I can only swear to be genuine.]
    I once hooked up a few times with a Top who was a nice guy, but when he fucked me, a strange sort of change came over him. He was, as it happened, a Lakota, and each time he started dicking me down he would suddenly become very aggressive, grab me by my neck from behind with one hand and grab a handful of my hair with the other and force my head down flat sideways on the bed, my torso stetched out so that my pelvis was ground under him for deepest possible penetration.
    Then he would lean over and start saying angry, harsh words in my ear in Lakota, but which I couldn’t understand, and he would punctuate each phrase by spitting on me - on my back, on my ass, on the back of my neck. After some of this, he would then fuck me savagely until he came, then yank my head back by my hair as he let me go.
    The next moment he was exactly the same as before we had started, almost as though a different person had walked into the room (naked).
    I realize this sounds spacey and all New Age and shit, (never mind race stereotyping) but I always felt as though that guy wasn’t actually the one fucking me. It felt as though the person fucking me was full of rage, and these fuckings were actually rapes counted as coup for far worse wrongs done to helpless people generations ago. It was the spitting - something I really don’t like anyway - the hate and ferocity embodied in each blast, each one bursting through tight lips like a knife blade into my naked back as he stabbed me repeatedly lower down, that told me this wasn’t about sex.
    Lying there under the domination of his hands, listening to those unfamiliar, berating words spat at me, followed by the smack of his saliva, feeling cruel force ravage my body and then triumphantly fill me with itself - I could not escape the thought that this man must be channelling the spirits of some warrior of the First Peoples come to claim justice for his people from mine.
    Not long ago I took one of the AncestryDNA tests to find out where my people came from. I’m basically 100% British Isles. No wonder I ended up the target ass for his justice fucking. And do you know what? I’m okay with that. My ancestors did horrible, horrible things to people, rape included. Maybe I’m nuts and this is all in my head, but if raping my ass can give a few of those poor souls their rest, then let them rape me. The bill is overdue.
    I just wish they wouldn’t spit.
  23. ErosWired
    I believe in science. If you want to understand why something happens, the reason for it can eventually be understood if you apply science to it.
    I had been in a deep grey funk for weeks, and didn't understand what was wrong with me. Yeah, yeah, change of seasons, need a break from work, blah blah blah, not buying it. Exercise? No use. This was malaise. This was one of those oppressive, gnawing feelings that grabs hold of you and doesn't let go until it thunders. It was like an ache that wouldn't stop aching, an itch that couldn't be scratched, a hunger for which there was nothing in the fridge.
    In retrospect, I now think I really became aware of it when I logged onto this website for the first time. It had been a dry spell, and all the talk of juicy, sloppy, grunting, no-holds-barred bareback sex had my toes twitching. Also my asshole. A man had actually spent five years training my mind to accept a role as a public cumdump, but cut me loose without setting me up to actually perform. Now I found myself reading the posts of those who do, and realizing that my training was not for nothing. I can do this.
    It's not that I haven't done it before. I've shared in other posts about how much cum I've been pumped full of (Hint: It's never enough). It's just that I had never, until now, seriously considered the possibility of becoming a public sex worker. What do you call a man who gives his body away for free? Escorts and prostitutes have at least partly a monetary agenda. I don't, so I can't even accept the technical definition of "whore". I had never thought about it before. I had never looked at myself in the mirror and said, "Cumdump. You. Get busy." But the guy in the mirror was pretty persuasive, so day before yesterday, I put out my first CL ad, set up a QuickConnect on BBRTS, got a hotel room, propped my ass up with a couple of pillows, and thought to myself, Open for Business.
    There is some scientific research on the effect that sexual intercourse has on the human body. Of course there is; what else would pervy scientists be studying? The release of a whole complex of hormones and neurotransmitters have profound effects on mood and stress levels. But in my experience, there is an effect that can last days or weeks after a particularly good fucking - a glow that sticks with you not just in memory, but in your whole being, almost akin to a good meal that fills you so perfectly that you don't feel hungry for a long time.
    The first man who pushed open my unlocked hotel door fucked me just like that for a solid hour. He wasn't hard when he got there, and had a little trouble at first, but once he stiffened up, he was ruthless. He wasn't huge, either - a perfectly-sized cock for marathon fucking, and he knew how to use his tools. He loaded me up about a third of the way through, but he was nowhere near finished. Not long after he hit my personal "breeding zone" where I dissolve into a growling animal-bitch and assume nature's pose for reproduction. He knew exactly what to do with that. Later on, when he had started to soften up a bit, he still hadn't run out of ideas: He used his big tip in and out of my by now exquisitely sensitive hole, inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinout... until I was nearly out of my mind.
     
    I only had one other taker that night, with a great big organ that ravaged my cunt very professionally. The fact that I had only two takers didn't bother me. It's a one-horse town anyway, and this was a case of quality over quantity.
    But the first Top cured me of my deep grey funk. What I had needed was a good fucking. Yeah, yeah, science, blah blah blah. I needed a man's cock in my cunt, and I needed his load shot deep inside me, and Mister, whoever you were, I'm grateful. Not only for the load, but for confirming for me that I truly am meant to be a cumdump, and that I'm right to start doing this.
    All you Tops, never underestimate the good you can do with a simple fuck. Sometimes, your decision to share your masculinity, your power, your energy, and yes, your load, with a bottom can make all the difference. Go forth and do good work.
  24. ErosWired
    True confession: My ass is my weakness.
    For some, you grab their cock and you grab their soul. A few get weird about their nipples. For very, very men, it's the stomach - give them a piece of pie and they're putty in your fingers.
    For me, play with my cock all you want; it's a soldier (it definitely stands at attention and shoots) that can take your abuse. You have to know what you're doing to work my nipples, they're funny that way. But just start a fingertip down the valley at the base of my spine and my whole body starts to pay very close attention to what you're doing - or about to do. Run a tip across the portal and I gasp. Press in just a knuckle length, and I can't keep in a little telltale moan. Explore deeper, and my whole body begins to react involuntarily, loosening up, positioning for penetration whether I want it or not. Touch my prostate, and my body will betray me without a second thought.
    If I feel your tongue there, all rational thought collapses and can't be restarted, replaced by a single desperate drive: Please. Fuck. Me. The longer the tongue remains, the more desperate the drive, until it becomes a mental scream.
    I once kept this weakness a carefully guarded secret from Tops, especially Dominant Tops, and particularly from Sadists, who seemed to take great delight in discovering how much control they could obrtain over me, and how easily, with an attack on my ass. One such discovery, by a Dom Top named Master Rick in Cincinnati, led to my first realization of what sexual submission to another man truly felt like, when it wan't just pretend. The experience changed me forever.
    I had traveled two and a half hours to visit this man at his invitation. He had been looking, he said, for someone who fit my description, and apparently he liked what arrived at his door. Not a lot of time was spent in pleasantries. He told me to strip in front of him next to a bed that had been fitted with ropes for attaching to restraints. He had me lie down on my belly spread-eagled and tied dow my wrist cuffs. Then he ran his hands over the globes of my ass.
    This was a bad sign. If he had been a cock-and-balls man, he would have had me on my back right off to enjoy looking at his new toys, but instead he couldn't wait to get his hands on my backside. An ass man. Sure enough, I soon felt his thumbs slide down and part my halves to expose my hole, and heard him say, simply, "Nice."
    Again, true confession: I don't remember a lot of the details that followed, because they went on a long, long, long, long time. There could not have been a square millimeter of my body that he did not touch at least twice, and he penetrated every orifice. My violation was absolutely complete, and he had not even fucked me.
    At last, he had become satisfied with his exploration and sampling of my body and raised me up on my knees with my chest on the bed and my ass in the air and began finger-fucking me. He enjoyed doing this more than I can remember most men enjoying anything. He kept at it, sometimes slow and leisurely, sometimes pistoning and rough, sometimes one finger, sometimes more, trying different fingers on for size, trying different pressures on my prostate. He became so engrossed in it that he gradually pushed me upward so that my back was flat against the wall and my lets hung outstretched, all leverage lost; I was completely at his mercy (actually, as it happened, lack thereof).
    After he had finger-fucked me for about ten minutes past eternity, it grew uncomfortable and I wanted him to stop. I said, "Could you stop?" but he just grinned and continued, and I realized that this Dominant had me exactly where he wanted me, and this was going to end when he wanted it to, and not before. My whole attention suddenly narrowed onto the small ring between my legs and the sensations coming from it - sensations caused by another man against my will. The more they continued at that point, the more right they felt. My body itself was correcting my thinking, teaching me how to take on the role that I was born to play, helping me to understand where my body and mind belonged in the world of all other men.
    He did fuck me later, and twice more before I left the next day. I left with much more than three loads of his seed in my body. He had planted another kind of seed in me, the knowledge that my weakness is simply evidence that I am meant for men to breed. Anytime, anywhere.
     
    But I won't say no to pie.
  25. ErosWired
    Our culture has the strange dichotomy of valuing humility yet paying attention to braggadocio. Usually, when someone makes a claim like, "I am the greatest!" we aren't going to take him at his word - we expect him to prove it with a TKO in the third round. Advertisers have become so accustomed to using superlatives that if a motel calls itself "Best Value" we don't stop to think about whether it actually is the best value, we just assume it's cheap and we don't turn on a black light in the room. Ever.
    So how does a guy go about letting other guys know that he gives good ass without making himself sound (a) like a braggart (b) like a narcissist (c) insufferable or (d) desperate?
    Indeed, if one gave great ass, how would one personally know? Autofellatio is one thing (been there) but auto-fucking, at least to the point of credible critique, is not possible.
    The only way to know is to rely on the reports of those who have experienced it, and the only way to convey it to others in an honest and unbiased way is to share those reports without embellishment or modification. Kind of like a Consumer Reports for Ass.
    For myself, the best thing I can do is relate the events of a day at my favorite camp:
    One day at camp, I was leaned over a picnic table, and another guy was seated on one of its benches. He was giving head, I was giving ass. I didn't know him, but we were a pretty good full-service team that day. The guys who only wanted head went to him. The guys who wanted to fuck took me. Sometimes he warmed them up and then passed them along. Every now and then he would lean over and mutter to me, "Here comes a big one." He had a habit of understatement.
    They were a lively bunch, with a spirit of camaraderie and joie de vivre among them - it wasn't one of those weird gang-fucks that happens in darkened silence, but a chatty affair that suggested that the men were at their ease. The atmosphere seemed to encourage them to express their views, and I was so taken (well, yes) that after it was all over I actually wrote down what I could remember of it, mostly because it was flattering, but also because I was pretty sure no one would ever believe me.
    As I was being ass-fucked, this is what I heard:
    "Your ass is amazing!"
    "Ohh, my fucking God, I do NOT believe this."
    "Shit, man, where did you learn to do that?"
    "Guys, this is the sweetest ass you are ever going to fuck."
    "Oh, that is good, good man-pussy."
    "OH, YES. You are going to be my fuck toy all. night. long."
    "Holy Mother of Fuck."
    "I don't believe it. I just came, and I'm a total bottom."
    "Oh, yeah - His cum as lube for my cock in your ass... OH FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
    "Kentucky throroughbred ass."
    "Oh my God, he's milking my cock..."
    "I hope that ass gets fucked regularly."
    "Dude. Best ass ever, man."
    After a while there was a lull in the action and everyone except my head-giving buddy and me cleared out. He looked at me oddly for a second, then got up, circled around me, dropped his pants, and fucked me until he came. Then he sat back down and said, "So that's what that was all about."
    All the others could be written off as the jabberings of men in the throes of a sexual haze, but this guy was from Consumer Reports, testing the product. His comment is the proof. I give great ass.
    If I say so myself.
     

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