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...
posted by Bucko @ 5/04/2006 09:26:00 AM
38 comments
38 Comments:
You are depraved.
Your boyfriend found you sexually repulsive. Posting depravity and spreading active lethal HPV because you are not desirable and have no self-esteem.
You are depraved.
Yay! You found your way here, and without mapquest.
Good girl, anony-
Bisous,
B
We all found our way here.
We now so much more. Others must be warned. We will do what is right.
You are a depraved spreading active lethal HPV. You are undesirable and have no self-worth so you spread your lethal HPV until the warts come back next month.
Others must be warned. This is serious. You are depraved predator.
Tweaking again, Anony?
You seem really agitated, baby. I'm on Mancunt right now working things out with Butch4same. Maybe you'll wanna join us?
Bisous,
B
We are very agitated Bucko. Man from Oz makes us angrier. You know how we are Brent. You know us better than we know each other.
You are the HPV predator of Florida.
The others were right. You will know soon enough. We will keep spreading the word.
Your boyfriend found you sexually repulsive. You are lost.
Whenever evil befalls us, we ask ourselves, after the first suffering, how we can turn it into good.
So shall we take this occasion, from one sick souless fool, to raise humanity and destroy depravity.
Anony (Tom)-
My boyfriend was a crystal methamphetamine addict. It was a habit he picked up, like the overgrooming and his bitchy attitude, while living in West Hollywood. I've seen the pictures and noted the transformations from little, skinny latin boi to primped musclegod to desperate, sullen, shrunken bug carrier. I joined the party rather late in his career, you see. His star burned in WeHo and NYC. I met the afterglow in a bar in Ft Lauderdale. by then he'd been using (and addicted) for at least seven years, probably more.
When he told me the night we met that, at the age of 41, he'd never been in love, I took it as a challenge, not the confession of a sociopath. He committed an unpardonable sin, perhaps the only one that is truly unpardonable, of accepting the love of an honest man as an opportunist, with no intention of returning it in kind.
He couldn't, you see, because he is Tina's bitch. Meth robs the brain of its natural ability to produce dopamine. Instead of continuing to mooch off his ex, as he had been doing, he fastened himself unto me, bleeding me dry while giving me nothing but hope filtered through damnable lies.
He did not suddenly decide to stop sleeping with me after three months because of my snoring, as he claimed, but because Tina was calling, and he needed his overnights free for her. When he finally grew restless and disenchanted of me (as I make a terrible sugar daddy), he began posting lonely-hearts ads on websites like Poz.com, Pozmatch.com, Pozcircle.com and Match.com. Most of these were initiated on or around January 18. I had the passcodes to his accounts and made note of the guys he approached so avidly. They were lonely old men.
But on my birthday ten days later presented me with a truly lovely Kenneth Cole watch. Why? With only his disability checks coming in, my present represented almost 25% of his monthly income. I was grateful and accepted it as a sign that my patience was being rewarded. I still don't understand what it was a sign of, precisely, except the necessary price to pay for keeping me where he needed me until other arrangements could be made.
You see, it wasn't all rejection and contempt. At whatever level, and with whatever part of him that the meth hadn't destroyed yet, he loved me. He still does. But it's not enough. He may be Tina's bitch, but I most certainly am not.
I find it beyond ironic that you profess to believe that HIV can be, has been, cleared, if only once. Yet your loss had fixated you on me and my warts (which, BTW, are gone and not coming back). You sound as if you truly believe that HPV is deadlier than HIV, you poor suffering foolish bastard.
I could direct you to information and support sites about HPV, but chances are you've already been there and prefer to live in the hell you've chosen for yourself.
I can almost see the tears on your cheeks dripping down on the stiff little toadstool you have between your legs as you read my writing. They're too salty to make a good lube, baby. Step away from the computer. The solace you seek isn't in the phosphorous glow of your monitor, it's in whatever is left of that scabbed over little pump you still refer to as your heart.
You know your HPV is coming back. It always does.
You lie.
Why do you repeat here the lies you tell yourself?
Your boyfriend didn't want to touch you. Your HPV is coming back.
We know the truth.
But still you lie.
And we know why.
Spreading active lethal HPV because you are not desirable and have no self-esteem.
Pictures of an aged man, withered skin, covering a body yearning to be young again. Relentless gym routines can't hide your flaccid appearance and souless depravity.
You are disgusting and depraved.
You know your HPV is coming back. It always does.
You lie.
Why do you repeat here the lies you tell yourself?
Your boyfriend didn't want to touch you. Your HPV is coming back.
We know the truth.
But still you lie.
And we know why.
Spreading active lethal HPV because you are not desirable and have no self-esteem.
Pictures of an aged man, withered skin, covering a body yearning to be young again. Relentless gym routines can't hide your flaccid appearance and souless depravity.
You are disgusting and depraved.
Picture of a tragic phase locked loser who can only expand his lexicon beyond "depraved" to include "disgusting" -- oy gevalt!
So "anonymous" (and yes we know who you are) what's your issue? Is it the 70 year old sugar daddy who died of arse cancer because he took one too many tusks up the runter?
Is cash running a bit low these days since Daddy screamed himself to death in a ghastly hospital ward? Didn't you get there in time? Was his corpse cooling already when you burst through the door with a tear stained face? Did the family cut you out of the bloated fortune? Oh the pathos!!! Oh the humanity!!!
Nice people would hope you find peace. We, on the other hand, do not. Your endless screeching serve Our Unholy Purpose very well indeed.
Keep reading. We hope you enjoy Part III.
MtD
Surely you know who we are. We wouldn't want it any other way.
You are not desirable. Your boyfriend was repulsed.
Your HPV is coming back.
We know the truth.
But still you lie.
And we know why.
You are depraved.
"Pictures of an aged man, withered skin, covering a body yearning to be young again. Relentless gym routines can't hide your flaccid appearance and souless depravity."
It is a mark of the feebleness of your brain, as well as total lack of imagination, that conjures such impressions of me. Let's set the record straight on my insecurities and my vanity, shall we?
I am 46 years old. That is the prime of one's life, in full flower of manhood. I am perfectly content with my age and have no desire to reverse any clocks.
I am blessed with an excellent genetic makeup. I come from a long line of good looking people who aged gracefully. My illustrious forebearers, from flinty old New England yankee stock, built the financial, educational and cultural institutions that have defined Boston as the nation's leader in such things since the seventeenth century, when they first arrived, royal land grants and charters in hand.
The slender Quebecquios branch of my family tree only enhances the overall excellence of my heritage.
Unlike the arriviste, vulgar nouveau riche that populate most areas outside of our Northeastern extremity, I was raised with the proper values of intellect and integrety over flatulent excess and glittery, empty showmanship. We do not claim to be the biggest, fastest, tallest or latest. We simply claim to be the best.
Now my looks have changed, evolved over the years. Despite all claims to the contrary in cosmetics ads, people age. How one chooses to age, however, differs from person to person. I embrace my age and welcome it, always have. I have no fear of aging. It makes me stronger.
Do I yearn for the June-glow of my early 30s? Not really. I see guys (like G, for instance) who worry and obsess over every new line around their eyes and feel pity. If I am no longer beautiful, then I've grown into handsome, which suits me just fine.
There is a conflict in each of us, a conflict between modesty and vanity. As a much younger man, I frequently grew beards to distract people from my face. Insipid, vaccuous facial beauty never was my thing, and I never prized it either in myself nor in others. I am vain about my intellect and talents, however. And both of those are essentially intact, if not amplified by time.
In short, you can attempt to smear my appearance (about which you know nothing I haven't specifically chosen to reveal), but you'll come up empty, shooting blanks. You can attempt to malaign my integrety, but you cannot wound me there either. It is too late to denegrate my mind.
You can seek to criticize my morals. I have opened that door many times before as I have never lied about my actions or motovations and am admittedly esoteric. But those same Yankees, about whom you obviously know nothing, never gave more than a sideways glance to bourgeois respectability. In short, darling, there are no prudes hanging from my family tree. We have always lived outside of societal norms, up on the cold and granite-bound landscapes of New England. We defy fleeting trends, we do not set them and certainly don't find following them admirable.
Hence, although you have tried to decorate our smutty little blog with your ordure, you have missed by a mile. Your attacks are the simpering, desperate volleys of a bitter young(ish) troll.
Don't make me flush you out, tonto. The light of reason and truth will reveal your rotten little soul for the neglected, black oilslick it truly is.
B
TomTom-
You seem incapable of any intelligent dialog. I have responded with grace and dignity to your menacing, hate-filled, laughably worded attempts to still me or knock me off balance.
I have already told you, sweetheart, your inane prattle doesn't scare me. Your development from singular to plural comes off contrived and geeky. Your droning monotony is tiresome in the extreme.
To prove that you have no idea who I am nor what my life actually encompasses, be a love and tell me where, specifically, you have gazed on my bony ass...real life, not any pix I've posted. Name the place and time where we've met (or more likely, where you admired me from afar). You cannot, because you are a coward, a liar, a fraud, a hopeless little flea-dicked waste of human DNA.
You are singular, douchebag, not plural. Assuming a Borg-like identity only re-inforces my impression that you haven't had a dick in your ass since the second Clinton inaugural.
Ciao,
B
Just as I thought, darling. You cannot give me specifics because you don't have any.
Too bad, I thought the game might get interesting.
Bisous,
B
Fascinating how you switch.
From pseudo confidence.
To hysterical self-conscious Queen.
All in the same breath.
Ingenuous delusions of grandeur.
Pathological predator spreading active lethal HPV. You are tragic. And tired.
Inelastic skin worn and souless. Hallow face depraved and apathetic.
We've seen it.
We know.
But you knew that.
More will be warned.
You are depraved.
Bucko,
Je suis désolée pour la confusion que j’ai (involontairement) causée.
I arrived to this site through Aidsmeds.com but I am not Ann, the moderator. I really felt like making a comment on your post because I felt that such dexterity at conveying pure emotions – sexual or unconditional love – through words, was amazing. Je suis française, ce qui explique peut-être pourquoi ton histoire avec Jean-Marc m’a tant touché.
I included my name (Anne) in the comment, not because you know me but because I felt that posting anonymously was sneaky.
Talking about sneaky, ‘Anonymous’, I think that by now everybody got your message. Even I, whose English is sometimes shaky, don’t need to hear the word depraved 20 times to cztch it or understand its meaning. The actions that Bucko described took place between consenting adults and therefore are not open to your judgment. Who the h… do you think you are? The second coming of JC?
Bucko, I apologise again for this confusion,
Best,
Anne
My dearest Anne-
I left the story of JM mid-stream for several reasons, many of which you surely understand, and some of which most probably remain obscure to you. I shall try to explain a bit:
My entire existence can be easily divided into before and after I met my little enmerdeur. If everything before seems a touch naif, everything after seems tinted in nothing but shades of grey. Of course, I moved on (eventually and with much pain) but have yet to shake his shade, which accompanies me still.
When I write, everything that I tap out on the keyboard (and so much left untyped) replays in my head like a calliope. It is more than an artifact of memory. I am transported back, complete with sounds and smells recalled as if they were present with me right here in my kitchen. It has the hallucinogenic quality of a drug, and much of the involuntary quality associated with drugs.
Relinquishing control is deeply troubling to me. Having these intrusive sensations rush at me like an ardent lover, no matter how pleasant, is disquieting to my spirit. Combine this sense of unease with the context and texture of the events being recalled, and I am left emotionally drained and spent in short order. It takes days to regain a sense of equalibrium.
That is why I found it so impossible, for many years, to write about JM. Speaking of him was hard enough. Having him return to me tore my heart to bits. Reliving the early times, before his betrayal became all to evident, reignited passions in me that I never wanted to feel again. But the thought of reliving the difficult times (which came early and stayed until the end) seemed too much to bear.
In the aftermath of last Summer's first hurricaine (Katrina), I lost my operating system and could not access files on my computer. In addition to more than half of my music files, I lost more than 4000 words describing my first few days in Paris. I sweated blood over that chapter and was just about ready to publish when I lost power. It stayed off for over a week, only for me to discover that my computer had fritzed. I was inconsolable over the loss.
It is this context that I met G, in a Ft Lauderdale bar in September of last year. I clearly remember telling Matty that I was ready for a love affair, a full-throttle, no holds-barred release of control to love (and by necessity, to the other person).
When I met G, I was swimming with images of JM in my head, his voice sounding in my ears, his shade my constant companion. My better judgement was clouded by my yearning to experience the sensations I was feeling with flesh and blood and not a spectre.
To me, love has always been a cape that one drapes over the shoulders of someone whom one hopes in worthy. The cape remains your own property, no matter how badly abused by the wearer. From the beginning, G was contemptable of my gift, even as he made use of it for his own comfort. But it was always mine to give, and mine to take back when finished.
One of the reasons, perhaps the main reason why I endured so much with G is because he reminded me, to a terrifying degree, of JM. They shared many traits of personality and temperment. And it turns out that they both hid essential parts of themselves from me. It was only on his deathbed that JM confessed his utter shame of his betrayal. In the hospital, prior to his being admitted, G came very close to actually speaking the words, but in the end could not elucidate his betrayal of me. When the crisis passed, he returned to his impossibly unlovable self and I took the cape back.
But removing oneself from a bad situation doesn't resolve the emotions and questions that fester whenever an affair of the heart turns bad. I needed to understand why he betrayed me, and why I chose to be betrayed more than once.
The catharsis revealed itself through an exploration of the senses and flesh, my own and several others. The final denoument comes in part four, as yet unwritten. The epilogue, such as I am living now, is becoming more obvious by the minute.
Thanks for reading, staying with me and sharing these bits of human contact with me. I shall not abuse your faith.
And someday soon I shall pick up the threads and continue with the story of JM. It needs to be told.
Je t'embrasse-
B
Just finished reading part 2, and I truly appreciated the way you were interwove some of the back story with G as you discuss your current situation.
Looking forward to part 3.
As for the depraved thing going on - I am hysterical laughing at it. First the threat of reporting you to the Florida Health Department is asnine as you are having consensual sex with someone who I believe you already stated that you discussed status. What exactly is the health department suppose to waste time and resources on?
As for the depraved pervert line being endless chanted without desire for a real discussion - I suggest you just insert it as lyrics in some early Ramones or Clash music ...I think it will hit number 1 with a bullet!
Iggy you must take rides on the Bucko Mobile.
We know you haven't yet.
But you must.
Lethal HPV predators you defend.
We thought our Brother Leo taught Iggy to respect himself.
SMILE no more.
Sad.
Depraved lethal HPV infected Bucko mobile.
Don't take the ride.
Jump off the train.
What's hysterical is Iggy.
And Bucko.
Thinking we are a Tom. Tom. Tom.
Bucko the depraved predator looks a fool. Tom wondering what Bucko and Iggy are saying.
Lost depraved soul u r Bucko.
It would be funnier, if it wasn't so tragic.
Iggy Stanners are smarter than this.
Trainor and Lang were.
Lang was hot.
His brother was hotter.
The new wave bop.
We know you too.
Even better.
Lost soul defending Bucko the depraved sociopath. Spreading lethal HPV.
That is depravity.
That must be stopped.
Wow.
A couple points. Do you really know if the person posting as anon is Tom from Aidsmeds.com? The internet is a big place, and perhaps many people are lurking and posting.
Bucko, you are a talented writer. I do think you come across as a bit egotisical, but hey, more power to you.
As far as HPV infection, a large percentage of the population carry the HPV virus. Condoms don't prevent the transmission of HPV because HPV transmission merely requires skin to skin contact. If every person infected with the HPV virus stopped having sex, very few people would be having sex. Sorry, it is a common virus. Yes, it is linked to several different types of cancer. We get the point.
Bucko is confident. True, this confidence can come off as arrogance, but I am glad to see someone over 45 who has not given in to the idea that we are only viable human beings if we are under 40.
Anon, HPV is a concern for anyone sexually active. However, HPV is a risk anyone who is sexually active takes. Bucko is having unprotected sex with other HIV positive individuals. All parties were warned and have consented. He is not a gift-giver and his honesty is refreshing. He does things that I don't do, but so what.
If you are Tom from Aidsmeds.com, I do enjoy your posts. I must say however that these posts are really unkind. You can disagree with a person without trying to destroy that person's confidence.
Bucko,
You are somewhat attractive for a middle aged guy.
If you are Tom from Aidsmeds.com, I do enjoy your posts. I must say however that these posts are really unkind. You can disagree with a person without trying to destroy that person's confidence.
Tony,
Thanks for stopping by.
Our investigations both at AIDSMEDS and in other places indicate in strong terms that this particular 'anonymous' is indeed the 'Tom' we all know and love.
You're quite right, his comments are unkind but Spin Cycle Bloggers are trained to cope with that. I must say that as the Blog Troll Master, 'Tom' has been the most persistent -- monotonously so.
In any event, I'm sure the Buckette will have more to say on this and looks forward to responding to your kind comments directly. :)
Many thanks for your visit and we look forward to hearing from you soon.
Keep reading and commenting!
MtD
Tony the Hung Italian:
Thank you for the kind words and encouragement. As MtD has pointed out, we here at The Spin Cycle have undergone countless hours of training in preparation for spirited, animated dialog (and occasional flaming).
Anony's continued one-note diatrabe attempting to throw me off kilter has no effect whatsoever on my day-to-day life. And, despite empty threats, he cannot prevent me from finishing this series. I simply need the time to complete it, and I shall.
As to my arrogance:
Part of this is an artifact of the "active hunter" persona I assume whilst seeking out and enjoying the company of my sex partners. Confidence is an absolute necessity should one be a sucessful top (which, by any standard, I am).
You will notice however that I generally don't go into lengthy descriptions of my body, face or cock. I parse my words very precisely so as not to be a braggart or assign to myself attributes that I don't actually possess.
I've never claimed to be the panacea of homosexuals- the wonder that suits them all. I am most decidedly a specialty act: too rough to be labeled Vanilla, but not really the depraved psychopath Anony likes to paint me as being.
Most "manly" bars are called "Leather/Levi", so I guess I'm more "Levi" (although I wear more fashionable jeans right now). One thing I hope comes through, because it's very much what I'm about, is my drive to ensure that my partner enjoys himself as much as I do. If our quest for mutual pleasure takes an exit off the mainstream highway, so much the better. But such a detour is always with the approval of all passengers on the Buckomobile.
As to whom, precisely, Anony might be: I have very strong reasons for suspecting that a certain Tom in the AM forums is my heckler. He has posted several rather provocative posts regarding the toll of HPV and, more generally, of what he calls "promiscuity" (the exact definition of which remains unspoken). I cannot recall our paths meeting before, but in an Internet MB format, one can make an impact and never be aware of it.
I do find it odd that whoever Anony might be, s/he culls info from a few threads which I linked to my "relationship" thread announcing my break-up with G. But large parts of the story (and many other clues) remain in threads that I have never linked together before, and which would yield a fuller, more balanced view of the six months I spent with G. Obviously Anony hasn't reviewed all the threads, just the ones I've chosen to resurrect.
Again, I believe with my gut that a certain Tom is behind the attempt to smear me as a predator (a label, BTW, which, like "depraved" that I don't really reject and find somewhat descriptive). This specific Tom is a decidedly cranky, odd presence on the forums. he refuses to post anything personal about himself. One can search in vain for info on where he lives, what he does for a living, the current state of his health, etc. His avatar is a picture of an Englishman (whose tale has since been disproved) who claimed to have cleared the virus from his body.
Ah well...
Part 3 will be published when I have the strength and focus to write it. I am at present battling a very painful UTI. Such are the wages of piggishness!
Bisous,
B
"Anonymous said...
Bucko,
You are somewhat attractive for a middle aged guy."
I guess that I should respond to this, but it's such a back-handed compliment. Yeah- I'm 46. But one must be in his twenties to find that old. Middle-aged? I'll take it but not embrace it. Middle-age soounds like the time for a trophy car and trophy wife, neither of which I possess, nor have much interest in acquiring.
Again- I'm happy with my age because it's a great age to be.
With a hard spank on your bottom-
B
"His avatar is a picture of an Englishman (whose tale has since been disproved) who claimed to have cleared the virus from his body."
That is just creepy.
I understand the whole "confidence" thing. Yes, confidence is sexy, so I can see how it is important in the sexual arena.
I think people get to feel a little uncomfortable when confidence veers into arrogance. You never pretend to be a saint, so it really doesn't bother me that you seem arrogant at
times. To each his own.
It takes a great deal of bravery to openly and honestly talk about the intimate aspects of your life. I enjoy your honesty as well as your ability to write in an entertaining manner.
I hope you are feeling better with the UTI.
Once again, you have with great talent and grace, taken the reader on a romp that few are capable of describing with any clarity.
Your latest gift, reminded me of years past, and the many many joys of sexual play that I have experienced in my history. Would that I were still only 46, I would be right along side of you with your quest for that "special" cotact that brings not only the jerking of the body, but the gushing of the soul. In my experience, these times are few and sometimes far between, but when they happen, they stick in your mind with such a definate clarity that you will be able to draw on them way into your fifties, sixties and seventies.
May the Gods be with you my friend, as you explore the wonders of this fine machine we call "our bodies". Explore on, and keep us posted on the developments of your life experience.
As for the commentary of Annon, I would simply say, there is little that you should do to recognize this wayward soul, who disparages only to make him/herself look the better. Unfortunately, life has taught me that these types are seldom "pure as the driven snow", but more like the piles of "black snow" that dominate the streets of New York City in the worst of Winter.
In Deep Respect. Your Daddy/Son.
"Daddy said...
Would that I were still only 46, I would be right along side of you with your quest for that "special" cotact that brings not only the jerking of the body, but the gushing of the soul. In my experience, these times are few and sometimes far between, but when they happen, they stick in your mind with such a definate clarity that you will be able to draw on them way into your fifties, sixties and seventies."
You know, Daddy, sex for me has very rarely, if ever, been a question of plumbing and genitals. When I am fucking I bond on deep emotional levels as well. Dawg has commented repeatedly on the singular intensity of our encounters, as have three whom you'll read about in Part 3. The added "spiritual bonus" that I choose to bring to sex begins with my choice in partners. There has to be something in them that shines through whatever facade he might present, whether in a bar or online.
As to aging, I do understand that I am playing with the near-back of my deck and shall run out of new options fairly soon. But while it lasts, I plan on exploiting my libido and exploring all the different possibilities inherent in playing the field.
Your compliments about my writing are especially meaningful coming from such a gifted writer as yourself. I need to read your latest blog, as I am curious as to the fuss you seem to have caused. At any rate, you know precisely where my sympathy (and loyalty) lies. At you feet, as usual...
Tony:
Where does confidence end and arrogance begin?
I once had a fabulous PM relationship with a member of AM who lost everything subsequently in Hurricaine Katrina. He has stopped posting, which is a fucking shame and a huge loss to the balance of the MBs away from sugary goodness.
He was very fond of quoting Dorothy Parker, with whom he shares many personality traits. Anyways, in response to a story I posted here last Summer (JD: Guardian Angel #18; or Immaculate White Hightop Ponys", I believe) he PMd me calling me "The Gypsy Rose Lee of AIDSmeds". I sent him a note that I prefer to be thought of as Louise Brooks. When he responded back incredulously as to the comparison, I wrote "Gypsy was all about sinless guilt. Louise was all about guiltless sin".
There! I've sucessfully mixed references to three obscure early-mid 20th century Goddesses, all while discussing a pair of lonely "middleaged" bug-carriers. Do I get a prize?
Bisous-
B
Dearest Bucko...don't you know? Darling,you are the prize.
Dachshund
(who embraced anarchy at his mum's teat)
Daschie-
/waves cigarette amid waves of rayon caftan/
Darling! Welcome to the pah-tee! You already know Matty...Daddy...Dawgpound (down boy, he's promised to daddy when I'm done with him)...Tony the Divine Italian...Iggy, my newest best pal...Dit bon soir a Anne, s'il te plait...
Thanks for posting, babe. We all love you very much.
Bisous-
B
(Who believes that leather is just another kind of drag)
"There! I've sucessfully mixed references to three obscure early-mid 20th century Goddesses, all while discussing a pair of lonely "middleaged" bug-carriers. Do I get a prize?"
Well done! :)
So Bucko, when do we get the next installment in the series?
Tony-
I've been waylaid by an awful UTI since last weekend. Now that the fever and soaking nightsweats are gone, I'm dealing with the nausea induced by the toxic antibiotic.
Thursday (yesterday) I went back to work for the first time since Sunday and managed to vomit twice in four hours before leaving early.
I need about ten to fourteen hours of solid concentration to write out a typical post. Trust me, once I can, this will be one of the first things that I do.
Thanks for checking in-
B
Dah-ling,picturing you in a rayon kaftan a la Endora...well,I just get tingly all over. Get well and write soon pet.
Dachshund
(who believes Mary Cheney is a drag)
Bucko,
I am really sorry the UTI has been so horrible. I am glad you are feeling better. As much as we all enjoy your writing, it is most important that you take proper care of yourself.
Please get sufficient rest so that your body can repair itself. The antibiotics can be pretty toxic, especially in the doses needed to treat a UTI in men. I was once on Cipro for six months due to a similar infection that reached my prostate. Not at all fun.
Brent, my brother,
Ahhh, have cruised each and every single comment here tonight, god, how you affect us!
Are you better, darling?
Sending you warm embraces.....
Your Zephyr
Zeph-
I have one more day of treatment before I can state for sure that the UTI (Urethritis caused by either the Clap or Jack, actually) has passed. The pain, nightsweats and nausea have all passed, but I am left with odd moments of fatigue.
Yesterday I finally hooked up with a man who'd been pretty agressively pursuing me on Manhunt. As I am many things but not a bugthrower, I made my current condition (and the limits of my repetoire: no fucking, no sucking me) very clear before taking the two-mile walk down to his house.
When it was over, I mentioned that I was being very errant in not updating my blog, and went on to describe The Spin Cycle in some detail, as well as my contributions to it, both historical and current.
"So I'll read all about me and what we did?"
"Maybe, but only in chapter six. I still need to write chapter three."
He said that he's an "avid reader", and on returning home last night I sent him a long e-mail linking my story about JD and the series about meeting Jean-Marc, of which I am justly proud.
When I brought up the blog, describing it as a
"literary journal" (which is what I consider it to be, after all, factual though it all is), he said "Oh then, you're a writer." I paused for a second, unsure how to respond. "I'm an artist who is currently using writing as a creative outlet" was my eventual response. It seems the most accurate, even if being an author is the latest in the string of dreams and aspirations that have puncuated and directed my life thus far.
Just a slice of life, sweetheart...my life with all its detours, follies and passions.
BTW- You will have another cameo in chapter three, just as it happened at the time, luv.
With all my heart-
B
ipl cricket live score today
Real Madrid vs Barcalona Live
ipl score live ball by ball
you can also downloadmothers day whatsapp DP for lovely moms
official
click here
I was more than happy to uncover this great site. I need to to thank you for your time due to this fantastic read!! I definitely enjoyed every bit of it and I have you bookmarked to see new information on your blog.I was more than happy to uncover this great site. I need to to thank you for your time due to this fantastic read!! I definitely enjoyed every bit of it and I have you bookmarked to see new information on your blog.
dental hospitals in khammam
tnpds
death certificate online telangana
lenovo y700 drivers
how much does a filling cost
sabarimala room booking
Post a Comment
<< Home