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Friday, June 23, 2006

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures In Barebacking, Part 4: Fucking Like Cougars, Cuddling Like Kittens

My rage was beyond measure at that point. I was seething, horrified at myself, but compelled to dance this dance through to its completion. Exhorting him to pull my tits like he meant it, I stared deeply into my face reflected in his black eyes, which dared hardly blink. I leaned in to kiss B36 deeply, grinding his knees into his shoulders, my right hand slapping his ass with hard, insistent fraps. Leaning even harder into him, I reached my right thumb between my legs, slipped my balls to the side, and pushed it up his ass, meeting my dick in rhythmic thrusts.

A steady deep growl began to grow in my larynx involuntarily. The harder I fucked him with cock and thumb, the deeper and louder my vocalization got. Swearing and cursing, ordering him to pull even harder on my nipples, I finally began to sense that itch, that tension simultaneously in my anus, at the base and at the head of my dick that signals the point of no return. My orgasm stepped up intensity, each moment growing exponentially in strength, until I was wailing, my entire body alive with sensation, every nerve pinging in unison at a fevered pitch. The first jettison of spunk shot like a bullet, deeply into his guts, followed by uncounted repeated jets. My wail transformed into something like an open-ended, barking grunt, immensely loud. I lifted my entire torso from his chest, grabbing his legs at the calves and beat them against my chest. The demon that seemed to possess me was in full-throttle glory. I threw my head from side to side, sending a rain of sweat in all directions, screaming without words. The spasms and aftershocks began while still deeply up his hole. Throwing his legs away to the left and right, I fell back on to his chest, my mouth finding his, open and waiting. Nibbling on his lips while jerking convulsively and groaning softly, my tongue flicked around his nose before returning to the deep recesses of his mouth. I was jealous of the very air he inhaled, wanting it all to myself. Minutes passed before B36 began to softly rub my glistening shoulders and back in sweeping circles. Clearly something unprecedented occurred to us both.
“Yeah,” I eventually croaked. “I’m here, somewhere.”
He exhaled in relief. “I wasn’t sure if I shouldn’t call an ambulance”
I grinned broadly in a grimace, my eyes burning with the sweat that soaked my head. “No need…it’s just me.” Then, in understatement: “Sometimes I get kinda loud.”

Finding his orgasm proved much more difficult. B36 favors tops who verbalize dirty talk, which is something I’ve never been entirely comfortable doing. I always wind up repeating something utterly banal and sound a great deal like the looped voicetrack of a poorly-dubbed porn vid circa 1983. Patience and persistence eventually paid off, and about twenty minutes after my head blew off, his prick rose to its modest dimension of full tumescence and shot his load into my mouth.

A few minutes of quiet cuddling and stroking brought us both back to our full senses. B36 got up and walked slowly into the kitchen. As he picked up his clothes from the kitchen floor, the music on WMP was playing something mellow and French, one of my favorites, “Un Homme Heureux” by William Sheller, alone at the piano in front of a small audience:

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils toujours un peu les memes?
Ils ont quand ils s’en viennent
Le meme regard d’un seule desire pour deux.
Ce sont des gens heureux.

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils un peu les memes?
Quand ils ont leurs problems
Ben y’a rien a dire
Y’a rien a faire pour eux
Ce sont des gens qui s’aiment.

Et moi, je te connais a peine
Mais ce s’rait une veine
Qu’on s’en aille un peu comme eux
On pourrait se faire sans qu’ca gene
De la place pour deux.
Mais si ca n’vaut la piene
Que j’y rievinne
Il faut me le dire au fond des yeux
Quel que soit le temps que ca prenne
Quel que soit l’enjeu.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils toujours rebelles?
Ils ont un monde a eux
Que rien n’oblige a ressembler a ceux
Qu’on nous donne en modele.

Pourquoi les gens qui s’aiment
Sont-ils un peu cruels?
Quand ils vous parent d’eux
Y’a que;que chose qui vous eloigne un peu
Ce sont des choses humaines.

Et moi, je te connais a peine
Mais ce s’rait une veine
Qu’on s’en aille un peu comme eux
On pourrait se faire sans qu’ca gene
De la place pour deux.
Mais si ca n’vaut la piene
Que j’y rievinne
Il faut me le dire au fond des yeux
Quel que soit le temps que ca prenne
Quel que soit l’enjeu.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.
Je veux etre un homme heureux.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are all a bit the same?
When they come together they’ve got
The same look of a lone desire for each other.
Those are happy people.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are they all a bit the same?
When they have their problems
Well, there’s nothing to say
Nothing to do for them.
Those are people who love each other.

And me, I know you but a little
But it would be inspired
If we could go out a bit like them.
We could try, if it were not too much bother,
To find a place for us two.
But if it’s not worth the effort
For me to return
You must tell me from the depth of your eyes.
‘Cause no matter how long it takes
‘Cause no matter what’s at stake
I want to be a happy man.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are all a bit of a rebel?
They have a private world
Not obliged to resemble anything
Which one might expect.

Why is it that those who love each other
Are all a bit cruel?
When they speak to you about each other
There is something which pulls you a bit out of joint.
Such are human affairs.

And me, I know you but a little
But it would be inspired
If we could go out a bit like them.
We could try, if it were not too much bother,
To find a place for us two.
But if it’s not worth the effort
For me to return
You must tell me from the depth of your eyes.
‘Cause no matter how long it takes
‘Cause no matter what’s at stake
I want to be a happy man.
I want to be a happy man.
I want to be a happy man

The simple, plaintive tones of the music and unadorned emotion of the vocal is stunning, even without the translation. As he got dressed, B36 cocked an ear to toward the computer but said nothing about it. But the next song on the pre-programmed playlist elicited a comment. It was a provocative, grinding, jangly punk anthem by The Fall called “Wings”. As the opening chords tore into the afternoon air in my kitchen like a switchblade, his face formed a strange cross between amusement and annoyance:
“You like this music?” He asked, somewhat incredulously.
“Oh yeah…it sends me straight to another place. I used to be famous for my punk rock collection. My friends would call Buckomusic.”
“Hmmmm,” he mused thoughtfully. “What are you famous for now?”

A blank face stared back at him. I was surely still famous for something…but standing naked in my kitchen, covered in lube and hair caked in sweat, nothing came to mind. I blinked once or twice and stammered before giving him a hug and deep kiss, wishing him well and telling B36 that I’d look for him, putting him on my Buddy List. Opening the door, I grabbed a cigarette from an open pack on the granite countertop and lit it, blowing smoke down and away. Swatting him one last time on his gorgeous butt, I reiterated that I’d be seeing him again and squatted down near the Murano glass ashtray I keep by the door on the step outside. Turning to wave, he opened the gate and quickly passed through, clicking it shut.

Finishing my smoke and contemplating all that just transpired, I grabbed a towel and jumped in the shower, soaping and rinsing over and over, musing along with Mark E Smith:
“So now I sleep in ditches
I hide away from nosy kids.
The wings rot and feather under me
The wings rot and curl right under me...”

I stepped out feeling somewhat cleaner but deeply disquieted. Walking into my bedroom, the crumpled bedsheet still wet from what had just transpired made me queasy, and I quickly stripped the bed and pillows, stuffing the sheets and pillowcases into my laundry hamper. B36 left his poppers behind in the fog or his departure, so I squirreled the bottle away in the drawer of my nightstand. Everything in the apartment seemed slimy with lube or Crisco, as evidence of my debauchery suddenly seemed inescapable in the tiny space. My head swam as I reached for the phone. Flipping it open, I paged through the list of contacts and, finding the one I was looking for, pushed send.

A warm female voice answered after a few rings.
“Hey Zeph...”
“What’s up, baby?”
My voice trembled slightly as I related what had just transpired, yellow clumps, blood and all.
“It was as if a violin string snapped in my head. I couldn’t help myself.”
“I wish so much that I could be there for you, sweetheart. Are you OK?”
“Yeah…I just wish I understood better what the fuck I’m doing…what I think I’m doing.”
With unconditional love and encouragement, Zeph calmed me down somewhat. She had grown into a vital means of support in my life. The phone that I was using was a lifeline for me. In early February, G had agreed to renew his cell phone subscription as a family plan, with 1000 minutes shared between us both. In gratitude for the gesture, I bought him a Razr phone (my cameraphone was free) and had been paying the $60 per month. My old, impractical expensive prepaid cell had been relegated to a drawer in my desk, almost forgotten. With this new phone I could talk without limit on nights and weekends, allowing me unfettered communication with my sister and Zeph. It was a vital link to the outside world beyond my apartment, and I had grown very reliant on it in the preceding few months.
“Just remember, no matter what,” she cooed with maternal warmth, “I’ll love you and be here for you, darling.”

After hanging up, I went to the computer and sent Matty an IM. We discussed my adventure with B36, with Matty focusing on the positive (“You seem to have struck a rich vein of powerbottoms, luv”) and getting me to move on. Pity and pathos not being our way of communicating, he quickly put me in a frame of mind for going out. It being Sunday, the hottest Tea Dance in Ft Lauderdale is three blocks down the road at The Jackhammer. I hadn’t returned since the evening I’d met G, although last spring and summer it had been the highlight of my week.

As the Jackhammer is notoriously bereft of climatization, it quickly becomes so hot in the crush of hundreds of men that a fog of aerosolized dry ice, sprayed at regular intervals, is the only relief from the humid, wet-towel air. There is also a back patio, which can be sticky but still cooler than the steambath inside. It was there, on the patio, that I’d met G on a sweltering evening last September. He was hanging out in one of the corners of that narrow, fence-lined enclosure, alone and brooding. We made eye contact but his body language wasn’t overly inviting, so I hung back longer than is my custom before walking over and introducing myself. His heavy accent, his look (he resembles nothing so much as a retired bantam-weight latin boxer: powerful upper body and arms, tight abs, narrow waist, my height exactly), and his cool attitude all piqued my curiosity and pulled me in close.

He repeated the usual rubbish about his being an interior designer and spent much of his time discussing his (formerly) fabulous life in WeHo and Midtown Manhattan. I saw through the smokescreen almost immediately, as anyone with a career speaks of it with much greater passion than he could muster. I redirected the conversation back to sex (and our having sex together) whenever the fibs became too obvious, as is my MO in such situations. We agreed completely as to the futility of condom use among long-term pozguys. I had startled him with the observation that he was poz, as it was evident to me in the hidden, intuitive manner of gaydar. Such parlor tricks came easily to me that night, as did a certain easy charm and aggressive forward attack. Choosing not to dwell too far on his various self-glorifying fibs (which failed to impress me all that much anyways), I was relentless in my pursuit of his ass. I tweaked his nipples, rubbed his muscular shoulders, surveyed his butt (which, although fine, wasn’t his strongest feature) with long glances and the occasional caress. Although not as responsive as I might have liked, he at no time asked me to cease.

But what really stuck in my head (in retrospect) was a seemingly simple sequence of dialog:
G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.
B: Nah…been there, done that. I stopped doing drugs in my early twenties when it occurred to me that I couldn’t continue taking them and pursue a career. I’ve always supported myself.
G: So you never party?
B: I love a good party…going out, having fun. I’d certainly never turn down a Valium or Percocet, but don’t need drugs to have fun. Why?
G: [slowly] Just asking, that’s all

It was time, I felt, to make my comeback at The Jackhammer, despite the uneasy memories of that September evening bubbling back into my head and my disquiet over what had just happened with B36. Matty concurred, and I signed off.

I gave the apartment a short once-over with the vacuum cleaner and Windex, getting most of the slippery lube off of doorknobs and the toilet seat and making everything look comfortable and clean without being fussy. Jumping into the shower for the third time, I rinsed off and got dressed in my usual slutty low-rise jeans, big black shoes and tank. After a ten-minute stroll over and twenty minutes waiting in line, I stepped into the dark, loud heat.

The music played at this Tea Dance is a mixture of Classic disco from the Seventies and early Eighties, which was popular when the majority of men attending were in their twenties and thirties (this is SoFla, after all). Pamela Stanley was booming about how she was “Coming Out Of Hiding” as I sauntered around the tightly-packed space around the bar, going to the far corner to see my favorite bartender, a sexy-looking, heavily tattooed black man with a beautiful smile. Dressed in his usual camo bikini, he smiled but didn’t greet me with the usual kiss and hug. I’d been away too long and had evidently been forgotten. Taking my beer, I tooled around to the dance room and surveyed the crowd, wiping the sweat from my eyebrows. Seeing no one familiar or very interesting, I exited out to the patio, and made the circuit around to the “backroom”. Lit dimly primarily by several TV monitors all showing different snippets of hard-core porn, it, too, held no real allure. Retracing back to the dance room, passing by the billiard room, the Pet Shop Boys were imploring us to “Go West” and Liza was asking “Are you just being kind, or am I losing my mind?” Everything seemed stale, replayed and redundant, the crowd morose and somewhat desperate. The scene just wasn’t doing much for me. Thinking perhaps another beer would help, I got one from the bar in the dance room as a light rain of sweat-condensation dripped down from the ceiling and on my tank. Feeling overdressed even in that, I pulled it off and tucked it into the top of my jeans. Taking the long-necked bottle, I inhaled the twelve ounces in several hungry gulps. Feeling somewhat fortified, I made my way to the packed dancefloor just as Cher was inviting us all to take her home.

As I’ve never been put off by dancing alone, and as there were no likely candidates within ten feet of me, I stepped on to the parquet and joined the crowd. Donna Summer was feeling love and France Joli reminding us to come to her when our world was empty and cold as I swayed and stepped to the beat, eyes scanning the crowd in vain for someone I might want to introduce myself to. Looking to my left, I recognized a heavy-set Latino who sets up residence in a specific corner of the dancefloor every week. We had always been cordial if never especially friendly. I danced over to him and flirted a bit. As the Candi Stanton was being a victim of the very songs she sings, I tried to get him away from the shelf he seemed to balance on as he danced. Shaking his head and pointing to a cane I’d somehow missed in the dark, I nodded in recognition and came closer to him, smiling a broad grin.

I introduced myself and learned that my dancepartner’s name was Ernesto. His voice betrayed a pretty significant hearing problem. Now, I’m not put off by infirmities, but neither am I necessarily attracted to them. As we talked over the din I made a valiant attempt to understand him through a heavy accent and speech impediment, but in the end, begged off to get a beer. As I left, Ernesto tweaked one of my sweaty nipples and licked his lips. The BeeGees were staying alive as I quickly excused myself.

A tour of the patio revealed nothing new. It all seemed so tired. Where were all the hot guys? Why did everyone seem so old, so hopeless? Sucking down my fourth beer, I wound my way through the crowd, bored and restless. Re-entering the dancefloor from the opposite side, the Weather Girls were ripping off the roof and staying in bed just as the pressure-sprays hissed out an enveloping mist of cool dry-ice fog. For a few instants, the temperature lowered down to body temperature as the light of the strobes and searchlights caught the air-borne crystals in a multi-colored, otherworldly glow. Through the vaporous haze I spotted a man leaning against the mirrored back wall whom I’d never seen before.

His appearance suggested gins-and-tonic on the deck of a yacht moored in Newport. His features all spoke of privilege and quiet wealth, of prep-school nicknames and a family house in Cohasset or Little Compton. His blonde hair was silver at the temples, his sunburned face crinkled up at the corners around his bright blue eyes. I wiggled through the crowd and came in for a look. A closer inspection confirmed my initial impression of that indefinable quality of Eastern-Establishment old-money. I startled him out of his reverie with my introduction, which was evidently unexpected. I quickly noticed that he was drunk, staggeringly drunk. There clung to his demeanor a melancholy and loneliness, along with a quality of ruined finery. He was entirely out of place on the dancefloor of a leather/denim bar in Ft Lauderdale.

I asked his name:
“Mark…name’s Mark. Waddya want with me? I’m old.”
I scanned him quickly and asked how old he was.
“Old…I’m 45.” He made a face as if being forty-five was worse than being a convicted felon.
“That’s not so old, Mark” I smiled, “I’m older than you.”
“Nah!” His eyes focused, scrutinizing my face and sweaty torso. “I’m OLD, you’re still young.”
“I’m forty-six, Mark.”
“Damn…We’re both old. How come you don’t look it?”
“Must be all the antiretrovirals.”
He looked at me with an uncomprehending look.
“I’m HIV positive, Mark. Those are my medications.”
He still looked like I were speaking a foreign language.
“It was a joke…never mind. Wanna dance?”

Dancing with a drunk is never easy, but he made a heroic effort to keep the beat as Cheryl Lynn was meeting someone behind Mars and Shannon was letting the music play so he won’t get away. Abruptly, Mark pulled us off the dancefloor, bumping into several irritated couples in the process, announcing that he needed some air. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me out to the patio in an unsteady gait. Offering to buy me a drink, I asked for a Bud and stood against the fence, feet from where G and I had met seven long months previously.

G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.

Handing me a cold bottle, Mark sipped noisily from a plastic cup, dripping a little bit on his chest. I could smell the Scotch from where I was standing and my stomach suddenly turned. I used to love Scotch, but the meds have made all hard liquor distinctly unpalatable to me now. Pulling absent-mindedly on my right nipple, he looked at me with a dull gaze:
“What do you like?”
I blinked and shrugged.
“You like to fuck?”
“Sure…I love to fuck. But I have a rule.” Both hands were on my tits now. “I only fuck with HIV positive guys.”
“Oh…” his face went suddenly childish.
“You’re negative, Mark”
“Yeah, I know” His face combined a childish, open gaze with something approximating a slurry, drunken lust, his voice sing-songy. “We can be safe, ya know.” He cocked his head to one side and licked his lips.
Brushing his hands from my chest, I told him that I eschew condoms and reiterated that I only fuck pozguys.
“Don’t you find me attractive?”
I sighed, looking into his blue eyes, wondering what they looked like sober, glinting in the sun. “That has nothing to do with it, baby.”
“So you won’t fuck me?”
I paused and considered him carefully.
“I’d blow you” I replied.
His face brightened considerably, and he smiled again.
“I’m starting a new job on Wednesday.”
“Really? Doing what?”
CFO for a company who’ve been interviewing me for months.”
I gulped from my beer bottle. My mind clicked off numbers, all in six figures, that would be his salary. “Sounds interesting.”
“It’s horribly, terribly boring. But I’m overqualified.” He gulped more from his highball. “The drive’ll be a bitch, though. It’s in South Beach.”
South Beach! My Eldorado down here in SoFla!
“Would ya ‘scuse me a second? I gotta pee so bad.”
I nodded and he turned quickly back into the bar. Lighting a cigarette, I contemplated my options. I dismissed the most practical and responsible one, going home alone immediately, as having no interest. But Mark was clearly not up to anything that evening, nor had I much hope of finding anyone more interesting about.

Not that, in truth, was he even especially attractive to me. A perfect 40-Regular, six-foot, 170, 31 inch waist blonde WASP, blonde and blue…Mark wasn’t my type. But his clothes were obviously expensive…old, but expensive, not like the things one can buy at A&F, but custom-made. His shoes alone cost half of my month’s rent, probably more.

G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.

I walked over to the bar and, flirting with the musclegod behind the counter, got another beer. Minutes passed with me contemplating how much easier my life might be with someone like Mark looking after me. And just the thought of living in South Beach sent me into delirious fits. Maybe this was my chance?

Lighting another smoke, I pulled my phone out and looked at the time stamp glowing on the cover. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since Mark had excused himself. Where was he?

B36: Three, actually. You gonna make it four?

I got another beer and lit an impatient cigarette. I’d never married for money, never really thought about trying to attach myself to anyone out of comfort or monetary gain. But my life was half in a tailspin, half sinking into a bog. Could I honestly say that fisting drugged Latinos was better than an apartment in South Beach? I’d compromised so much in the past to ensure stability in highly unstable relationships, how was this any different?

G: Do you party?
B: You mean drugs?
G: Yeah.

I kicked at the gravel on the ground of the patio. Who was I kidding? When he sobered up, there’d be no way he’d even contemplate entertaining a relationship with the likes of me. I felt too far gone, too irredeemably soiled, too defiled to be anything remotely presentable as a partner to a CFO. Gawd only knew what I’d been exposed to by fucking B36’s bloody ass just five hours previously. A knot formed in my stomach as I lit yet another cigarette.

B36: Three, actually. You gonna make it four?

I tore out of the patio, tossing my cig into the gravel and went right to the dancefloor. Ernesto was still at his post and I danced over, summoning up a brave little smile.
“Where did you go?”
“I just walked around, I’m back now.”
“Well, I’m glad. I like you.”

A wave of emotion pulled my stomach up to my throat, making breathing impossible without laborious deep gulps. I looked into Ernesto’s kind eyes and burst into tears. Racking sobs tore through me, the first tears I’d shed in many months. Racing images dumped out of my brain like a printer that couldn’t be stopped; G cooking a wonderful meal; we two working out at the gym; his desperate bargaining with me in the ER before being admitted to the psyche unit at Imperial Point; discovering all the evidence of his proliferate unfaithfulness; The endless IM nights with Matty; Lechero and Lover and me in the mirrored doors; Dawgpound’s absurdly beautiful face and ass; Zeph’s kind voice; B36’s bleedout; Mark’s drunken face imploring like a child’s. So many thoughts, images and brainfarts rushed me at once that I was fearful of my sanity. They were terrifyingly real, and each new image fed the despair I felt into a plaintive wail. I hugged Ernesto desperately, my face buried in his enormous chest.
“What’s wrong?”
How could I possibly explain any of it? As Miquel Brown began singing “So Many Men, So Little Time”, I tore to the bathroom, using my sweat-soaked tank top as a handkerchief to blow my nose. Splashing tepid Florida tapwater on my face, I felt human enough to make my way out of the bar.

I was four feet from the exit when I saw Mark leaning against a column, looking lost. I walked over and asked why he’d left me on the patio.
“Guys like you never want guys like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a party boy.”
I looked at him confused. “I don’t do drugs, if that’s what you mean.”
“You guys never want anything to do with me.”
“What kind of guys?”
“Party boys… popular guys…hot guys”
“Look, what are you doing?” I noticed the keys in his hand.
“I’ve had enough…going home.”
“You can’t drive.”
Mark looked indignant. “Sure I can!”
“Where are you parked? Can you take me there?”

We left the bar and mark found his car with surprising ease. It was an SLK two-seater retractable hard-top. Using my most authoritative voice, I demanded the keys, relieved and somewhat amused when he handed them over to me.
“I live on the beach”. He started giving me directions.
“Never mind. I need to go home and take my meds, You can spend the night with me.”

Once in my apartment, Mark moved quickly to the bedroom and peeled off his things unselfconsciously. His cock stood out from a trimmed, blonde pubepatch, balls shaved. He was cut and very average, with a flabby ass. I found nothing tempting about him at all. Getting us each a bottle of water from the fridge, I bade him to stretch out on the left side, away from the alarm clock on my side. He looked at the pile on books on the nightstand next to him. “What are all these?”
“Books. I read at night.”
He guffawed. “You fuck at night.”
I shot him a look, but chose to say nothing except to wish him good night.

I went to my nightstand and took out the several bottles of medications I take every night. In response to his questions, I told him what each was and what it did for me. Then I pulled off my jeans and slipped into bed next to him, shutting off the light. Mark made his move quickly, pulling at my dick with a dry hand and fumbling for my tits in the dim light. I was hot, tired and entirely out of the mood. I pushed him away.
“You said I could blow you.”
“No,” I replied with a forced yawn, “I said I’d blow you. But not tonight, I’m tired.”
“So why’d you bring me here?”
I blinked in the dark, pulling the sheet over my shoulders. “Go to sleep, Mark.”

I woke up to his mouth on my dick. For someone so enamored of fellatio, he could have done a better job. He would bob a bit up and down, never taking more than a quarter into his mouth before spitting and jerking. Turning around, I squinted at my clock, which read 8:45. Maneuvering myself down his body, his smallish, freckled dick was fierce and red with an erection. Surveying for a moment, I easily gulped the length of his shaft, as if showing by example how to suck a cock. My attention shortly paid its dividend, and I swallowed his thick load with a minimum of effort (or, really, much interest). The whole thing took about seven minutes. Swinging around, I asked if he’d prefer coffee or tea.
“Aren’t you gonna cum?” His voice showed disappointment.
“Nah. I’m not much of a morning person.”
“But you swallowed my load. Is that safe?”
I looked at him for a second, contemplating a variety of possible responses, before settling on the simplest: “It was for you.”
Mark began arguing with me about that not being what he meant, but I just waved it off as something I’d prefer to not discuss. Thoughts of the sheet in the hamper on the other side of my mirrored closet door, and his reaction to it, gave me a soft interior chuckle. Climbing out of bed, I put on a pot of coffee and set WMP to some mellow French standards sung by Juliette Greco.

Over coffee we decided to go to the beach and grab a small lunch, as I was working that afternoon around 3:00. After a few minutes in the bathroom, we were off to his place, which I was most anxious to see. With a push of a button, the top slid into the trunk of his sportscar and we were off.

Beachfront property in Ft Lauderdale comes in many different types and qualities. Mark lives in a mid-rise building from the fifties, near the hotels, on the south side. It was a solidly respectable building, if somewhat unglamorous. The lobby was very tasteful in a SoFa fashion, with brass tables and overstuffed floral upholstery. Nodding to the concierge, we made our way to the elevators and up we went. The apartment was furnished in a pastiche of expensive things with nothing really relating much to anything else. Most of it looked like stuff inherited from a very old woman who disdained dusting. Huge ashtrays were overflowing everywhere and everything smelled of mildew and stale smoke. The rugs, in particular, were disgraceful, with ruinous stains deeply set into the wool pile. Taking me out to the balcony that wrapped around the corner of the living room, Mark was very proud of the view, which showed the ocean peeking out from several buildings nearby. Much like Mark himself, the condo was both quite impressive and terribly ordinary, with a strong whiff of not-so-benign neglect and careless disregard.

Showing me into his bedroom only confirmed the negative impression. Heaps of cigarette butts overflowed from several ashtrays which littered the oversized, mismatched furniture. His unmade bed was rumpled with old, pilly poly-blend sheets. The art on his walls was a mixture of expensive-looking old lady paintings with poorly-executed examples of amateurish “homoerotic” art (done by an ex of his who was, not surprisingly, “self-taught”). The bathroom was accessed through a dressing room piled with dirty laundry. Toilet and sink were filthy, the marble tiles on the floor and walls spattered with filth.

With no hint of embarrassment about the deplorable state of things, Mark pulled a bathing suit from one of the piles on the floor of the dressing area and changed quickly. With a flourish of cigarette smoke, we left the apartment and piled back into the car. Even though he lives on the beach, he prefers to drive up to the gay beach about a mile north. Parking nearby, we rented chairs and stretched out for a few hours diversion of sun and surf.

Our conversation focused almost exclusively on our exes. He began relating how this Puerto Rican had taken him for a terrible ride, costing him thousands with nothing to show for it but those dreadful paintings adorning his bedroom. In so many ways, from the overgrooming and diva complex right through the bad problem with Tina, he sounded a lot like G. Mark’s ex evidently favored being the hole du jour for acreages of men in Miami and Ft Lauderdale, too. Mark belabored the illusion that it had all stayed “safe”, but we both doubted it even as he was saying so. I commiserated, giving highlights of my life with G, which served as inspiration for stories from Mark’s life unrelated to what I was discussing.

We passed a couple of hours this way, conversing about our lives and musing about the damage of drugs to the gay community here in SoFla. But he never really listened to me, and there was precious little humor in our banter. And even at the depths of my rage and depression, I love a good joke, quip or one-liner. A sober Mark was simply a drunken Mark waiting for Happy Hour, and I resolved to lose his number as soon as we parted after lunch. My evening reverie of a condo in SoBe, married to a CFO effectively shriveled in that abominable condo and died in the hot tropical sun.

Dropping me off at home, I quickly showered and moisturized before running to catch the bus for work. A curious optimism seemed to fill my spirit. I somehow felt that things would be all right. Flipping my phone open, I sent a call to Zeph to let her know that I was feeling better. The phone rang twice in the usual fashion before a recording came on announcing that my service had been discontinued, and to contact the primary subscriber for more information. I stopped dead in my tracks and redialed the number, getting the same response. So G had finally shut off my phone and another little piece of my soul flecked off like a piece of chipped paint. My interior mono/dialog went silent as I wended my way to work.

Arriving back home that evening, I signed on to Manhunt with Matty my companion on IM. Paging through the various profiles, I unlocked my private pix for several hopeful prospects and sent the usual opening e-mail about how much I admired their asses. Several minutes passed this way, with very little sign of interest, until I stopped and clicked on the main photo of someone I’d seen much of online and hadn’t approached, but whom I’d stopped to contemplate before. His handle is Lilredgreg:

See why RED HEADS have more fun

Red head w/goatee, hairy, 27” wst, 7+c

Fun in more places than bed!
Love to have passionate sex with men who really know HOW to, not really into “quickies”, but sometimes they’re hot and you never know where that will lead to, even a long lasting friendship.
Am a vers. uninhibited top who loves a man who knows how to kiss~

PASSION is the key.
What’s the point to all this? To enjoy what it means to have an intense time with someone who KNOWS how to. If you want to take a chance, take it. Life’s too short NOT to take chances~

Shy at times, so break down that barrier! What are you waiting for?

I’m into: Sucking, Fucking, 1 on 1, Group Sex, Voyeurism, Exhibition, Toys, WS, Nipple Play, Rimming, Fuck Buddy, LTR, Friends, Dating, Kissing, Feet/Socks

When: Right Now! Ethnicity: White
Where: Anywhere Status: Positive
40 / 5’6 / Slim / Blue/Auburn/Red / Top/Vers

His profile and pix reminded me very much of someone I’d met just once before, socially. The guy I’d remembered was a hot, humpy little guy with a sharp wit and bright eyes. Looking again at the pictures, I was convinced it was him. Curious, I unlocked my pix and sent a non-committal greeting.

He responded right away, affable and pleasant. I wrote that I liked his playful tone and wondered if he’d be interested in arranging for a powerbottom we could doublefuck together. His enthusiasm was immediate, and he sent me the handle of a sweet, youngish bottom he’d played with in the past and who’d most definitely be up for the challenge. Opening his profile, the bottom seemed sexy, his profile suggesting that if he had ever met a limit he’d overcome it immediately. I unlocked my pix for him, and we, too, began a dialog, smutty if without the humor and good nature of mine and Greg’s.

But Manhunt is notorious for hot talk and little action, and the hot bottom evaporated suddenly, leaving us to try again. Another round of e-mails, another close call, another sudden disappearance, and we were getting pretty frustrated. Being a Wednesday night, the traffic was relatively light and we didn’t have the options available to us on, say, a Saturday. And it was getting late, nearly 3:00 by the time we found ourselves alone once again with no real powerbottom in sight, at least none who were in any condition to drive.

Our conversation shifted focus from looking for hole to the possibility of his coming over. His profile did state that he was a versatile top, and I was curious, damn curious what he was really all about:

> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:05 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> You know, I think we’ve met before.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:07 AM, buckob wrote:
> I wasn’t gonna mention anything, but yeah. We met when G****** was moving to >Wilton Manors. You helped out…
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:09 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> Yes, that’s it. How is G****** doing these days?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:12 AM, buckob wrote:
> He’s in Texas with his sister. He was hospitalized for a terrible withdrawal from Tina last month. It was pretty intense for a while.
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:13 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> He’s OK now? He was a pretty heavy user when we knew each other.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:15 AM, buckob wrote:
> I presume so. We broke up when he wouldn’t come clean about his addiction. You >know, I’d have tried and worked through anything if he could have been honest. 
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:18 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> Too bad, but you seem OK…
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:19 AM, buckob wrote:
> I’m working it through. But let’s discuss the rest of the night. You wanna come over?
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:21 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> mmmmmmmmm…Sounds tempting.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:22 AM, buckob wrote:
> Come on…We’ll fuck like cougars and cuddle like kittens.
>On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:24 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> Hot! And poetic, too. I’m very tempted…
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:26 AM, buckob wrote:
>Resist the temptation to resist and get your ass over here. I promise I’ll be gentle >(at first)
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:28 AM, lilredgreg wrote:
> It’s been a while since I bottomed, but I’m really into it. You’ve got me all fired >up.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Thu Apr 27, 2006 03:29 AM, buckob wrote:
> Then come over. Let me give you directions. Where are you coming from?

It was a little after 4:00 when Greg walked through the door into my small kitchen. Looking around for a second, he cracked a smile and looked into my face with a warm look of recognition. I leaned in and kissed him, gently at first. He was somewhat apprehensive about even coming over, and his first kisses were tentative and soft, his goatee tickling my upper lip and chin. I smelled soap and mints. Gingerly, his hands began exploring my chest and he rubbed my nipples up and down with his index fingers. My breath quickened as I felt his ass through the outside of his shorts, hands slowly moving around to the front. Rubbing his crotch, I pulled at his belt and lowered his zipper. I could feel his breath grow more labored as my right hand reached into the opening of his shorts and tugged here and there on his underwear.

Coming up for air, Greg asked for something to drink. I turned on my heels and fetched a bottle of water from the fridge. He took it, giggling.
“So are we gonna stand in the kitchen all night?”
“Of course not, come on…”

I took his hand and led him down the hall to my bedroom, which was softly lit by the lamp next to my bed. Sitting him on the bed, I lifted his left leg and pulled off first one sneaker, then the other. Coming up close, I took his head in my hands and gave him a deep, soulful kiss before directing it down to my left tit, urging him to suck it. As he flicked his tongue over my tit his free hand rubbing my bulge. I opened my shorts and they dropped to the floor, my hardon bobbing and drooling precum.

Stepping out of my shorts, I lifted his T Shirt and pulled his nipples between my index and middle fingers, where I’d ordinarily hold a cigarette. As they stiffened, I switched to my thumbs and index fingers for greater force and dexterity, twisting in quarter-circle turns. He leaned in and took my dick in his mouth, going way down before pulling back to the head, juicing the precum, his fingers working my tits more aggressively.

I told Greg to relax and pushed him down on the bed. As he is quite small and light, I spun him easily around so his head was just off the mattress face up, my preferred angle for throat fucking. Looking apprehensively at me for a second, I grabbed the base of my dick and fed it to his open mouth from that position. He got most of me down in two or three swallows, being careful not to gag. Falling over his torso, I took his dick in my throat and inhaled it to the root, pausing just once. He raised his hands up to my tits and we began 69ing in earnest.

I lifted his legs up high, exposing a clean, tight, fragrant rosebud. Alternating his balls and ass with my mouth, I wet the entire area thoroughly before diving in and eating his ass with gusto. My tongue darted and curled into his anus as my hands pulled his plump cheeks apart and it began responding. I swung my face back and forth, nuzzling his moist hole from nose to chin and back, stopping to linger with my tongue before repeating the circuit. Several minutes of this had him ready for a finger, which I wetted and gently applied to his winking hole.

Spinning him a quarter turn around, I placed a pillow under his head and frotted insistently, rubbing my hardon against his belly and crotch and kissing deeply, his hands pulling with more intensity on my tits now. I lowered myself down and, pausing to suck his rock hard dick for a spell before I twisted his pelvis and dove into his ass with vigor, lapping greedily. Sensing he was ready, I opened the cabinet of my nightstand and withdrew the bottle of Eros I use when Crisco seems somehow the not right thing, and the bottle of poppers B36 had left two nights previously.

“Go slowly, remember I’m not used to this” He had a concerned, tense look on his face.
“But you want it, don’t you?”
Somewhat more relaxed: “Oh yeah, just take it slow.”
“No problem, just relax and enjoy the ride. Tell me when you want a break.”

Twisting off the cap from the lube, I squirted some on his asslips and massaged it in before slicking my dick. Looking deeply into his eyes I began penetrating him tenderly. Letting out a gasp, his hole clung tightly to the head of my dick and I let it linger there, pulsing madly. After a moment, he nodded and I pushed in a few more increments, cooing encouraging words of pleasure and reassurance. With time and patience, I eventually sunk my length down and in with deep wet kisses.

Pausing again to gauge his reaction and comfort, I began sliding out, stopping half-way down before returning back to full penetration. He let out a yelp and grabbed my hips, so I stopped where I was.
“You OK?”
“Yeah” he replied through long breaths, “It’s just been a while.”
“You’re doing great.”
He smiled a small, pained smile. “You are too.”
I looked deeply into his clear blue eyes. “You want me to keep going?”
“Slowly”, he nodded.

With patient, measured strokes and frequent pauses, I got Greg comfortable with my dick. We spent several hours in various contortions of sodomy, aided by poppers and occasional water breaks. We ended up with him at the edge of the bed on his side, my feet on the floor, sawing in long volleys. So unlike the “rich vein of powerbottoms” I’d experienced lately, there was an undeniable satisfaction to our sex in the tenderness of our approach and the grasping, needy tightness of his hole, which by then was accustomed to my fucking. At times I’d be gentle, other times more insistent and vigorous (might I say cougarlike?), at all times playful with flavor of erotically charged fun. The clock on my nightstand showed 6:30 before it ended, first me, then him, in torrents of cum and delirious spasms. Pulling up the topsheet, we snuggled in a spooning position and dozed lightly to the sound of my bedside fan.

To be continued...


At Sat Jun 24, 09:58:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous charles said...


From a devoted reader. Your writing is a blend of Sunday newspapers "Styles" supplement and paid by the page pornography. The photos are good too.

My favorite part was the "Mark" vignette. Least favorite: the import of the Sheller song could have been conveyed with a quote of 3 or 4 of the most meaningful lines.

When will you finish the story of your parisian lover?

Off topic: Did you know at the end of his life Halston lived in a townhouse on the upper east side with his black man servant?


At Sat Jun 24, 03:38:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Dearest Charles-

Thank you for the critique, luv. I never tire of hearing the opinions of others regarding my purile little brainturds shit out here on a more or regular basis.

As writers actually get paid for their contributions to the Style section of the Sunday paper, I'll take your observation as "professional". As a furniture designer by profession, being called a professional writer is a compliment, indeed.

I was concerned that the "Mark" vignette ran a tad long. If you include all the Jackhammer material, it runs to almost 3000 words, or 3/4 the total run of a standard Spin Cycle article posted by me. I did feel that it was important, though. At the time it happened, the whole thing struck me in the gut like a hammer-blow. And, of course, it is an excellent way to illustrate how obsessed I still was by G at that point. Thanks for the vote of confidence in that regard.

As regards the Sheller song, "Un Homme Heureux": I have quoted song lyrics at length before, as they are frequently illustrative of certain states of mind, and are generally evocative (presuming the reader is familiar with the song, bien sur). I honestly feel that the entire song was meaningful to the matter at hand. Certainly the entire song is deeply meaningful to me, personally. Editing down a snippet or two would pull the snippet from its context, which I felt was important to the totality of the writing (and reading) experience. Besides, any chance to show off my French is a good chance, indeed. You are free to disagree, doll. Such things are deeply subjective, after all.

I am a shade surprised that the "Greg" vignette didn't garner a mention. Far from being porn, it's actually quite tender and almost excessively vanilla. Aside from being one of the motovating factors in the encounter which kicks off the naughty bits in Chapter five, I found it rather poetic and touching. besides, it's from that encounter that I culled the title for the entire chapter. But "Fucking Like Cougars, Cuddling Like Kittens" relates to the actions throughout the entire chapter, so there you go.

As far as the odd off-topic bit about Halston and his manservant...yes I was aware of that. I fail to grasp the relevance of the final days of a popper-soaked, drunken AIDS patient and his (presumably) well-paid servant possibly relates to anything here. Please enlighten me.


At Sat Jun 24, 03:45:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Feel free to link any pix you like, and you are welcome to discuss my health issues to whatever lengths you enjoy, but please leave my friend alone. He has never done anything to you except respond to your purile ramblings in my defense.

As someone who proports to be the voice of morality and, to a certain extent, the long arm of Baal, in this discussion, plese keep the focus on me and my "warty, cancer-causing dick" and/or a criticism of the matters discussed here. Surely fair play precludes such an unwarranted denial of anonymity on the part of anyone else. You, certainly, take enough advantage of such a cloak.

Bises, cheri-

At Sat Jun 24, 04:21:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Matty the Damned said...


Let me reinforce Bucko's comments. You can keep posting that same comment again and again, but we'll just delete it each time you do.

As Bucko notes, you're free to comment about anything you like but we will not tolerate you identifying unrelated third parties.


At Sun Jun 25, 12:43:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Oh, Charles-

I did respond, and at great length, in the comments section of chapter two regarding JM in response to Anne, the French woman who follows our stories as well.

The crux of the matter is that, in all probability, I shall write out three or four chapters then take a breather, when continuing with the tale of passion and betrayal in Paris. The series dredged up many memories. Most were fine, but many were terrifying. It would take days to recover after writing the chapters I published.

I shall continue with "Bienvenue a Paris" when I'm done with this Mancunt series, of which I have a final chapter and, perhaps, an Epilogue.

Bisous, cheri-

At Sun Jun 25, 12:10:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Matty the Damned said...

Administrator's Notice

Some of our more eagle-eyed readers will have noticed that we have become the target of a troll who is intent on vandalising the comments section of The Spin Cycle. The price of success is a heavy one indeed it would seem.

To deny this loathesome individual his giddy little jollies and to ensure that our legitimate readers can continue to participate properly, Comment Moderation will now apply to Spin Cycle articles.

Here's how it works:

Everything is Permitted Except That Which is Prohibited.

Basically all comments no matter how offensive, vapid or just plain weird will be accepted except for:

1. Spam - We don't shill and neither can you.

2. Identifying information about individuals - Posting peoples names, addresses or other indentifying information is just fucked. We won't tolerate it.

3. Vandalism - Use some common sense here people. If you post mindless crap with a view to rendering the comments section unusable for others, then we're gonna flush it.

4. Links to Kiddie Porn - Spin Cycle Bloggers like their men to be of legal age so if 10 year old Vietnamese boys with bottoms like ripe peaches are your thing, take it elsewhere.

Spin Cycle Administrators check the blog several times a day, so the delay between you posting comments and them being published should be small. We're sure all of our regular readers (even the ones who think we're racist disease spreading drug addicts) understand our position on this matter.

Feedback that people don't want published as comments can be sent to:

The Spin Cycle does not divulge email addresses to third parties under any circumstances.

Ya dig?



At Sun Jun 25, 01:04:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Thanks Matty-

Hopefully this will encourage the kind of meaningful dialog that this space was started for in the first place.

Again, we do not believe in censorship of any kind. But the intentional vandalism and truly evil attempt to discourage our friends from contributing has now been eliminated.

Bises and rosepetals to all-

At Tue Jun 27, 08:34:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger RonReaganJR said...

Faglet's post on AIDSMEDS was ignored and fell off the page faster than eraser dust on a windy day.

This post is getting barely any comments (except for a deranged stalker)

Good job ladies getting the word out...

Meghan XX OO
(who doubts this post will get through druggie boys comment moderation bullshit - and couldn't care less as long as druggie and fugly read it.)

At Tue Jun 27, 11:45:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Matty the Damned said...

Oh Meghan! Still doing the angry? As much as I would like to block your illiterate missives, I can't because you've observed the 4 Pillars.

The reality is that the majority of our readers don't comment, they READ. Which is the same for almost all blogs.

It's uncommon for people at AIDSMEDS to comment in Spin Cycle threads posted in the forums, because they can comment here, should the need arise.

Rest assured dear, we've never had more readers than we do today. That includes deranged stalkers like anonymous and gum chewing high school dropouts like yourself.

Do give our regards to Crazy Cat, Lisette, Pussy Whipped Pete and the rest of your professionally outraged friends. ;-)


At Wed Jun 28, 01:47:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous dachshund said...

Meggles...someone is reading "The Spin Cycle"....oh yeah, YOU! Now don't get your panties in a wad, but "Cycle" is mentioned in "best gay blogs". See if you and the posse can shut that down too. Now, everyone cover your eyes 'cause here comes Megula's tired barrage of insults.

Aunty Doxie

At Wed Jun 28, 03:04:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


I wondered where the smell of Brut aftershave was coming from! Welcome back, sweetie. As you can see, we are publishing your observations, in their entirety. The four pillars, as MtD so brilliantly describes them, are the ONLY criteria by which we judge cooments worthy of the commments sections of the articles posted on The Spin Cycle.

The moderation function is an onerous necessity, alas! Having warned Anony that his posts could not be published as written, we were given no choice. But, as we say around here, c'est la guerre.

We also need not remind someone as techologically savvy as you that there are many ways of tracking our beloved readership without having to resort to the silly, old-fashioned Statcounter. Join the 21st century, love, shake off your unfounded concernes for our popularity, and while you're at it, reconsider that mullet hairdo, babe. Even Billy Ray was shorn his, perhaps you should retire it too, like those acid-washed jeans you finally put in the Goodwill box after all these years.

Keep those cards and letters coming, dear one. The Spin Cycle without its Clit Clique just isn't quite the same, somehow.


At Wed Jun 28, 03:20:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Megs is just out of sorts because, in her rush to post her next electrifying comment on the Spin Cycle, she's neglecting her own blog, "Bloggiegirl". I'm sure you are as anxious as I am, dear one, to see what profound pearls of wisdom she chooses to publish there.

So Megs- When are you launching that blog of yours? I'll read it religiously once there's something up and running.

At Wed Jun 28, 06:38:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...

"I wondered where the smell of Brut aftershave was coming from!"

LOL! That is fantastic Brent.

I really loved your lasted post. Allowing the reader to view the more intimate emotional details of your experience is exceptionally brave. I too have felt and experienced many of this things you have expressed here.

I also loved all the links scattered throughout the text. It made reading this an "interactive" experience.

At Wed Jun 28, 02:18:00 PM GMT+10, Anonymous Anonymous said...


Dingbat is being bitch slapped hard by someone named Dane on Aidsmeds. Too effin' funny!

He is calling him "dingbat" and calling him on being a "little bitch" or words to that effect.

At Wed Jun 28, 06:54:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger RonReaganJR said...

You fucking losers are amusing.

I've never seen a more pathetic group of people who take their blogger blog (with fucking four hits a day, 3 of which came from us) so seriously.

Oh yeah it's more than that because you tools have other means. Fucking habitual deluded liars.

We spread the word racist slugs. Our work has been done here. How I wish we could share the PMs we've got about you two since your RACIST commentary began. Unlike your stalker, I respect anonymity.

Later druggie boy and ugly fuglet!

(who actually feels somewhat sorry for the two losers and their delusions of graneur.)

At Wed Jun 28, 08:07:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Matty the Damned said...


Yup, you're the only one who reads our blog. You're the only one who comments. You sure showed us, you and the rest of the Pussy Posse. Despite what your remdial class teachers told you, you HAVE achieved something in life!!!

Speaking of them dear, do tell us -- where are your Legion of Decency friends? You seem to be the only one still sharing your noxious views with us. Did the Pontiac break down on in the slow lane of the information super highway?

Well you just keep commenting, love. As long as you abide by the 4 Pillars, MtD and Nasty Faglet Bucko will keep approving your drivel for publication here on the Spin Cycle.


Poor Dingbat, he does lead with his double chin, doesn't he? Beating him up is so easy. Fret not, Matty the Damned landed a good one on the brainless drone in his dreary little thread.



At Thu Jun 29, 12:05:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous dachshund said...

You are running out of steam Megpie. I will have you know that I received 1,476 pm's praising my little Buck-Buck's writing skills. Like you I respect their privacy and they shall remain nameless. I don't have to tell you Meggy how reticent the folks over at Aids meds get when it comes to posting their feelings...those babies never share their displeasure with anything or anybody. I wish they would open up more...don't you?

Buck's Part 4 has been my favorite read so read more familiar, and you know how I love redheads.

Y'all come back now.
Aunty Doxie

At Thu Jun 29, 02:28:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Kind of you to say, sweetheart. Emotional revelation is something that comes with equal parts of need and a desire to communicate something universal within the particular. It's easier with practice, although the honesty part is something that many, if not most, find too great a challenge to overcome. I understand, by our private communications, that you,as well, find something therapeutic in the stripping bare of one's psyche.

Marcel Duchamps toyed with the concept long before we were born, but his collection of urinals and shattered glass, while sublime on one level, revealed nothing more than his perverse sense of humor. Perhaps his concept of the absurd was too great to allow real exlporation of his mind, or perhaps he just had to pee. Who knows?

The links are something I have tried to include throughout the series. Parts one and two feature them extensively. I had prepared links to part three, but Blogger crashed just as I was publishing the blog (their software is notoriously wobbly) and all was lost. As it took hours to assemble and link everything properly (really, hours...) I decided in the end to simply publish the text and let my readers explore their own obsessions as they like (provided they could type with their left hand only).

The music refs were fun, especially. I attempted to relate the specific song to the specific mood, with some hitting their marks more sucessfully than others. I hope the technology improves (or I find a way withing existing technology) to provide direct links to the songs themselves, not just snippets from Amazon or some other such half-assed bullshit.

Meggsie's aftershave does carry quite the stench, huh? I myself prefer the natural smell of a freshly washed, freely-perspiring man, but I suppose she does the best with what she's got, poor thing.


At Thu Jun 29, 02:49:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

"We spread the word racist slugs. Our work has been done here. How I wish we could share the PMs we've got about you two since your RACIST commentary began. Unlike your stalker, I respect anonymity."

You could easily c&p all the supporting e-mails and PMs while deleting the names, baby. I do it all the time. The dialog with Lilredgreg, quoted above in the format of Mancunt e-mail, was actually edited and realigned, as the most recent message appears on the top of each missive, which would have been confusing and distracting to our readers.

Likewise, I quoted rather extensively from an IM communication with Matty in part two (did you read part two and choose not to participate in the comments, or was it "Cat" who brought you in on part three, all outraged dykiness and flying fingers?), but deleted several parts that had no bearing on the narrative, as well as subjecting the entire matter to spellcheck so that I don't come off as entirely illiterate.

And while we're on the subject of literacy, luv, three small things:

1) I suggested that your time might be better spent volunteering to literacy programs in your neighborhood so that naming an infant after a toilet or shackling her with a moniker that would make a drag queen blush might forever be a thing of the past. How's that going?

2) When's the "Bloggiegirl" launch? When are you gonna publish your own blog and share something beyond your absurd observations here at The Spin Cycle? What's the delay, snookums?

3) Lest you think that my AIDS-hobbled brain hasn't noticed or processed it yet, what left-of-center, hyperpolitically correct manbashing lesbo would choose a handle named for the offspring of the most reactionary president of the 20th century? By choosing such an obnoxious, odious name, you have exposed your trollhood for the world to see.

Aren't you really just Kev, The Krusading Kuntserv?

Bisous on your tiny, circumcised weewee-


At Thu Jun 29, 02:57:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


"Buck's Part 4 has been my favorite read so read more familiar, and you know how I love redheads."

You know, I too, have always had a weakness for reds. My beloved "JD" had auburn hair. Their skin is so white, their dickheads so very vermillion. It's a complexion I'd favor more if routine infant circumcision weren't so routine, and my stock of available redheads so inevitably clipped of those precious few centimeters of skin.

Maybe a trip to Dublin or Cork rests in my future? One can only dream...

Your devoted freckle-licker-

At Thu Jun 29, 03:03:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger RonReaganJR said...

Bucko I wear Brute aftershave if you must know. The razor burn is horrendous! How did you know?


If you only knew what we know and what people are saying.

Insecure Delusional Racist fools (and those were just some of the more popular adjectives shared by my AIDSMEDS family members)

(who has never seen two people so disconnected from reality in all her life, yet understands when people are that fucked up they cope by lying pathologically to others and themselves)

At Thu Jun 29, 03:29:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

"If you only knew what we know and what people are saying.

Insecure Delusional Racist fools (and those were just some of the more popular adjectives shared by my AIDSMEDS family members)"


You seem to have skimmed over the repeated posts where I state repeatedly that I don't cowtow to anyone's opinions, least of all whomever you and the Clit Clique claim to have befriended. If they describe me as an "Insecure Delusional Racist fool" then obviously I wouldn't give a rat's ass what they think of me.

My friends all find me eloquent, brave, handsome and witty. That's what makes them friends, sweetheart, not hypersensitive, hideously overweight, carpet-munchers with nothing better to do than post unsolicited comments on a stranger's blog. But that's one of the many differences between us.

No response to any of my observations? Are you really so incapable of interaction that all you have to present is the same cardboard cutout of sapphic sushi stench?

Ciao Bloatilda-

At Thu Jun 29, 03:34:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Oh, and Megs, darling...

All this blather over my appearance and the "opinions" of those whom I've never met, yet nothing on the substance of what I wrote? Do you ever read the blog, or just hang out for the free food here in the member's lounge?


At Thu Jun 29, 07:14:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger RonReaganJR said...


Why would we respond to your observations?

Oh fuglet faggot ugly boy you crack me up!!!!

(who finds watching druggie and fuglet RACIST boys amusing)

At Thu Jun 29, 07:30:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Here they are for your review-

1) I suggested that your time might be better spent volunteering to literacy programs in your neighborhood so that naming an infant after a toilet or shackling her with a moniker that would make a drag queen blush might forever be a thing of the past. How's that going?

2) When's the "Bloggiegirl" launch? When are you gonna publish your own blog and share something beyond your absurd observations here at The Spin Cycle? What's the delay, snookums?

3) Lest you think that my AIDS-hobbled brain hasn't noticed or processed it yet, what left-of-center, hyperpolitically correct manbashing lesbo would choose a handle named for the offspring of the most reactionary president of the 20th century? By choosing such an obnoxious, odious name, you have exposed your trollhood for the world to see.

We're waiting, love. As someone who admires Reagan so, you must remember what a buch of real racists populated the White House from 1980-1988. Compared to the folks who brought us ketchup as a vegetable, and who observed that trees cause pollution, Matty and I are most decidely small potatoes-


At Thu Jun 29, 09:02:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...


You crack ME up. You tiny little brain doesn't comprehend that you are actually supporting this blog by posting here. Watching you with your little pathetic insults is quite entertaining.

You keep on with the accusations of racism all the while you attack your gay
brothers. Nice.

I find it interesting that you side with the likes of Bailey. From my observations on Aidsmeds, Matty and Bucko are two of the most kind inviduals on that website. Do you ever read what they post? Both of them exhibit a great deal of real kindness and compassion.

Bailey on the other hand is one of the nastiest people on that website. He is bitter, insecure, and to be perfectly honest, not very intelligent. I am sure that he opts for "video blogging" rather than writing because his writing skills are so weak. He is rude to people in both the "Living With" and "Fears" section.
Oh, and a lot of people do not like him. The name "Dingbat" is used by many regarding this little turd.

You really don't seem to be able to tear yourself away from here. You really seem to enjoy hating others. Does hatred make you thrive, or maybe hating others enables you to hate yourself a little bit less. I would think that being a racial minority, a sexual minority, a PWA, and a mother would occupy more of your time and concerns than a blog. But then again, who knows if any of the things you tell us of your life is really true. You don't openly post on Aidsmeds, where Ann the Goderator would call you on your crap. You seem to be a blogger on the "down low".

Why not start a blog of your own as Bucko suggested. You could even make it a video blog. Bailey chugs down the booze while taking meds pondering "Is it white wine that goes with Sustiva or red?" Perhaps you and your pals could enjoy some of your favorite beverages while sharing the exciting details of your lives. I would love to see that.

BTW, where are your pals. Has it just gotten to difficult to creatively feign different personalities while posting here, or perhaps the psychotropics are doing the trick, and your other personalities are quiet now.

At Thu Jun 29, 09:16:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Ah, Lyds-

Your briefs have been sorely missed in these purple parts lately. Megs is just another pathetic loser in a long line of pathetic losers who have chosen The Spin Cycle as an outlet for their bitter ramblings.

One drinks white with Sustiva, Red with Kaletra and Meg's favorite, Colt45 with Lithium.

Bisous, doll-

At Thu Jun 29, 11:32:00 PM GMT+10, Anonymous dachshund said...

Please allow me to be a bit more specific on your wine choices. In honor of our fine Aussie friend I suggest Penfolds Koonunga Hill Shiraz Cabernet with the Kaletra. As for the Sustiva pair that with a Sancerre from the Loire Valley. The white wine is very dry, with a robust aroma, delicately lively and you my angel.

For you my little Megalomaniac trying washing down the crow with 750ml of Thunderbird...if you can afford a bottle.

Aunty Doxie

At Fri Jun 30, 01:52:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Such brilliance is somewhat wasted on the Clit Clique, its members being incapable of anything other than the two-dimensional shrieks and moans of some twisted Greek chorus.

Where oh where are "Cat", "Pete", and the ever-popular "Lisette", the hard-working wage slave of S&S? They seem to have either been quelled by the proper psychotropics (as Lyds mentioned) or else have been reassimilated into their creator's lush if fickle brain by some other means.

Your wine choices are spot on, dear. the good Aussie reds are fully equal to my beloved Cotes-du-Rhone and Chateaux-bottled Bordeaux. But, and I'm sure they exist but aren't exported, I've yet to find a value-priced varietal equal to the simple grace of a Minervois or Courbieres.

A Sancerre is such a delightful choice, in particular. I myself rarely tup whites (as you know well, darling), however, my cretinous ex, Ken, in whom I tried to instill a measure of culture throughout our nine-year ordeal known as a relationship, prefered them. Presuming that anything better is by nature more expensive (a pattern that led to my eventual bankrupcy), he was naturally led to Pouilly-Fuisse and Montrachet, although he could never wrap his tiny brain around the concept of a white Burgundy and would quiz me for hours on the topic over Soupe a l'Oignon Gratinee and Staek Frites au Poivrons Verts (ordered cooked until it resembled show leather).

We were on firmer ground with furniture, where he learned to discern the differences between Loius Quinze and Louis Seize as well as developing a taste for Ormulu, which I forbade him from purchasing on the basis of its being too ostentatious for our simple life. My proudest moment was when he began using "chevet" instead of "nightstand". Ah, the shit I've given away...


At Fri Jun 30, 01:35:00 PM GMT+10, Anonymous Anonymous said...


Just watched Bailey's video blahg. What the hell? Is he on the fucking Star Ship Analprise? I knew he was from another planet, or an Ass-teroid. And what the fuck is up with his new "hair don't". Jeezus, aren't gay men supposed to be fashionable? Bailey is just a mess.

At Sun Jul 02, 09:44:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger RonReaganJR said...

You losers crack me the fuck up.

Some wondering where the rest of the ladies are, others asking why we can't seem to tear ourselves away from here.

Our work has been accomplished faglet and druggie boy. This place is just a tragic comedy show now. We've exposed you losers and there's nothing more to write or waste or time on.

Matty keeps being a racist and fuglet, well, fuglet just keeps being fucking ugly.


As for Bailey, I never defended him (even if he did take a nice swap at Matty). I think he's a fucking obnoxious loser and just as nauseating to look at as Bucko.

Meghan XX OO
(who loves how fuglet and druggie boy are being igmored at AIDSMEDS thanks to our campaign to expose the losers.)

At Sun Jul 02, 11:35:00 PM GMT+10, Anonymous dachshund said...

Yea, MEGalomaniac is back. Same old story, same old drivel. Like MacAurther you continue to return to the fetid jungle called "The Spin Cycle". I believe it was MacAurther who said, "old homophobes never die...they just get fat", or something like that.

Poor little Megpiles, you just don't get it, do you? The "Cycle" was never intended for the AIDSmeds audience...quite the opposite. Try reading the mission statement again duckie. Maybe "Best Gay Blogs" would suit your fancy...I think they mention the "Cycle".
Anywho, glad you took the time to wedge yourself out of your platic pool and visit. A homophobe's work is never done.

Aunty Doxie

At Mon Jul 03, 05:20:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


So orry when I read that Levis is no longer making 501s in sizes over 52. You and the rest of the gang must be bereft. I'm glad that you took the time, through chugs of Colt45, to post a little note to us here at The Spin Cycle.

As the beloved Hot Dog stated, we never really canvassed AM for readers, and when we did, it was more often than not to respond to heated, anonymous comments than to bask in the glow of any compliments.

Our loyal reader base comes in directly through their own bookmark, and we score many many hits daily from Google's and Yahoo's search engines. Try it and see for yourself...your "work" has resulted in nothing but the continuation of your high blood pressure. You can take something for that, dear, if they don't interact too badly with your psych meds.

Rest assurred that nothing, not threats from you, birdshit crazy Tom or anybody else will diminish our popularity here at the den of anarchy and absinthe. It grows daily, as does the number of pozholes served by the Buckomobile. If I weren't so loathe to fuck fatties, I'd offer to give you a lift.


At Tue Jul 04, 04:48:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...

Smegman, or I mean Meghan,

First, I don't see where you derive your assertion that Matty and Bucko are being "ignored" on Every thread that Matty has started recently has been received with many kind and supportive responses. Bucko hasn't posted there much lately, so there is really nothing you can observe in that regard involving "being ignored".

You on the other hand never post anything there, so how is it that you think you are so well received on that website? Perhaps the voices in your head are posting imaginary responses to your imaginary threads. Or maybe you just don't really read carefully.

I see that we agree on Bailey. I guess a broken clock is right twice a day. However from your comments on Bailey I suspect that you seem to hate gay white males. It seems that you are both a racist and a homophobe.

As far as calling Bailey a loser, be careful using that term. You might also be judged a loser using the same criteria. You don't impress me as highly educated, intelligent, witty or sophisticated. I am betting you are no supermodel either. If you are attacking Bailey on the superficial, then I am sure many of the things you have observed about him are equally applicable to you.

If you are calling him a loser based on his nasty personality, his inconsistency, his lack of critical thinking skills, then once again I would say that the things you have observed about him are equally applicable to him. He is red state trailer park, you are blue state ghetto. Yet I have met many people who have come from the ghetto or the trailer park who aren't crass, narrowed-minded and dim-witted. You and Bailey, however are.

At Tue Jul 04, 10:57:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger RonReaganJR said...

Lydia lunch lady after reading all that creative writing work of fiction, I think you're the one with the voices in their head.

You are right I'm ugly trailer ghetto trash and I hate white males. I'm in the process of telling all my male white friends of the news you thankfully brought to my attention. You know me so well and I want to thank you for sharing your spot-on insights. You are a God.


Oh this place gets funnier and sadder all at the same time. Keep it coming!

(who loves how Matty and Bucko are hated by many at AIDSMEDS and looks forward to more disjointed responses.)

At Tue Jul 04, 11:31:00 PM GMT+10, Anonymous dachshund said...

Oh Megpiles you are such a player hater. Don't hate the player baby...hate the game.
Did you notice how concerned the folks at AIDSmeds were over my dear Matty-poo's impending death from high blood pressure? Or maybe it was wishful thinking...I'll let you "spin" it your way.
I guess the crusade to shut down the site is over? You do seem to be running out of steam my dear...put down that rib bone and start hurling them insults girl. That's what you are celebrating today, freedom of....oh hell nevermind.
Anywho,I'm bored shitless with are no fun anymore since you won cheerleader.
I loved Buck's last chapter...what did you think?
Aunty Doxie

At Wed Jul 05, 03:15:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Comparing the phantom "Megs", "Cat", "Pete" or the everpopular "Lisette", all of who seem to be the deranged sub-personas of some real life twisted wreck and Bailey, who is quite real, is something of a stretch, luv. Much as I love your argument and reasoning (I am a such a sucker for a lucid mind) and the uncanny accuracy of your word-pictures once again blows my mind, I feel forced to remind you that they are much too two-dimensional to possibly be real.

Be that as it may, they are surely stinking mards culled from the cesspool of some twisted, no-doubt AIDS-addled brain somewhere. Hopefully this person will, with the four T-cells left in his/her body, lift him/herself from the Dorito-and-Mountain Dew-stained plaid sleep sofa that serves him/her all too well and will get the help he/she so desperately needs and deserves, for the sake of the children in the neighborhood if not for him/herself. Hopefully the Toxoplasmosis infection hasn't robbed him/her of the coherent brain functioning necessary to obtain the patient support and corrective medications that the mental health professional at his/her local ASO can provide in such cases.

Where this person ever got the idea that my world and life are both so small as to depend on any one source for the fufillment of all my needs for validation is beyond me. Although I don't mention them generally, I enjoy the support of my fabulous sister (a real lesbian, not these faux carpet-munchers), many friends both on and off line, co-workers, and the endless supply of crack-whores and Tina-smoking bottoms who share my bed with such gusto and enthusiasm, most of whom mellow into pals with whom I socialize. Far from being ignored, it is I who have dropped the ball on my friends at AM, not the other way around. One's enthuiasm for the boards waxes and wanes. The endless reminders of my mortality which is part and parcel of the AM experience can be less than uplifting when one's head isn't in the right place. But I have no doubt that my friends everywehere understand my need to explore and push the boundries of my personal experience. Sometimes they are along for the ride, sometimes they have a pot of tea waiting for me when I return, full of stories and new insights.

One last thing, cheri...smeg's neither all that terrifying nor all that fab that either its detractors or its enthusiasts claim with such outdoor voices. As someone with decades of preference for the uncut penis, I have had a long and varied history with the substance. Like all by-products of the human body, it has its place in the lexicon of human sexuality. I'll relate two quick smegma stories:

When I lived in New York, I had an adorable, tiny fuckbud named Oscar. He was rather closeted, as he had chosen to remain in the Brooklyn neighborhood where he was raised and where, presumably, cocksucking outside of prison gets you a knife in the chest. His manner and mode of dress was entirely high-ghetto circa 1988 (when this little tale takes place). He was about five feet tall and was entirely proportionate. That is to say, his cock was an adorable nubbin, no more than four and one-half inches when fully erect (which was actually kinda hot) and possessed of the longest foreskin I've ever had the pleasure to curl my tongue under. He had significant overhang even when rock hard. This, of course, excited me prodigiously, even if it posed significant hygene difficulties for someone raised with scant skills in such areas to begin with. He could wash and clean and there'd still be a lingering trace of white gunk here and there. It embarrassed him to distraction even after I assured him that a flake or two hardly threw me off balance. Fucking his ass, even with a condom (which I always did) was sublime, and savoring his cock in my mouth is still a memory I linger over often.

The second tale was a man I met in the backroom of a bar in Paris named Keller Bar, which was (and perhaps still is) in the 10th, quite near Bastille. My first return to Paris after the death of Jean-Marc was one year later, in 1993, and that's when I met him. He was in every way the typical Parisian gay man, about 35, a chain-smoking hyper-educated, sullen wino with a bouncing, full ass that could handle anything nudged its way. In the bar that night I was on my knees sampling uncut cock like Megs at an all-you-can-eat buffet and he was especially amused by me, so he gave me his number and I called him the next day to set up a date later that week. At the bar I'd had a few beers and made the unfortunate observation that smeg doesn't bother me. Well, come time for our date, after a truly lovely dinner and animated converstaion, he brought me back to an impressive apartment near Ile St Louis and, opening his trousers, unveiled the slimiest, cheesiest, most rancid thing I'd seen in my life. He had spent the intervening days cultivating this horror and was so proud of the result that, despite a urge to gag and toss my entire dinner, I did sample and nibble at his "treat". Satisfying myself that I'd found a new low of crapulousness for myself, I eventually left with neither of us cumming. the corners of my mind...

At Wed Jul 05, 03:39:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...


Leave Megs and her twitching band of outraged womb-fisters to their squalid little fantasies regarding who and what she thinks we are. You and I both know that "she"'s an utter, unredeemable fraud culled from the warped psyche of some hideously lipo-distorted lonely tubbo with nothing but TV and a half-empty box of Hostess snacks to occupy her time.

Please forgive me the lack of responses to your posts. It's nothing personal, dear.

If my latest installment delighted you, part five, tentatively titled "Denoument" should prove electrifying. I may or may not craft an epilogue that deals with my subsequent UTI. The chaotic anarchy of my current life will no doubt merit a new round of histoirettes, but that will be a way off, methinks.

BTW- if you Google "Mancunt" the Spin Cycle is now the second most popular entry after the Urban Dictionary. Our good works have paid off, luv...bib time!


At Thu Jul 06, 08:42:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...

"I feel forced to remind you that they are much too two-dimensional to possibly be real."

You make an excellent point here Bucko. I don't think that my observations about the real people on Aidsmeds is ever going to be completely accurate, or even nearly accurate. For me, my observations are like that of a viewer of a television program. For the members, there connection is different. Members communicate with IMs and also share an experience that I do not share. I can feel sympathy for those dealing with HIV, by empathy is not possible because I do not know the reality of this illness, not in the sense that a person living with it does.

It is easy for me to take the thin layer of information and extrapolate from it hard and three dimensional opinions. I am sure that I am off more times than not. However, like those who put their images "out there" in television, films or even videoblogs, inevitably viewers will at some point form opinions based on the images and nformation put out there.

What I have seen of Bailey hasn't impressed me, whereas what others on have put "out there" often has. Bailey described himself as "an easy target" and I will have to agree with him there. He puts everything out there, the good, the bad and the ugly. While I do admire that sort of bravery and honesty, I cannot help but share my honest opinion as well. As far as the content of what he dispenses, I find it lackluster. His personality I find
annoying and his bitchiness lacking any real wit or substance I find sub-mediocre. I find that I treat Bailey in the same manner in which he treats others. He hasn't earned my respect because I have seen him repeatedly treat others with disrespect.

Perhaps I did cross the line when I compared him to the league of angry lesbians, but I know very little about them as well. I still strongly suspect that they are one or two people. Tom appears to be beyond psycotic actually posting the names of others. He needs to be reminded that Matty can obtain his internet address from Matty may legally then take his name and post it on this blogsite. This has been done to various trolls in the past, and as the law stands in the United States, trolls can do nothing about it.

Thank you for calling me out when I perhaps judge people I do not know more harshly than I perhaps should. Perhaps I should add a caveat that my opinions are based merely on my observations as a lurker on a website, and should be viewed in light of that limited level of observation.

At Thu Jul 06, 09:01:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...


Thank you for the smegma tales LOL! A little bit of smegma is never a problem, but too much, well too much is just too much.

Smegma although much maligned is actually a pretty "clean" substance, and quite healthy for the penis. The smell, when mild and in small doses is actually quite arousing.

One time I was at a urninal at Union Station in Los Angeles about to hop on the subway. I looked over at a reasonable attractive Latino man, mid-thirties. He looked like a construction worker type. He smiled at me and then looked down at his uncut penis. He then took his finger under his foreskin and flung about a half teaspoon of smegma into the urinal smiling as if pleased with himself. I just put my penis back in my pants and went off to board the subway.

Well, he followed me onto the Red Line and sat next to me. My broken Spanish and his broken English resulted in a boring conversation where he tried to see if I would "chupa" his "verga". I declined.

I am afraid the over abundance of smegma under his foreskin made me think that he was perhaps a little too "ripe" for me to enjoy.

At Thu Jul 06, 11:30:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...

Forgive my type "there" for "their".

Must proofread!

At Sat Jul 08, 05:00:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

"Thank you for calling me out when I perhaps judge people I do not know more harshly than I perhaps should. Perhaps I should add a caveat that my opinions are based merely on my observations as a lurker on a website, and should be viewed in light of that limited level of observation."

I don't mean to slap anyone (you least of all) down. The limited nature of the written word conveys much more severity than was intended. Darling, Bailey seems to have attracted something of an anti-fan base with The Spin Cycle being the locus of its activity. As my real opinions are based on confidential communications (the nature and substance of which need to remain completely obscure for the forseeable future), I am hamstrung from really letting go and giving concrete examples of why I feel as I do, so I prefer to not respond except in the most general way.

But rest assurred, that neither Bucko nor Dingo share much warmth or affection for each other. We remain cordially distant, politely aloof, from each other and have never really had much direct interaction. Initially this reticence was one-sided on his part. But the more I have learned, the more, like that old New England expression, I have constructed a strong fence myself to ensure that we remain the good neighbors that decorum insists we remain.

Mind you this has nothing to do with any apprehension of the possible negative opinion of those who count him amongst their friends. It's simply that, without direct provocation directed in my direction, I prefer to remain silent. It should be abundantly clear by now that I do not factor the opinions of others into my personal choices.

"I don't think that my observations about the real people on Aidsmeds is ever going to be completely accurate, or even nearly accurate. For me, my observations are like that of a viewer of a television program. For the members, there connection is different. Members communicate with IMs and also share an experience that I do not share. I can feel sympathy for those dealing with HIV, by empathy is not possible because I do not know the reality of this illness, not in the sense that a person living with it does."

This is also an artifact of the medium. As written text, even with italics, boldface and diverse emoticons, really can never convey the personnage that we observe and appreciate in the subtilities of body language and nuance of tone, we remain somewhat suspended within the limitations of the two-dimensional curls, dots and dashes given to us by our keyboards. That is one of the reasons why I employ the full weight of my vocabulary behind my various posts and musings here and elsewhere on the web whenever possible and appropriate. But, dearheart, such ideographic gymnastics rely to a profound degree on the intellect of the reader. Where some may find my employment of "le mot juste" off-putting and confounding, those whom I intend to understand its full import appreciate and find reference in the full palate of my word-pictures.

Those who cannot can fuck themselves with the nearest available substitute for my cock.

I appreciate our dealings together to ever risk being a scold with you, darling, because you, quite simply, get it, and by extension, get substitute required.

Des gros bisous,

At Sat Jul 08, 11:45:00 AM GMT+10, Anonymous Lydia Lunch said...

Hi Bucko,

I never felt that you scolded me. To the contrary, I know that you and Matty will call it like you see it, and honestly convey your feelings on a subject or matter. I actually like being called out when I cross the line (as I often do).

You and Matty are in my opinion, quite brilliant. You are two reason why I am glad that I count myself among the group described as "gay males".

I also tend to be a bit bitchy. This often has to do with low blood sugar or lack of cock. I guess I need a "sweet thing" in my mouth at regular intervals or I start acting "cuntish". Not that I have anything against cunts per se, I just find them to be an among a group of "acquired tastes" that I have not yet, nor ever intend to acquire.

I don't know why exactly that Bailey on the other hand makes me feel less comfortable with being among those described as "gay males". Perhaps it is his "neediness" or perpetual contradictions that make me want to hurl whenever he comes to mind.

Oh never mind.

I have to say that I love this blog more and more each day. Thank you all for your contributions. You, Matty, Hermie and Ronnie are amazing and incredible, and I am NOT easily impressed.

BTW, I loved Hermie's dark poem and am so glad that he is doing better regarding his depression.

Ronnie's blog has knocked me off my ass. I really feel for him and hope that he is doing well. I root for him in my heart quite often.

Bottom line, Bucko any time you dole out forty lashes I pause and really thy to absorb everything you convey in your disciplinary address.

Thank you again for making "The Spincycle" my favorite blog read.

At Sat Jul 08, 03:10:00 PM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Ah Lyds-

Whre to begin? Thanks, for sure. If you had any idea how simply I live, you'd understand how much this work really means to me. The Spin Cycle is the sole outlet for my creative energies. My biggest regret of the time I wasted from September until April is to what degree I'd let the blog go and swamp myself in the futility of trying to find meaning and substance in a life with G. As soon as I possibly could following our break-up, I hurried back and, after a somewhat stumbling first step, have returned even stronger than when I left.

I was profoundly honored when Matty and Ronnie approached me to start up The Spin Cycle. You are right in your assessment of their brilliance, as well as that of my dear friend Hermie, who began his career here as a commenter and was eventually extended an invitation to become a full contributor at my request. It is most telling that, at his darkest hour, he chose The Spin Cycle as his medium for outreach as opposed to the message boards of AIDSmeds. This is an intensely personal place, one of deep resonance and meaning, for each of us, and by extension for our readers as well.

Would that simply being gay made one somehow more scintilating a conversationalist, snappier a dresser, better a lover or profounder a thinker! We come in all the shapes and colors of that infamous rainbow, most humbly satisfied with a middling shade of beige. Of all the tragedies of AIDS, the most atrocious has to be how the pandemic made its survivors so unbearably bourgeois. If you'd had the chance to predict in 1987 what would be the biggest item on the "Gay Agenda" in 2006, marriage would have drawn the biggest groans of disbelief and most incredulous looks. If you'd have added that HIV/AIDS remains a dread fact of life for millions and a terrifying threat to billions, yet the energies of our lobbyists are focused on combatting a constitutional amendment barring us from something that, twenty years ago never seemed a possibility (or much of a goal) while people continue to die from AIDS in the thousands every year, You'd have been checked into the same facility I'm trying to get Megs into.

Cunt is most def an acquired taste. Thank goodness the combination of straight men and carpetmunchers like Megs keeps it so rare that I don't find one in my bed occasionally like a spider or dead Cambodian ten-year old.

In the end, isn't Bailey just a bit too pedestrian to merit all the phosphorus devoted to him around here? I mean really!

keep it coming, luv. Your cards and letters have kept this old bug carrier happy and focused for another day.


At Sat Jul 15, 02:22:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Brian FInch said...

This is why I love this blog, you just do what you want to do, and fuck the political correctness and all the rest of it, been a fan since I first found you guys.

At Sat Jul 15, 11:18:00 AM GMT+10, Blogger Bucko said...

Thanks, Brian-

I look forward to seeing you comment more often!


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