Fuck David Hicks

Over this past weekend, my fellow Left-Wingers have worked themselves into a frenzy of self-righteous delight at the news that Guantanamo Bay prisoner David Hicks (aka Abu Muslim al-Austraili, aka Mohamed Dawood) has won his latest court case in his ongoing campaign to get British citizenship.

Hicks, a 30 year old white Australian convert to Islam earned worldwide fame or notoriety (depending on your perspective) when he was captured in Afghanistan by US troops in late 2001. Like John Walker Lindh, another Honky for Allah, Hicks was found fighting on the side of the Taliban/Al-Quaeda forces.

Since then Hicks has languished in American detention. Categorised as an "unlawful combatant" not a prisoner of war he, like his fellow inmates, is denied the protections of relevant sections of International Law. The Hicks family and legal team headed by the implausibly clean cut US Marines Major Michael Mori hope that gaining British citizenship will see the Blair government petition the US for Hick's release - as they did with other British detainees.

Whatever.

Over the last four years, I have attended countless meetings, forums, rallies and chardonnay soaked fundraisers at which earnest types gather together to wring hands and listen to tedious speakers call for Hicks to be brought home. They urge compassion for this misunderstood young man who left his home and young family first to train with the Kosovo Liberation Army and then to take up arms with the Taliban. Poor David (according to the bleating of his increasingly irritating father Terry) was confused it seems. He had problems as a youth. His relationship failed. Drugs worked their insidious evil on his tortured mind.

Free David? Fuck David sounds better to me.

Now don't get me wrong, I have not joined the foetid ranks of the Queer Conservative and his sloping browed ilk. I rarely dissent from the Collective Will of the Left. My position on the rights of Hicks is the same as any other democratic socialist or progressive minded sort. It is best summed up by former Australian Diplomat Tony Kevin in his 2005 article on Crikey.com. It says in part:

"As an Australian citizen abroad, Hicks is entitled to effective Australian Government consular protection when arrested and charged with serious crimes by a foreign government. For the past four years he has not had this protection. To surrender his final fate to a military “court” where the US military is at once plaintiff, jailer, evidence-gatherer, prosecutor, judge and jury cannot give him a fair trial. At the very least, he should be tried by a US civil court (as was US citizen John Walker Lindh). Or he should be returned for trial in Australia as other non-US Guantanamo inmates (e.g., British, French prisoners) are being repatriated to face judicial process in their own countries."

Kevin is pretty much right. Hicks and all the Guantanamo Bay inmates are being denied procedural fairness and the provision of basic human rights. They should have full consular protection of their respective states and/or the Red Cross and other international bodies. They should be charged (where evidence permits) and brought before civil courts to face speedy trial, not the offhand processes of an American military commission. Hicks has complained about being abused and tortured, first by the Northern Alliance and later by the American military. This should be investigated and rectified.

Indeed there is only one point on which I differ with Tony Kevin and that's about returning Hicks to Australia for trial. As far as this little white pervert can see there are two problems here:

1. At the time Hicks was captured by the Yanks (late 2001) nothing he had been alleged to have done was an offence under Australian law. Should he be returned to Australia he would not face trial;

2. He is a religious extremist. I will elaborate further on this in a moment.

What sticks in your devoted correspondents craw in all of this are the calls for compassion and mercy for Hicks from my comrades in the Intellectual Elites. Justice, I can stomach - but compassion? For a religious lunatic? Fuck off Ibrahim. Let us not forget that Hicks, willingly and of his own choice, decided to fight with the Taliban - a religious and political movement which can only be described as repellent and extreme beyond all human imagining.

From 1996 until 2001 the Taliban, a Sunni muslim sect from the majority Pashtun ethnic group, ruled the Afghani people with an ethic straight from the dark ages. Women in particular suffered the most excruciating abuses under this regime of backwards village mullahs. The Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan (RAWA) has documented in vivid detail the justice dispensed under the Taliban. Not only to women, but to other groups such as the Hazara people - an ethnic minority in Afghanistan who made the poor choice of being Shia muslims. It is believed that at least 15000 Hazara were murdered at the hands of the Taliban in the period 1996-2001.

Consider, if you will, this selection of links which indicate the mercy and compassion available to those who failed to meet the particularly narrow interpretation of Koranic law which prevailed under the Taliban.

A woman beaten in Kabul for removing her burqa

Four men hanged publicly

Bodies of political prisoners rotting in the streets of Herat

Scences in Kabul following the amputation of the hands and feet of two men accused of theft

A public execution in Kabul

The massacre by the Taliban of 3000 Hazara people in January 2001

Amputations, beatings, brutal summary executions. Mass murder. Corpses left to rot in the streets. The Taliban (which means "seekers of knowledge") instituted a system of social order which many in the West would have thought was left long in the distant past.

Not so, gentle reader.

Girls were not permitted to attend school nor to work in public places. Secular education was dismissed as satanic so boys only attended Madrassahs or religious schools. As women could not see male doctors and as the relatively small number of female medical practitioners were no longer permitted to practice, the reality for Afghani women did not include any standard of health care. In fact (with the exception of gathering water) women and girls were not permitted to leave their homes without the escort of a male relative and always wearing the ubiquitous burqua.

Executions under the rule of the Taliban were public and horrific. In addition to being hanged from street lamps and cranes on street corners (a practice also beloved of the Iranian regime), supposed wrong doers were often buried up to their waists (in the case of men) or their necks (for the women folk) and then stoned or shot.

In the middle of all of this, we find the confused David Hicks, trained in warfare by the KLA and now with his Koran (English translation no doubt) in one hand and an AK-47 in the other bunking down with Islamic nutcases in the wastelands of Afghanistan. To trot out an old cliche, when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.

I feel no sympathy for this repulsive individual. Dear Davey doesn't like the consequences of being on the losing side and he wants to come home. I view him in the same way I view Americans who have supported George Bush and his republican frat boy mates, but now have doubts. If you don't want to be lumped in with the racists, the fruitcakes and the god-bothering pointy heads don't support them, whether that support is voting for them or taking to the field of battle on their behalf.

At this juncture, I should expand a little on why I don't want Hicks to be returned to Australia. Basically, the bloke is a loony. Anyone who declares themselves to be follower of fundamentalist Islam (or Christianity for that matter) should be considered to be mentally unsound and not suited to mix in civilised society. Frankly these people make me feel uncomfortable. I don't like religious people. Like many secular Australians, I don't want to live near or be exposed to such characters.

You see, bad things happen when people "of faith" arrive on the scene. Just ask the indigenous people of North America. Whether it's a Jehovah's Witness stuffing anti blood transfusion tracts under your front door, or a hooting, hollering pro-lifer spitting on and hissing at women going to abortion clinics or even a cranky Islamic "martyr" decked out in this year's latest Semtex fashions who is desirous of redecorating your favourite cafe -- these people just fuck shit up.

70 plus virgins? Fuck that. Give me one fire-breathing sex fiend with a 10 inch cock and a bottle of amyl and I'll probably kill just about anyone you care to name.

There is something particularly spooky about christians and muslims, especially those of the fundamentalist stripe. I have to confess that I place these two religious movements at the top of my icky list. Observant followers of Judaism, Farsis, Bahais for example are all much less offensive. Sure their stupid, superstitious beliefs are just as ridiculous but when was the last time you had a black hatted orthodox Jew knocking on your door and exhorting you to eat kosher, oy gevalt? Unlike like wild eyed disciples of the Prophet or tight lipped cattle prods for Christ - these other, lesser religions don't proselytise. In Matty the Damned's world view, that counts for something.

On balance, I think it's much better that Hicks remains in the good old USA. I mean the place is already leaking god struck sociopaths. What the Taliban (and other similar regimes throughout the muslim world) sought to impose on Afghanistan is not that different to what Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson or even dear old Freddy Phelps would like to see happen in that One Nation Under God. I'm sure he'll feel right at home. Even if it is in a cramped cell being broom handled by a 300 lbs monster named Bubba. Shit, let the Brits have Hicks. Whatever you do, don't send him back down here - we don't need the fucker.

I support justice for David Hicks. I support his right to a fair and impartial trial before a civil court. I support his right to be treated with dignity before the law, despite the fact he supports a religious movement that denies these rights to others.

But don't expect me to feel compassionate towards him. I'll save my compassion and sympathy for the people of Afghanistan and all others who languish under the dirty hand of religious extremism and authoritarian brutality wherever it may be found.

IN SOLIDARITY
MtD

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures In Barebacking, Part 2: Even Deeper and More Probing

I rolled off the bed, legs shaking, and headed toward the kitchen, where I have a Gropius ashtray cached away for the occasional, late-night cigarette inside the apartment (I generally smoke out in the garden, at the request of my non-smoking landlord). I’d noticed a pack of Camel filters in the webbed mesh container on the outside of Dawg’s bag and grabbed them, with my pack of Parliaments and a small disposable lighter.

“Here”, I growled, throwing the Camels near his head, “Have a smoke. You earned it.” I rolled my thumb on the little steel wheel and offered up a light, putting down the ashtray and tracing the outline of the Iron Cross tattooed around his navel with my tongue. His tiny, soft cock poked up through an untrimmed bush of reddish-brown hair, spent and limp.

Somewhat to my surprise, Dawg actually had something to say. He was from Chicago (his voice betrayed the prairie-flat flat tones of the Midwest), and up until recently had earned his living as an investment banker in Boca Raton. At some point, about a year and a half ago, his life shifted focus dramatically (the particulars were left unsaid, and I didn’t pry), he switched to landscaping, an incredibly unlikely career for such a pink-skinned Irishman here in SoFla. Although I smelled a fib, I noticed that his hands, which certainly looked like a tradesman’s paws, were rough and calloused, with chewed-down nail stumps and dirt around the cuticles.

He spoke briefly of several relationships, each lasting four or so years, and having been single for, again, about eighteen months. It was in these relationships, with dominant tops all, that he’d learned the skills he’d just evidenced so delightfully. “Leather”, he said, is my life.”
I asked what was in the bag he’d brought:
“Lots of stuff. But mostly gloves…leather gloves.”
“What’s up with gloves?”
“I just like them. Would you wear them next time?”
“Sure”, I leered, exhaling cigarette smoke, “I’d be happy to oblige.”
“So…what are you into?”
“Lots of scenes…I’m a man of many talents.”
“Like…?”
“Well”, I hummed, remembering his profile, “I can piss through a raging hard-on.”
“Really?” his face brightened with a boyish glee, “Although I like seed, I can really feel piss going up my ass. The gush is really indescribable.”
“We gotta try it…next time.” I was already hatching outrages. As his profile stated love is…committing a crime. My mind swam with outrageous possibilities.

He got dressed and called a cab without visiting the bathroom. Remembering the load I’d just deposited there, I smiled but said nothing. Pulling on some shorts, I walked him out to the street.

“I’m having a lot of fun right now,” he said, lighting up another smoke, “But I think I might be ready to start settling down.” My mind raced over various possibilities like a stone skipping on a pond but I offered nothing more than a smile. The cab pulled up almost immediately, and I waved him a good-night.

I stepped back into my kitchen and plopped down in my desk chair, sending an IM to Matty:

(13:57:04) Bucko the Depraved: :x
(13:57:12) Matty the Damned: :X
(13:57:16) Matty the Damned: -squeal-
(13:57:18) Matty the Damned: :D
(13:57:23) Bucko: I did it again
(13:57:28) Matty the Damned: did what dear?
(13:57:33) Bucko: Check iut out
(13:57:38) Bucko: *it
(13:57:41) Bucko: manhunt.net
(13:57:45) Bucko: Buckob
(13:57:54) Bucko: password: ******
(13:58:09) Bucko: In my mail, check out Dawgpound
(13:58:33) Bucko: He's hot, and SO obedient
(13:58:45) Bucko: hehehehehe
(13:58:56) Matty the Damned: logging in
(14:01:44) Bucko: Check the mail for Doggy
(14:01:53) Bucko: that's the quickest
(14:02:22) Matty the Damned: jeeeeeeeeeeeeeezuz!
(14:02:27) Matty the Damned: He's a tough customer!
(14:02:37) Bucko: He's a total lamb
(14:02:43) Bucko: So hot
(14:02:46) Bucko: fab ass
(14:02:51) Bucko: very obedient
(14:02:56) Bucko: he IS well trained
(14:03:15) Matty the Damned: you've met up and brutalized him?
(14:03:15) Bucko: He wants me to piss up his butt next
(14:03:17) Matty the Damned: :D
(14:03:22) Bucko: Mostly fucked
(14:03:23) Matty the Damned: he's got a foot thing too
(14:03:28) Bucko: for over two hours
(14:03:53) Bucko: He's got a real gherkin
(14:04:00) Bucko: just adorable
(14:04:02) Matty the Damned: hehehhee
(14:04:19) Bucko: Really supersweet
(14:04:37) Bucko: But I think his dad sends him out
(14:04:37) Bucko: Dad or master
(14:04:43) Matty the Damned: yup
(14:04:49) Matty the Damned: nothing like a well trained bottom
(14:04:55) Bucko: Probably collects the drippings later
(14:05:29) Matty the Damned: My guess? Sends him out and then punishes him for being a dirty little slut. It's the usual thing.
(14:05:39) Bucko: Probably
(14:05:48) Bucko: he had some nasty little thing on his ass
(14:05:53) Bucko: It was covered up
(14:05:57) Matty the Damned: burns?
(14:06:03) Bucko: That's my guess
(14:06:09) Bucko: Cig burn
(14:06:18) Bucko: Man he has a sweet hole
(14:06:21) Bucko: real tight
(14:06:28) Matty the Damned: he does his exercises
(14:06:31) Bucko: But I fucked him w/out lube
(14:06:40) Bucko: Just some spit
(14:06:47) Matty the Damned: definitely exercises
(14:06:52) Bucko: oh yeah
(14:06:58) Bucko: a real power bottom
(14:07:07) Matty the Damned: :D
(14:07:13) Matty the Damned: one of my brethren
(14:07:14) Bucko: He could make lots of money
(14:07:15) Bucko: ;)
(14:07:21) Bucko: It was sublime
(14:07:22) Matty the Damned: he's a goodly age too
(14:07:32) Bucko: About 35?
(14:07:34) Matty the Damned: 32
(14:07:37) Bucko: I forget
(14:07:44) Bucko: He comes off very young
(14:07:48) Bucko: unlike his pix
(14:08:02) Matty the Damned: his pix make him look like a Ukrainian weightlifter
(14:08:35) Bucko: He's an Irish kid from Chicago
(14:08:42) Matty the Damned: begorrah!
(14:08:53) Bucko: Throughout the whole thing, he kept saying how I was his type
(14:09:06) Matty the Damned: probably sex talk
(14:09:12) Bucko: I was terse but kind
(14:09:25) Matty the Damned: good power bottoms know how to flatter their masters
(14:09:32) Bucko: He did, indeed
(14:09:34) Matty the Damned: :D
(14:09:54) Bucko: My teeth shook when I came
(14:10:02) Bucko: But he just dribbled
(14:10:11) Bucko: despite a ferocious hard-on
(14:10:20) Matty the Damned: does he grove impressively
(14:10:22) Matty the Damned: ?
(14:10:29) Bucko: grovel?
(14:10:33) Bucko: Oh yeah
(14:10:36) Matty the Damned: yeah that
(14:10:54) Bucko: But mainly., I was turned on by the automatic acquiescence
(14:11:03) Bucko: Whatever I wanted
(14:11:05) Matty the Damned: instant submission
(14:11:09) Bucko: done that sec
(14:11:14) Bucko: exactly
(14:11:22) Bucko: so unlike G
(14:11:22) Bucko: hehehehe
(14:11:22) Matty the Damned: must make a pleasant change
(14:11:25) Matty the Damned: ;)
(14:11:33) Bucko: Thrilling, dear
(14:11:43) Matty the Damned: at least if you beat the shit out this one he won't call the coppers
(14:11:48) Bucko: All in all a very pleasant encounter
(14:11:51) Matty the Damned: excellent!
(14:11:53) Matty the Damned: :d
(14:12:01) Bucko: :D

(14:15:55) Bucko: brb
(14:16:10) Matty the Damned: me too
(14:21:11) Bucko: Something occurred to me just today
(14:21:15) Bucko: one week later
(14:21:18) Matty the Damned: yairs?
(14:21:46) Bucko: G finally admitted to stepping out on me during our last, heated conversation
(14:22:03) Bucko: I'd let it pass unnoticed the last time
(14:22:21) Bucko: Because it was crouched in a bitter comment
(14:22:52) Bucko: But he DID admit it
(14:22:54) Matty the Damned: have you heard from Loopy Velez?
(14:23:01) Bucko: Got me roiled all over again
(14:23:07) Bucko: Not yet
(14:23:17) Bucko: we went too far
(14:23:27) Matty the Damned: good good
(14:23:29) Bucko: There's no turning back
(14:23:46) Matty the Damned: oooh - before I forget www.ratearod.com
(14:25:57) Matty the Damned: OH NO! PERSONAL DUMPSTER HAS BEEN TAKEN DOWN FOREVER!
(14:26:28) Bucko: Damn them!
(14:26:45) Matty the Damned: probably got sued by some ugly tubbo from the Midwest
(14:26:53) Matty the Damned: ah well
(14:26:59) Bucko: hehehe
(14:27:00) Matty the Damned: ratearod will just have to do
(14:27:08) Bucko: Hours of fun!
(14:27:15) Matty the Damned: there's also www.ratearear.com for all you tops
(14:27:32) Matty the Damned: -dashes to turn off radio-
(14:27:37) Matty the Damned: UGH! Celtic music

We continued for a few more minutes with this dialog, me giving Matty the full report, before I looked at the clock at the bottom right of my computer. It was almost 4:30, and I had to work at noon the next day. Signing off with oaths of love and hugging emoticons, I took my meds and went to bed.

On returning the next day, I went back online, IMing Matty while cruising Mancunt. In short order I was approached by a couple named two4everyone:

2 looking 4 fun
Latino 5 6 140 vers top 8.5u polish 5 11 180 vers btm 7c we luv 3 and 4 ways 1+1-

When: Right Now! Ethnicity: Latino
Where: At My Place Status: Ask Me
Into: Sucking, Fucking, Group sex, Leather, Pig Play, Rimming, Fuck Buddy, Friends
40 // Average // Brown // Auburn/Red // Bottom/Vers

They post two ass shots and a flaccid dick shot, head poking from a tight prepuce. The profile, while vague, seemed interesting enough. The lack of face shots didn’t strike me as odd. I hadn’t posted them myself until quite recently. I responded to their e-mails and eventually we exchanged phone numbers. The voice on the other end wasn’t very promising. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like the chain-smoking mother of some long-lost high-school chum. With trepidation, I gave him my address and directions, which, while very simple and direct needed to be repeated several times.

About thirty minutes later, a truck pulled into the driveway, and I went out to meet them. In the light of a distant streetlight, I was unimpressed. The “Polish” guy was hunch-shouldered and flabby, his pale face pock-marked and pink. The “Latino” looked evil, just evil, the front of the navy blue nylon track pants he was wearing swung back and forth with what must have been the “8.5u”. As we approached the house, the landscaping lighting revealed a sinister pair, even as their voices struck all the wrong chords. I opened my gate automatically and ushered them into the garden, where the perimeter lighting confirmed my worst suspicions. These guys looked straight out of B-movie casting for bad guys. I stopped and turned around, looking them both as squarely in the eye as I could.
“Look, guys…this isn’t gonna work out.”
Polack: “What do you mean?”
“You’re not coming in.”
Latino: “I told you…”
Polack: “So, we wasted our time coming?”
“Yeah.”
Polack: “So we showered for nothing?”
“A shower’s never wasted, baby.”
As aggressively as I could, I walked over to my gate and opened the latch.
“Time to go.”
Polack: “Can I at least pee?”
“Pick a bush” I said, pointing to the garden. “They’re used to it.”

Only after hearing their truck pull away did I open the door, wish Matty goodnight after a brief recap, and went to bed.

The next morning, I slept in, as I didn’t have to work until late that afternoon. As I dozed, I noticed that the fan by my bed, a requirement here in SoFla, had shut itself off. Shaking my head, I sat up in bed and looked at my alarm clock’s blank screen. Power failures are an annoyance down here, as the powergrid was set up for a far smaller population than is currently crowded between the Everglades and the beach. I presumed that was what it was. But moments later, there was a furious rapping on my bedroom window: “Hey, Bucko, sorry about the power. I’m on the phone with them now and it’ll be back on in a couple of hours”.

An explanation: I live in an in-law apartment attached to a house. I pay one bill every month, which is my rent, and includes electricity, AC, water, cable and DSL. It suits me fine, and I’ve never had a problem with it before. But a few months previously a new tenant had moved in, a straight, blow-hard cokefiend with a loud barking dog, who was trouble coming in a black BMW. This was just the latest in a string of mishaps and altercations between us. The tenant of the main house is given a reduction in rent to cover the cost of my living here and feeding off their services. It’s an agreement before they move in. But he was notoriously stingy with the AC when not in the house (which was almost always) and we’d already had words on the subject.

So the asswhipe hadn’t paid the electric, and now I was stuck without power. I got up, drank the previous night’s tea, took a cold shower and left early for work. While eating lunch, I called the landlord to complain (gently, it wasn’t his fault) about the annoyance. It was the first he’d heard of anything, but wasn’t really surprised. The rent still hadn’t been paid, and it was after the 15th. He apologized and asked what, if anything, he could do. I just grumbled and returned to my sub, signing off.

On returning home, it became instantly apparent that the house still had no power. At a loss, I dialed the landlord’s number but got voicemail. It was after 11:00, too late to call anyone for anything but an emergency, which this really wasn’t. I thought for a moment, and opened my phone, flipping through the call log. Locating Dawgpound’s number, I hit send, but got voicemail right away. Shit!

I opened my door and lit a candle. The air was heavy and hot, and I was instantly reminded of life after a hurricane. I opened my phone again and called Zephyr, who lives in California and who might offer some moral support. We had been having long late-night conversation for several weeks, ever since G was admitted into the hospital. She had been so instrumental in helping to keep me sane, and I’d been sharing my day-to-day life with her to a degree no woman except my sister ever had.

After a long-winded explanation about my current situation, I let out a sigh.
“So what are you going to do, sweetheart?”
“I really don’t have a choice. I’ll have to sleep at G’s tonight.”
Pause…”Do you think he’ll mind?”
“I really don’t give a fuck what he’d mind. He’s in Texas, the place is empty. He’ll never know, and I need to sleep in air conditioning tonight. Can I stay on the line with you while I walk there?”
“Sure thing, babe.”

I packed a small overnight bag and headed out, marking out the mile-long walk in long, New York sidewalk strides in fewer than ten minutes. I approached his apartment building warily and with apprehension. It all seemed so strange, so eerie, so fucking surreal. Zeph was cooing encouragement in my ear as I turned the key in the lock and let myself in.

Looking around, I thought of all the broken dreams, the time wasted, all the reproaches and criticisms he’d volleyed at me. My mind was spinning with images of G, one minute being domestic and sweet, cooking us dinner in his tiny kitchen, the next shunning my advances even as he demanded a foot massage or money to pay his car insurance. I signed off with Zeph and slowly looked around. Everything was both the same and utterly transformed.

My eye led, as it had dozens of times before, to the VCR remote on his coffee table. Two months previously, I had arrived in the morning to wake him up and prepare breakfast. I had left the evening previously around midnight, as he was not interested in sharing his bed with me at all at that time. But he had assured me that our relationship was progressing in its proper time, and that patience would be rewarded. While he was in the bathroom, I became electrified when, looking at his coffee table, I saw a puddle of lube and big wet sticky fingerprints on the VCR remote. Curious, I went to the VCR and pushed “reject”. Out popped his copy of To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar (we’d watched it some nights previously). My heart raced and I wiped the puddle on the coffee table with my index finger. It smelled and tasted just like lube…it was lube.

No one jerks off to To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar, no matter how fetching one finds John Leguizamo.

A few nights later, G chastised me for not using coasters. “There was a big wet puddle of water on the coffee table this morning”. I looked at him with every intention of slapping him with the still-cummy remote control, but just nodded.

Whenever I needed reassurance that something was very wrong in the façade of our relationship, deeply flawed and cracked, I would look at that remote and imagine G getting slammed on the sofa by someone he’d met somewhere, either online or via some phone hook-up arrangement. When he was in the hospital, I rummaged through his bag of used syringes (he has prescriptions for steroids and testosterone replacement therapy) and found one covered in lube, needle removed. I’d done enough research on the web by then to understand what a booty bump was. The thoughts sent me off again in fresh paroxysms of agony.

I lumbered into the bathroom to take a leak and looked at the TV/VCR/DVD combo sitting on a shelving unit opposite the bed. Pushing the power button, I noticed that the sound was turned all the way off, unusually. Going to his nightstand, I picked up the remote and pressed “play”. Long-familiar images from Falcon Video’s The New Breed lept on the screen. Hmmm…porno.

I stripped off my clothes and stood in front of the TV, rubbing my nipples. Shit, Bill Henson was a hot bottom. I suddenly didn’t need to piss so badly. Instead, I opened G’s sock drawer and reached for his bottle of Amsterdam poppers (which he had but never used with me, much like the dildo and cockrings sitting next to it). Leaning back on the headboard, I stoked my dick to full hardness, pulling on my tits, imagining G in place of Bill, getting fucked by the blonde stud with the big dick. I opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply from my right nostril.

As the rush of rapid heartbeat roiled through my head, the blond faded from the screen, and I appeared, driving it home into G again and again. Pulling on my dick and tits, I was transported into the video, panting and rolling my head this way and that. I shot up to my chin with one more hit of poppers, spraying the cool white sheets.

With just a minimal amount of wash-up, I crawled into the bed and quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, musing at how superfastidious G would react to my sleeping, not just naked, but oozing with post-cum drip in his bed.

But at work the next day, I turned thoughts of G over in my head again and again. I had been told by several people that meth addicts can only respond sexually when under the active influence, and then preferably with fellow addicts, but the mechanics of this left me confused. If the drugs made him superhorny, then why never with me? The thought of him sharing something as sacred to me as sex with so many, at my exclusion, kept my heart racing and head pounding. I needed to find an understanding for myself, without resorting to actually smoking meth. Somehow, I felt that I’d find it on Manhunt.

I couldn’t have been more than five minutes online when I was approached via e-mail by someone named JeepStudFtL:

LET’S DO IT
Normal guy looking for buddies to hang out and play.
36 6’ 180 blonde, blue, beard, straight(normal)guy

IM me

Wilton Manors or Dania Beach

When: Right Now! Ethnicity: White
Where: Anywhere Status:
Into: JO, Sucking, Fucking, 1 on 1, Group Sex, Nipple Play, Fuck Buddy, Friends, Kissing
36 // 6’0 // Muscular // Blue / Blond // Bottom/Vers

As is my practice, my first question was regarding status, as he had left it blank. After receiving an affirmative response, we quickly came to a meeting of the minds, and he arrived in minutes.

Overall, JeepStudFtL reminded me a tad too much of my ex, KL, another self-proclaimed big butch bottom, although JSFL wasn’t nearly as fat. Nor was he as trim as the photos suggested, but he was amiable and sweet, if rather gayer than he leads himself it believe.

Although an excellent kisser and total powerbottom, JSFL wasn’t really my cup of tea. The one saving grace was when I rolled him on his side. He looked at me curiously from the edge of the bed, as I stood on the Tibetan carpet and poured lube down his asscrack. Gripping the base of my dick, I entered him roughly, sinking up to the balls. He let out a squeal as I pulled out and re-penetrated his ass. After four or five of these assaults, his ass gaped open like a pornstar’s. “Good”, I cracked, “Keep it open. I wanna see it yawn.”

And like the excellent bottom he was, he obeyed.

The next evening I noticed that Dawgpound was back online. He responded to my command and came right over, slightly better washed than last time but still reeking of a day’s labor. I wanted him so very badly.

We facesucked deeply and roughhoused, grappling on my bed like a pair of varsity wrestlers. As he is both an obedient bottom and much bigger than me, he graciously let me pin him down, arms overhead, while I frotted insistently against his belly. Without meaning to, my leg slipped and crushed his balls with a deep push. I lept up immediately, apologizing and saying that I never enjoy unintended pain. I got us each a bottle of water while he regained his breath.

After a short break, I instructed him to stay still and reached for the can of Crisco that I generally use to JO. Alternately kissing his mouth and tits, I massaged a dollop into his ass and pushed in a finger, then another, jerking him with my other hand and feeding him my dick. Lifting up his legs, I reached for another gob of shortening and inserted another finger. Bending my hand into a fold, the baby finger slipped in next. His breathing got very still and his face crinkled into a mask of pleasure and pain. “Easy” he whispered.

I slowed down even more, taking my cues form his breathing. Back in the kitchen, X’s “Los Angeles” screeched and careened on Windows Media Player like an out of control Camaro. We spent several minutes caught in the sublime act of worshipping his ass with my hand when we reached an impasse, and I withdrew carefully and slowly, his asslips smacking shut with finality.

We took another breather and began what was to become a series of philosophical conversations regarding the soul and our visions of the afterlife. I shared my experiences with NDE (I’ve flatlined twice) and OBE. We discussed predestination and fate, and I related some of the story of Jean-Marc. He mentioned that he’d just started HAART, and I gave him some pointers on living with Kaletra gut (remember the Imodium). As he shifted position, I noticed a small skidmark of santorum on the bedsheet, but felt it better to leave it unremarked. After some cuddling, he dressed and called his cab.

Despite the 747-sized holes in his story, I somehow felt that I was seeing a side of Dawg to which precious few were privy. Instead of being intrigued by the mystery, I took a deep breath and decided that, at least for the moment, his fictions sufficed for a snap-shot of reality. After all, his illusions were part of his allure.

To be continued...