Ass, or The New Dark Meat ( )0( )

Finally! A picture that captures the color of my eyes!

“Never did Nature indicate another altar for our offerings than the asshole. Ah, but God! Were not her intention that we fuck assholes, would she have so exactly proportioned this orifice to fit our member?”
Philosophy In The Bedroom Donatien-Alphonse-Francois de Sade

I am a connoisseur, a gourmand of ass. A shapely, accommodating ass can more than make up for a weak chin, yellow teeth or a double-digit IQ. I can be aroused simply by looking at a round upturned bubble-butt. Fleshy globes and meaty bunghole will always get a second date.

I have three qualifiers when picking up men:
1) They must be HIV positive;
2) Unless overwhelmingly desirable, they should be uncircumcised;
3) They should be prepared to get fucked good and hard.

I cannot fix a beginning on my craze for man-ass, as I seem to have been born with it. I remember going to the municipal pool for swimming lessons in Old Town, Maine where my maternal grandparents lived. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven and already I was loitering in the locker room for a peek. As most men are somewhat modest in such situations and turn toward the locker, I was treated to a vista of ass. That suited me just fine.

Adolescence came early to Bucko, and by the time of seventh grade showers (at age eleven) I couldn’t help but notice that I was in advance of my peers. I also quickly caught on that any shyness felt on my part was more than compensated by the opportunity of examining my classmates at close quarters. As my passion for foreskin seems to have already been established with my asslust, I found little interest in the cut little toad-stools the communal showers showcased. But they were a veritable symphony of ass. Guys I wouldn’t have thought about twice became the objects of secret little crushes once I laid eyes on their derrieres lumbering toward the showers, butt bouncing and jiggling as it passed by.

By the time I graduated, I had made a mental dossier of nearly everyone at Weymouth North High School, and these provided an endless reservoir of sexual fantasy. Football jocks, gymnasts, freaks and nerds all became fodder for the shooting cannon under my bedsheets. My fascination tends toward full, wide, squishy butts that bounce and spring when kneaded or slapped. Hard muscular butts are exceptionally pretty, but have the tactile qualities of silicone implants.

And, as you are now all aware, I was already a hopelessly slutty little tart. I met men on subway platforms, in bookshops, in coffee houses in Harvard Square and the tearoom of the Boston Public Library (in the basement, so elegant with all that marble). If I could have, (and I sometimes could) I’d have had ass for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A taste only brought out my appetite, and I have broken a few beds in the hunt for satisfaction.

Age, race or demographics rarely meant much to me back then. I’d bring home scores of bottom boys irrespective of any consideration beyond the beauty and accessibility of his ass. I was a ravenous bottom-feeder. I’d go home with a couple in their forties and spend all night porking their behinds one day then keep a date with a luscious ballet dancer the next. I was conducting an exhaustive survey (one I’ve yet to complete) and my inquiring mind went to great lengths to find fresh subjects.

I’ll relate why I find bottoming personally distasteful another time, as this isn’t about my sorry little butt, but rather a description of the pleasure I find in the winking loveknots of others and I intend to stay on point. I will simply say that I have encountered no real resistance to my strict top-only rule since my late teens.

These days I usually begin my quest in a bar dedicated to the pursuit of momentary pleasure. I am not a phone book and have little interest in the collection of random phone numbers. If I call you back, it’s because I enjoyed the opening salvo and am interested in a follow-up volley. Life’s short, so why waste time on encounters not ripe with guiltless hedonism?

After having successfully qualified a perspective hole, the only thing left is to find our cars and figure out where we’ll be playing. I generally prefer to be the one entertaining, but am flexible and can follow as well as lead.

After some heavy facesucking and titplay, the clothes come off and we’re ready for a more detailed examination. Groping and fingering are next on my agenda, as I inspect the goods and tickle my tonsils with prepuce overhang. As I am currently living in a small two room apartment, I shall as likely as not stretch you back on my custom-made solid cherry farmhouse table and come in close for a sniff.

Foreplay having been accomplished and clothes strewn about, we make it into my bedroom for a more serious work-out. I have spent many years perfecting my craft and respond to signals and mumbled requests. I take my time and open the delicate flower with patience and persistence. One, two then three fingers find the prostate and massage it lovingly and with consistency. I enter the sacred grove only when asked in, but don’t wait for a second invitation.

Initial penetration is a delicate matter to most, though no all of my playmates. Sometimes one’s eyes are bigger than one’s sphincter and I have no wish to cause injury. I’ll let the head of my dick loiter in the vestibule for a spell. It is generally thrusting hips and urgent demands that prompt my further explorations of the lower bowels. I want it most when he’s screaming for it.

I prefer a slow, rhythmic push, pull, push, with occasional near withdrawal and rubbing of my cockhead just inside the opening before thrusting back in. Speed and force slowly build into a driving piston. I like to make it last and will take breaks for refreshments or a smoke between rounds, chatting and bonding on different levels of sensation and intellect.

Man-ass is best savored in positions that foster mutual pleasure and deepest insertion, such as:

• Bottom on his back: I personally favor this one, because we can kiss, my tits are readily available for pulling, and I can suck on his rod while firmly planted in his fundament. This position feels the most intimate.
• Bottom on his side: Good for starters or in a change of pace, this position affords me the most pleasure when I’m standing next to the bed (or table) and have the best access. This is also more comfortable for bottoms with lower back problems, although keeping that leg up can be taxing for more than twenty minutes or so.
• Bottom on top: For the bottom who wants to maintain some semblance of control on the proceedings, this one is preferable. I’m fine with this as well, because his dick is right there bouncing on my chest and is readily accessible for frigging.
• Both standing: There is something undeniably kinky about this one. It’s an especially interesting way of finishing up, with the Bottom’s hands gripping the footboard and me pounding away. Extra points are given for seeing his legs quake.

The all-too common practice of Bottom-On-His-Belly is not much fun for me, except as a first course. The pleasure taken in watching my cock push in and out between a pair of melons is offset by the lack of kissing and the inaccessibility of my tits. This posture always struck me as too cold and passive. But if any of you pillow-biters out there would care to show me how hot it can get, they’re welcome to give it a whirl.

Now, with all the emphasis on the fun afforded by ass-fucking, I’d be remiss if I didn’t spend a moment discussing hygiene and cleanliness:

• Just because I love ass doesn’t make me a scatpig. Of all the byways and cul-de-sacs of the human psyche, that one is beyond my comprehension.
• A proper Bottom should always wash out thoroughly before contemplating putting his hungry hole into use. They sell shower attachments, dude. Get one.
• Shaving is optional in my book. Asshair brings another whole dimension to the experience, making for a musky aroma and a certain aesthetic appeal. But extra caution in bathing is absolutely de rigor. Musky is not a euphemism for shitty.
• Just because I’m a control freak doesn’t mean that I’m wrong in wanting to verify the freshness of a given ass for myself.
• Analingus is strictly at my discretion. Even after a thorough cleansing I reserve the right to limit this practice to my whimsy. Sorry!
• That having been said, I have been known to toss many a salad and understand well the relaxing and therapeutic properties inherent therein.

One final word on the whole Santorum/ooze issue: fucking ass is not for wimps or pansies. The occasional dirty finger comes with the territory, although I’d like to think that my dirty dickhead days are behind me. The fact remains that a dedicated top needs to handle such an encounter with tact, discretion and finesse, excusing himself for a quick wash-up at a quiet moment, not interrupting a full-on assault to clean his nails. Some shit does happen, but bad manners are always poor form.