The Spin Cycle

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Bucko's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 10: Party Girl

2009-10-07T07:47:00.007+11:00

I stared at my computer screen and contemplated the message one more time before hitting send:

“You rest on my brain like a pool of anti-freeze.”

The intended recipient of this note was a man whom I’ve named B36. The riots of our first encounter, described when they were still very fresh in my mind, had passed only about two weeks prior. I was knee-deep in the doldrums and nausea caused first by the UTI I suffered in May, 2006, then the response to the toxic antibiotics prescribed to treat it, finally by the food poisoning I gave myself with Izzy’s dicey spaghetti sauce. After an enforced three-week’s time-out, I was ready to climb back into the saddle, and couldn’t think of anyone whom I wanted to ride harder or put away wetter than B36.

If my encounters with Dawg were a careful minuet of role play and control, those with B36 were a meringue of limit-shattering, excessive lust. For the rest of the summer, they acted as the twin, though hardly exclusive, loci of my sexual (and, increasingly, emotional) attention. If Dawg limited our escapades, B36 positively wallowed in them. And until Hector upped the ante considerably six weeks later, I found that B36, not Dawg, was the more considerate and inclusive fuckbud of the two.

But at the time I sent him that message, B36 was just another in a steady stream of possible fuckholes I wanted to seed, and I wanted him terribly.

He responded a few days later, while I was at work and away from the computer. Though perhaps taken slightly aback by my word-picture, he was as anxious for a repeat as I, and he came by after having phoned me that evening. I reminded him of my address, and within the hour was at my door.

Although I have described his face as “an Aztec painted by Picasso”, he was actually very handsome, with an interesting combination of angles and a roundness I hadn’t remembered: curly hair that was beginning to gray, a pleasant, round unlined face, and an ample backside on a torso where every muscle seemed wrapped in a pillowy layer of healthy flesh, just shy of six feet tall. Being neither plump nor lean, he was just naturally, sweetly full and lush. He voice was as I remembered it: soft and masculine and intelligent, without a trace of Spanish accent.

I performed a preliminary inspection as he walked into my kitchen. He was dressed for an evening out in expensive, low-rise jeans, a light-weight sweater and rather expensive shoes. I was, as usual, in board shorts and flip-flops, which I removed in the kitchen immediately after his arrival. Our deep, open-mouthed greeting kiss betrayed the fact that he’d been drinking alcohol: it was heavy on his breath and his demeanor was sluggish instead of speedy and electric.

Our facesucking continued, his hands gripping my nipples, as we crab-walked from the kitchen, down the short hallway, into my bedroom. We paused in the narrow three-foot space between the footboard of my bed and my oversized TV. Pushing him down, first to suckle on my tits, then further on his knees, I gripped my hard-on and fed it into his open mouth. Gripping the back of his head, I pulled his head toward me until I was tickling his tonsils, fucking his throat. He gasped and tried to pull back, but I would have none of it and gripped his head tightly, pulling his hair until his full lips nearly touched my pubes: only then did I pull his head back and off me, lifting his face and hurling a gob of spit on his forehead.. His eyes, though slightly glazed showed enthusiasm, so with two fingers from each hand I opened his mouth at its corners and pulled it back on my now-pulsing dick. B36 reached up and pulled on my tits, wobbling on his knees.

But this second attack overwhelmed him, and the enthusiasm in his eyes flashed into a panic. With a gurgling sound he pulled his face back abruptly. Strings of thick, gooey saliva and remnants of his dinner and several alcoholic beverages came out of his mouth in a reflex of vomit, running down his jeans and onto my Tibetan carpet in a small, chunky puddle. He turned his face up to me with a look of regret mixed with slight mortification in his enormous brown eyes and began muttering an apology. Lifting him by his armpits and assuring him that apologies were unnecessary, I steered him into the bathroom and ran a warm shower. I undressed him with tenderness and guided him into the large, two-man shower stall, pointing to a bottle of body wash in the built-in niche.

With B36 rinsing off, I moved quickly into the kitchen, and grabbing a roll of paper towels went into the bedroom to clean the (mercifully small) puddle on my rug. Throwing on my shorts, I wadded up the soiled clothes and walked around the darkened house to where the washer and drier were kept in a plastic shed around back, putting them though a light wash. Returning to the apartment, I rejoined him in the shower and we soaped each other up gently. Stepping out of the shower, I prepared two different mouth rinses: salt-water followed by Listerine. He quickly followed, leaving me to shut off the water as he stood dripping and gargling at the sink.

As I wiped his legs off with a towel, I asked him if he felt up to continuing.

“I am if you are”, he replied.

I smiled and nodded, and after he’d spit out the last of the Listerine, we kissed deeply, locked into each other’s arms.

Understanding that he wasn’t in the right state for rough treatment, I purposely kept things in a soft, romantic mood, kissing and stroking with sweeping caresses and a minimum of the type of gymnastics to which I’d been accustomed by that time. After about an hour of (relatively) gentle fucking, I let a load of seed explode up his wide, soft ass and we curled up in a spooning embrace, breathing deeply.

“Will you stay the night?”

“You want me to?”

“Oh yeah…you feel great. You comfortable?”

“Completely”

I got up, threw on my shorts and went out to put his clothes into the drier, returned to bed and curled up tight into his broad chest and big arms.

He woke me early, asking after his jeans and sweater. In a groggy wobble, I retrieved them from the drier and handed them to him, offering some tea. He showered my face and neck with nibbling kisses, declined the tea, thanked me for “a great night” and left as I crawled back into bed for a few more hours sleep.

About a week later, I had a rare Saturday night off from work, and had been on Mancunt for about fifteen minutes when B36 sent me a note asking as to my plans for the evening. I replied that I had nothing specific planned but would love to see him if he wanted. Several minutes later he replied that he was “at a party with some friends” and wondered if I could find my way to Plantation, a suburb south and west of my neighborhood. Contemplating what, precisely, a “party” might entail, I asked who was there and received a short list of about four screennames. I pulled up their profiles: nothing dreadful, nothing spectacular. Everybody seemed to be “real Joe” types between thirty-five and fifty with non-flashy profiles: mostly disembodied ass and dick shots. Aside from the host (B36: “my friend Jack”), they all self-described either specifically that they were poz or else leaving it blank, and as versatiles or bottoms, which meant that my dick would be in high demand. Flicking ideas around for a moment, I requested directions and called a cab after a brief shower.

The address was much further away than I’d have liked, and as I peeled thirty dollars from the forty in my pocket and handed it to the driver, I wondered what, precisely I’d gotten myself into that far out of town. The house, an enormous, rambling piece of mid-70s-vintage South Florida real estate Jeep parked out front I’d have had no way of knowing whether or not I was on a wild-goose chase. Stepping up on the slab under the light, I pushed the doorbell, but heard nothing. all on one level, seemed deserted, except for the cars in the driveway. The light over the door was the only one lit, and if it hadn’t been for B36’s

Waiting several minutes without a response, I shook my head and tried again…still nothing. Fishing for my phone, I thumbed through my contacts until I saw B36’s name and pushed call, hearing several rings as my heart sunk: walking home would be at least two hours, and through some iffy sections of SoFla I wasn’t anxious to explore on foot in the middle of the night. On the fifth ring, B36 answered with his velvety soft baritone, asking where I was.

“Out front… I’ve rung the bell twice.”

“Oh,” he seemed startled, “I’ll let you in.”

Moments later he appeared at the door wearing a camouflage-print, box-cut bathing suit and black sneakers, and ushered me through, giving me a kiss and pulling me close. “Glad you could make it.”

“No problem,” I said.

His demeanor was cool and relaxed, not jittery or tweaking. He seemed genuinely happy to see me. The bathing suit was stretched tight across his wide, bounteous backside as he walked me through a number of darkened rooms, all decorated at some point between 1978 and 1985 and unchanged since; pastel brushstroke prints, oak, brass and smoked glass were much in evidence. Aside from the obviously dated décor, my immediate impression was one of complete disregard for house-keeping: what wasn’t stained with filth or caked with dust was cluttered with a mindless detritus of magazines, newspapers, moving boxes left half-unpacked and large, black trashbags as much as I could make out in the tenebrous maze we traversed. The air smelled of mold and cats.

Eventually I saw lights on at the end of a long hallway, and that’s where we headed.

Turning left, we entered a large bedroom. Against the far wall a king-sized platform bed of cheap, clear oak trimmed with gleaming brass projected into the room. The mattress was thin in a way that suggested it was either very cheap or very old and was covered in a pilly baby blue poly-blend fitted sheet. Laying on it were two entirely unremarkable men in their early forties, one deeply tanned the other ghost-white, both stark naked. We nodded to each other as B36 made cursory introductions, instantly forgotten. Neither was recognizable from the profiles I’d been sent.

I looked to my right and saw a large oak entertainment center which I recognized from my days selling the cheap shit: veneered over MDF with a heavy, rounded trim. The old black plastic TV inside was off, its rounded screen giving a distorted reflection of the room. Above it was a sixty-inch flatscreen mounted on the wall playing bareback porn with the volume turned on mute. Predictably dull trance music blared from speakers on top of the entertainment unit, tinny and without any bass.

To my left was a bank of mirrored sliding closet doors perhaps fifteen feet long in front of which was a heavy-duty, hand-made wooden frame holding a black leather sling, into which B36 climbed without fuss. Having removed the bathing suit, he slipped his sneaker-shod feet into straps and bid me to approach. As I stepped between his legs, I pulled my T-shirt off with a tug and opened my jeans, letting them fall in a puddle around my calves. I leaned in and we sucked face hard, his hands immediately found my nipples and began tugging. Bending up slightly, I noticed a round mirror-topped table to our left with several bottles of lube, poppers, and a can of Maximum Impact Eros and slicked my dick, confirmed that his hole was properly lubricated and pushed into his ass without resistance. wrapped in a blue bandana. I reached for a bottle of

I grabbed hold of the chains suspending the sling and began pulling him toward me in long, even sawing motions; nearly out then all the way back in measured strokes.B36 reached for a bottle of poppers, holding it under his nose and inhaling deeply with a soft moan of satisfaction.

After several minutes, a tall, lanky pale man in his mid-40s with a long, fat flaccid cut penis wandered in, and I was introduced to Jack, the host. Releasing the chain, I crossed my right arm in front of my chest and shook his hand, smiling. He took it, smiling, and told me to continue.

“J**** needs some good fucking, glad you came over.”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Jack slapped my ass and bade me to continue, as B36 “never gets enough”, he chuckled.

“You want some?” I offered.

“Nah…not right now.”

Jack sauntered over and pushed his way on to the bed with the other guys, fingering a glass pipe. Reaching into the bookcase headboard behind him, he found a lighter and sparked it, lighting a mini butane blowtorch, rolling the pipe over the flame before offering it to his companions. They each took hits, exhaling the vapors into Jack’s mouth.

Looking into my eyes, B36 asked how I was doing.

“I could use a drink” I offered.

Nodding, he released my tits, pushed himself off my dick in a swinging motion and clambered out of the sling, bidding me to follow him as he pulled the bathing suit back over his butt in a moment of strange modesty. I was naked and drooling a mix of pre-cum and silicone-based lube onto the floor.

Following as he padded his way back through the darkened house on creaky parquet floors, we turned left at a round, glass-topped table (decorated with a forlorn, artificial Christmas tree, despite its being June), and made our way into one of the filthiest kitchens I’ve ever seen. The white Formica counters and cabinets (trimmed in a nameless blonde wood) were splattered and encrusted with ancient evidence of food having once been prepared there. Cat food tins were open everywhere, the congealing contents unlikely to find any takers, and piles of fast-food bags both in and out of the many trashbags and cardboard boxes piled everywhere betrayed Jack’s poor diet. An odiferous, overflowing catbox sat on the floor.

Opening the fridge, B36 pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to me. Grateful that it was a sealed container, I took it, thanking him, and suggested we have a cigarette.

“Out by the pool’s OK”, he said, pointing in the direction of several sliding-glass doors. “Jack doesn’t smoke.”

I retraced our steps back to the fuckroom, grabbed my pack of smokes and lighter from my jeans, and found my way outside to the poolside lanai, where B36 was waiting. A spotlight clicked loudly as it came on, activated by a motion sensor that I’d tripped as I walked around. The water in the pool was a dull, unhealthy green.

Offering him a cigarette, I took one and lit them both. After a moment or two looking around, we made eye contact.

“You guys have a regular thing?”
B36 exhaled and thought for a moment.

“Jack was much more fun before he became”…inhale…“obsessed.”

“Obsessed?”

“His ex…” B36 gave me a telling look of disappointment. “He got hurt badly.”

“Sorry to hear it.” I was mildly curious but not enough to enquire further.

“You’ll see.” B36 tamped out his half-finished cigarette in a dead potted plant, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “It’s his drama.”

I nodded. Some things are just beyond rational consideration, and the house was obviously a neglected, inherited wreck. Undoubtedly there was a backstory there, though I couldn’t really summon much interest in it. Taking a final drag on my cigarette, I leaned in and kissed him with a full, open mouth, inhaling, as he twirled my nipples between his fingers.

“Let’s go back inside,” I suggested, pushing my cigarette butt into another dead plant.

When we got back into the fuckroom, Jack was sitting with his back on the bookcase headboard, a laptop balanced on his thighs, typing furiously.

B36 looked at him: “Who’s on line?”

“Got a couple of guys coming over.” He pushed some buttons, and the porn disappeared from the widescreen, replaced by the familiar blue and orange of a Manhunt mailbox. Tapping on his laptop, a profile suddenly appeared onscreen: a top/versatile I recognized without ever having contacted him. “Waddya think of him?”

B36 walked over and studied the screen as if it were an old master at the Prado, turned to Jack and shrugged. “I dunno…seems nice.” I had the feeling B36 was in the mood for something spicier than the bland vanilla that his profile suggested. “Who else?”

Jack pulled up a different profile, a couple in their late forties, who seemed to survive on nothing but steroids, antiretrovirals and Elbow Grease. As Jack sat clicking on his keyboard, a pic appeared with them backing up doggy-style on a double-headed dildo of impressive dimensions. Moments later it changed to one obviously taken during Disney’s Gay Days, was all beaming smiles and hair gel and sunglasses and Disney T-shirts, Minny Mouse’s gloved hands on each of their shoulders, her enormous head partially obscured.

“Cute” I moaned in my throat with a cutting sarcasm. “Why do guys include those kinds of pictures in their Manhunt profiles?”

The over-tanned guy on the bed spoke up: “Those guys’re actually a lot of fun.”

“Well, as long as I don’t have to put on a Goofy suit I’ll be OK,” I intoned sardonically, which at least got some laughs.

I approached the bed, my dick at half-mast, and beckoned the two guys over to the edge. Grabbing both heads, one with each hand, I pulled their mouths to my tits, imploring them to nurse. The tanned guy performed perfectly, with the right amount of suction and using his top teeth and tongue. But the pale guy bit down. I jerked his face back and slapped it with a light but forceful insistence: “Not rough…not yet, anyways,” I scolded, “Suck, and flick it with your tongue.” His technique improved immediately and I rewarded him with a “Good boy…keep that up, watch what happens.”

On cue, my dick rose immediately, the head pulsing, strings of pre-cum drooled in thick streams almost immediately. Pale guy stroked and tugged, spitting into his palm occasionally as I groaned, pushing my hardon into his clenched fist.

“Bucko is totally hard-wired. It’s amazing to see.” B36 remarked to the two guys busy at their task. “He really loves that.”

“Actually, I need that,” I corrected.

Spitting on my right hand, I reached past Tanned Guy’s limp, cut cock and low hangers and rubbed his perineum and lubed hole back and forth, quickly inserting my index and middle fingers into his needy gash. I pushed his head off my chest and he fell on to the bed. With sure confidence, I lifted his legs and squatted, fingering his ass with rapid, insistent strokes. Looking down at Pale Guy, I told him to continue what he was doing and inserted the head of my dick into Tan Guy’s anus. Sensing no resistance, I plowed forward and, with two strokes, buried the length of my pulsing dick into his eager hole as he moaned a low, hushed wail.

After about twenty minutes, it was time to switch out and I slipped out of Tan Guy. Telling Pale Guy to assume doggy position, I entered him roughly with no preparation. Tan Guy stood on the bed, straddling Pale Guy’s trunk and fed me his limp dick as he pulled with steady surety on my highly aroused tits. Waves of pleasure coursed throughout my body as I shuddered and twitched in a rhythm of tension and nervous release.

Tan Guy looked down with an air of slight disappointment. “Did you cum?”

B36, who’d been fucking himself with a smallish dildo in the sling spoke out. “Oh no. That’s what Bucko does. He can go for hours like that.”

Between heaving breaths I stammered “It’s what I call a full-body orgasm. It’s what happens when I’m plateauing. Believe me, you’ll know when I’m cumming.”

“He’s loud.” B36 confirmed.

Jack reemerged with the couple he’d invited over. They looked somewhat older and more portly than expected but otherwise conformed to their pix. One of them grabbed the balls from the dildo B36 had up his ass and began fucking him with it. His partner undressed first him, then himself, then squirmed onto the bed, waiting his turn, ass in the air. I reached over and diddled his ass, open and wet. We obviously weren’t their first stop that evening. I asked Tan Guy to fetch me some lube, and lathered up my right hand as I continued my attentions to Pale Guy’s quim. Not surprisingly, his ass inhaled my four fingers with ease, though I didn’t fold my thumb against my palm and go for a full fisting.

“Fuck me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I really need your cock.”

Withdrawing from Pale Guy, I scooted to my right and inserted my hardon into his open, waiting ass. His partner came up behind me and, with fingers still greasy from his toying with B36, attempted to grip my tits. “Wipe your hands,” I said turning my head into his chest. “I hate lube on my tits.”

“Really?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yeah. It drives me nuts: it’s like I go numb. I no longer feel a thing. You,” I intoned in a deep voice to Tanned Guy, “lick this shit off my tits.”

The partner wandered off looking for a towel as Tanned guy stood to my left, sucking all the dreaded goo off my chest.

“That’s better,” I growled with yet another spasmodic quivering shudder.

Partner returned eventually, hands freshly washed, with Jack following behind holding a small camcorder.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if attempting to read my mind, looking into my eyes. “I never shoot faces.”

“I’m not worried. Shoot what you want.” Then, with a soft chuckle: “Does this mean I’m gonna be on XTube?”

“Probably,” B36 replied from his perch in the sling. “Jack never wastes good material.”

He suggested I look at the flatscreen. Turning my head up and over to the right, I saw a close-up of his ass, just as Partner’s girthy cock replaced the dildo and slid in. I swiveled my head around to see the action in real-time, but from my perspective, all I could see was Partner’s flabby ass and the back of his salt-and-peppered head, so I contented myself in looking down at the ass I was fucking and gave it a couple of hard slaps.

Pale Guy got up off the bed and approached Jack, slipping the host’s pendulous, soft wang half-way into his mouth, jerking the rest with a dry hand. Jack tolerated this poor excuse for fellatio long enough to point the camera straight down and film a few moments before pulling back. “That’s enough for now,” he said in a flat, dull voice and shut off the camcorder. The bareback porn resumed on the flatscreen as Jack walked over to the entertainment center and picked up a tiny zip-lock bag and his mini torch. Making his way to the bed, he took the glass pipe from the headboard, and flopped down with a low sigh.

Partner withdrew from B36 and walked over to Jack’s side just as I pulled out of the ass I was fucking and approached the sling.

“Want a cigarette?”

B36 glanced over at the crowd assembled on the bed. “Yeah. I’ll be right out.”

The inference was that he’d join me after some tokes from the glass pipe.

Tanned guy was nearly finished dressing as we entered, announcing he was “done”. I walked over to give him a deep kiss good-bye, and he tweaked my nipples one last time, smiling. “See you soon?” he asked.

“Sure,” I lied casually. “You have my screenname. Hit me up.”

He nodded to B36 as he crossed the room, and met Jack at the threshold. The two walked together into the darkened house, chatting quietly.

Pale guy was getting fucked by Partner, while Hole looked absently at the porn playing on the widescreen, pulling on his Tina-deflated pud. I came up behind him and gripped Partner’s tits between my thumbs and forefingers, cupping his pecs with my palms. He reached his left hand behind me, swatting my ass, and twisted his neck around to facesuck. The pressure I was performing on his tits had a deep effect on him: his thrusts increased both in speed and intensity and his breathing became a series of laborious gulps and hisses. A low growl burred in his chest, soon replaced with “yeah, fucker” repeated like a mantra over and over, a little louder each time. Five minutes of this led to his announcing that he was close, a glaze of sweat glistening on his skin, his “yeah fucker” grew increasingly shrill until, with a series of grunts, he bucked against Pale Guy’s hips and spilled his seed into his guts and the two went face down into the pilly blue sheet. Not that I was paying much attention, but I don’t believe Hole even glanced over.

B36 came up behind me and whispered “Fuck me some more” as I watched the two panting slowly. Nodding, I pivoted on my heels and watched him scamper back into the sling. Approaching, I looked at the tiny penis resting on his abs, foreskin trailing nearly to his navel in his scrunched posture. I bowed low and took it into my mouth, sucking hard while nudging my tongue around, trying to find the opening. He grabbed my tits and pulled them up and out, a sure-fire way to get me going. Reaching for one of the bottles of lube, I poured some near his hole and slicked the opening before fucking my fist, coating it with lube. Grabbing hold of the chains, I entered him in one long thrust.

Jack came by with the camera just as B36 reached for the can of Maximum Impact and sprayed for several seconds into the bandana before placing it between his teeth and biting down. His eyes seemed to roll back into his head. B36’s face, dazed in his stupor, reappeared on the widescreen before the camera slowly panned down his torso. I lifted his balls and gripped them in my right fist, exposing our sodomy for the camera. I looked up and noticed, for the first time, that the sling’s wooden frame had a mirrored ceiling about twenty inches above my head and mused at how similar the image was to what was on the widescreen. This playpen seemed set up specifically for voyeurism/exhibitionism more than any real rough BDSM games. And I especially enjoyed how my body looked. All that illness had lowered my body fat to single-digit range, and I photographed beautifully.

Partner came up and worked my tits from behind with clean, dry hands, returning the favor I’d recently done for him. My cockhead strained and pulsed, dumping streams and threads of precum into B36’s ass as he sprayed into the bandana again, moaning softly through clenched teeth. Jack came over, pulled the bandana from his mouth and plopped in his dick, which even at half-up was immense. B36 held the shaft with his right hand and sucked hard on the head, which is what passes for fellatio due to Meth’s drying effect on the mouth. Withdrawing his dick, Jack lubed up and approached me from the left. We made eye contact and I nodded, wordlessly understanding that it was his turn to fuck that luscious ass. We completed the switch seamlessly.

Partner affected a funny walk, shoulders down/ass up over to the edge of the bed and bent low, spreading his ample cheeks. His hole winked, a fierce red flash in a sea of dark hair and dimpled white flesh. Pausing only long enough to re-lube my dick and moisten up his pucker, I cautiously moved the head of my dick into him and stopped. He was tight and hot, not wet and loose as the other guys had been that evening. Raising my right arm, I backhanded his asscheeks as he let out a gasp.

“How much do you want it, baby?” I asked sternly.

“I want it bad, daddy. Give it to me rough.”

I wasn’t thrilled with a middle-aged guy calling me “daddy”, but let it pass. I glanced over at the far corner of the bed and saw Hole and Pale Guy passing the pipe, watching the proceedings. “One of you guys make yourself useful and get me some more lube.”

Hole nodded dumbly and scampered over to the round, mirror-topped table next to the sling. “Bring some poppers, too. I think he’s gonna want them.”

I took the bottle of lube and squirted it along the top on my shaft. Once I saw Partner inhaling from the small brown bottle of poppers, I began slowly pushing in quarter-inch increments, with frequent pauses. It took several minutes of sustained concentration before the base of my dick kissed the hairs surrounding his anus.

It was difficult to judge how much pleasure Partner was getting from all this. On the one hand, he did nothing to stop me, but on the other wouldn’t release his sphincter enough to make the penetration any easier on him. I could feel his pulse beating against my shaft, the muscle gripping tight and hard. Ordinarily I’d take such resistance as a sign to stop, but he really seemed to be enjoying it. As I began pulling back, he moaned softly, saying “Give it to me, daddy” and took yet another deep sniff from the popper bottle. Knowing that Hole and Pale Guy were pretty much useless, I pulled on my own tits (always a poor substitute) and began a slow, rhythmic fuck, eventually picking up the pace as I saw that he really was blissing out. Several minutes into it, I leaned close and growled into his ear that I wanted him to flip over so we could fuck face-to-face. Nodding, he fell first onto one hip, then let his shoulder fall. As this posture allows for some of the deepest penetration possible, we stayed that way for a moment or two, until I saw his face contort into discomfort and he complained of a “bum shoulder”. He eased himself completely on his back and we tried again.

But Partner was no spring chicken. His agility seems to have left him years before never to have returned. I couldn’t get his legs up high enough, nor his hips to twist to me enough, and all the effort seemed pretty much wasted on him as he winced and complained at every contortion I wanted him to make. When I eventually pulled a deflated dick out of his ass, we both seemed frankly relieved.

As Jack and B36 were still going strong, I ducked out alone for another cigarette.

On returning, all five of them were stretched out on the bed, chatting and toking from the glass pipe. Things continued in a similar fashion: minutes of frenzy here and there, but the general feeling was one of languid lolling, despite the quantities of Meth being consumed. Eventually another guy came by, but he seemed disinterested in sex and focused mainly on the glass pipe and Jack’s never-ending supply of glassine rock. When I eventually shot my load into B36’s ass with my customary bellowing and growling, Jack felt it to be rather too theatrical and intense to be real and remarked that it seemed “too much” as I jittered and twitched with aftershocks, glazed in sweat.

B36 drove me home several minutes later, I having decided that a shower at home would be preferential to anything possible in the deplorable bathroom where I’d shake out an occasional piss. Driving east into the rising sun back to Ft Lauderdale, we stayed still, saying little. Spying a fast food place up ahead, I suggested we pull into the drive through; I dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten anything all night and was suddenly famished. B36 declined my offer of food but allowed me to buy him a cup of black coffee. As we pulled up in front of my house, I suggested he come in for a bit, but he declined, saying that he had plans to meet up with “a friend” in a few minutes. Holding the bag containing my breakfast between my legs, I hugged him tight and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Thanks, again, for thinking of me tonight. I had fun.”

B36 nodded but seemed distracted. “Me too. We’ll do it again soon.” Gripping me one more time in a tight hug, he thanked me for the coffee and suggested I get some sleep, as I was scheduled for a shift at work at 2:00 that afternoon.

Two weeks later, while still at work, I received a text on my phone from B36 inviting me back to Jack’s house for another party. I replied that I’d be working until 1:00 that morning but could take a cab there as soon as I was done. Ten minutes after I had set the alarm and turned the key at the boutique, I was standing in front of Jack’s dark house, forgoing the doorbell this time in favor of texting B36 directly. He greeted me in the same camo boxcut bathing suit as before with a beaming smile and big bear hug, ushering me into the unlit, messy living room.

The fuckroom had a different and much-improved assortment of men this time if fewer in number: younger, better looking and more muscular. But the energy was similarly low, with three prime specimens and Jack leaning against the bookcase headboard of the bed passing a glass pipe and pulling indifferently on soft dicks while the same bareback porn played on the flatscreen.

“Looks like I’ve arrived just in time,” I said in a low voice through a stretched grin as I pulled my jeans down from my calves. “You guys call this a party?”

“It is now,” Jack replied through a sly grin, extending his hand, “I’m glad you could make it.”

I took his hand and pulled his torso as close to me as I could in a brief hug. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

With a steady gaze I met the eyes of the three guys stretched out next to him and shook each of their hands, introducing myself, listening to and instantly forgetting their names. Closest to me was a big, muscular friendly guy in his early 30s, his head shaved but sporting a red, bushy beard, whom I nicknamed Cub. Next to Cub was a man maybe fifteen years older, with a very similar affect but sporting tribal tattoos across his broad shoulders and a deep, all-over tan. His open smile exposed a perfect set of large, gleaming caps; I was instantly aware of a protective attention he extended over Cub like a kind of force-field. I named him Daddy immediately. The third guy, a gym bunny in his late 30s, made little impression on me and seemed to be the object of Jack’s special attention; we interacted very little beyond the funny stilted politesse one assumes in such intimate situations when one has no intention of actually being intimate with the other.

Jack suggested I take a dip in the pool, saying that it had just been cleaned and that the heater had been on all day. Looking over at B36, I asked if he’d come with me.

“In a minute,” he smiled, taking the glass pipe from Daddy and running a flame under the bowl at the end.

I nodded and padded though the dark house, pulling open a sliding door off the living room that led to the pool. I fumbled as best as I could in the dark until a motion detector clicked on a spotlight. The lanai of a type that is often seen in SoFla houses of this type. It was paneled in knotty pine that had been shellacked to a glossy, bright yellow hue. Parallel to the walls that made up a right-angle corner to my right stood a bar of the same material, perhaps twenty feet long, populated with seven or eight rattan stools upholstered with bright green vinyl seats. Large plastic ashtrays and candles in glass cones, wrapped in white mesh were scattered here and there. To my left were the frames of a rattan patio set (sofa, loveseat and a couple of chairs) without cushions looking rather skeletal and worn, the strapping at the joints fraying when not absent. Beyond was a good-sized rectangular pool with an automatic vacuum trolling the bottom, its flexible tubing running to a pumphouse. Lighting a cigarette, I walked over and stuck my hand in the water: cool, not cold and highly chlorinated. Judging by what I’d seen so far, the pool seemed to be the best-maintained aspect of the entire property.

Hearing the sliding door open behind me, I turned around and smiled as B36 walked slowly toward me, carrying a couple of brightly-printed beach towels.

“Thought you might need one of these afterwards,” he cooed, the oppressive mugginess of the tropical night air draped over us like a hot, wet blanket.

“That’d be great.” I looked deeply in his eyes as he squatted down next to me, giving me a kiss. “I’m glad he had the pool cleaned, but I wasn’t too confident what condition the pool’d be in,” and made a slight face.

“ Jack’s been depressed lately,” he sighed. “But he’s really a super great guy when you get to know him.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Too bad about the whole ex thing…believe me, I’ve had my share.”

B36 shook his head. “The guy was a user…real trouble. Jack’s better off, really. It’s too bad he doesn’t see that yet.”

“Give him time,” I offered. “How long’s it been?”

“Oh, just a couple of weeks. The guy still has some stuff here.”

I nodded, taking one last drag on the filter of my Parliament before grinding it into a pot containing a dead palm. Standing up, I surveyed the depth and dove in. Immediately I felt much cooler and more comfortable, swimming about ten feet before coming up for air. Behind me I could hear B36 splash in. I stood on the bottom, water at waist height, and brushed my hands over my head, wiping the bleachy water from my eyes. B36 came up behind me and grabbed my waist with a hug. Pivoting around, I grabbed my soft cock and fingered for his lips underwater. He opened them and sucked for a second before coming up for air, finding his feet and rising in front of me. He lifted me from under my arms and squeezed tightly until our heads were nearly level to kiss me again.

Pulling back his chin, he looked into my eyes and asked if I were happy I’d come.

“Oh yeah!” I smiled. “Thank you for having thought of me.”

He laughed softly. “Of course, sexy man. Let’s get back inside.”

I nodded, grinning, as he slowly lowered me back down. Falling once again into the water, I swam to the shallowest corner, which formed steps out of the pool.

We toweled each other off, stretched the beach towels across the bare bones of the patio set, and made our way back to the black reflections of the sliding glass doors. The inside air seemed chilly against my still-moist body as I followed his bouncing ass back down the darkened hallway. This time, there were two doors open with rooms lit: the fuckroom to the left and another to the right, furnished with a king-sized bed and assorted off-white lacquered dressers, clothes heaped everywhere, a flatscreen mounted on the wall opposite the bed showing the mail page from Mancunt, most messages unopened. Jack and his bud were engaged in a rather animated conversation, sitting up on the bed. We turned to the left.

Cub and Daddy were engaged in sixty-nine, with Daddy kneeling over his boy, his deeply tanned muscle ass facing the door. B36 hopped into the sling, assuming position and within minutes we were off and running with noisy grunts and sweaty shuddering. Cub and Daddy stopped what they were doing and sat on the edge of the bed a few feet behind me, watching us, deep kissing and jerking each other’s hard dicks. I suggested they feed their hardons to B36 and soon we were all clustered around the sling. Daddy and I alternated fucking B36s and pulling each other’s tits, Cub content to have his smallish dick sucked on, mostly. His attempt at topping B36 was not a success until Daddy slipped his dick into Cub’s ass and they affected a fuck-train; Daddy’s ass was too high up for my short legs to attempt a caboose maneuver, so I contented myself getting sucked by B36 while facesucking Cub, occasionally tugging on Daddy’s pencil-eraser tits.

When Jack came around with his camcorder, Cub was cool but Daddy freaked out completely and threatened to leave in a huff that diminished eventually but never really went away. I tried to break the tension by suggesting another swim, which B36 found an excellent idea even if Daddy didn’t.

We left them to the drama, clutching our cigarettes and padding through the house out to the lanai in back and pool beyond. Sitting on the edge of the pool, with our legs dangling in the water occasionally rubbing together, we inhaled from our cigarettes without any chatter, happy to merely be together away from the scene brewing inside. Near the end of our smoke, the sliding door opened and we both turned to see Cub walking slowly toward us, smiling. With a small flourish of his arms, he ran toward the pool and lept to the center, curling into a cannonball, which splashed water as far as the fence several yards away and all over us, of course.

This broke our trance and we jumped in, I splashing about and B36 swimming underwater the length of the pool. Cub came up behind me and gripped me tightly, causing us both to descend to the bottom of the pool. Gripping his arms, I pushed up with my legs until our heads were above the surface and broke free, swimming the short distance to where I was no longer over my head, sputtering and coughing.

“You OK?” Cub asked.

“Sure,” I offered, still sputtering. “I just wasn’t expecting you to do that and I took in some water.”

Walking over to me, he smiled. “I couldn’t resist.” He enclosed me again in another bear hug, this time face-to-face, bringing up an armful of water over my head that ran down my shoulders.

Standing as tall as I could, I gave Cub a peck on the lips. He responded with a better kiss, and soon we were deep in facesucking, his hands pulling on my nipples under the water, our hardons pushing against each other’s hips. I guided him over to the edge of the pool and told him to hop up. His dick and ass were the perfect height for munching, and after some brief fellatio, I was sucking hard on his freshly-fucked hole, pushing his legs up and over for maximum exposure.

After a few minutes of this, Daddy made his appearance at the pool, duplicating Cub’s dramatic, splashy antics. He busied himself with B36 much as I had with Cub, and within minutes we were back in the fuckroom, Cub and I on one end of the bed, Daddy and B36 on the other. Cub’s hole was tighter than I was expecting, evidently exercised that way at Daddy’s bidding, but he delivered a very satisfying (if totally vanilla) fuck, cool but with some passion. I looked over at B36 and sensed that he was feeling the same about Daddy’s prowess: fine, good even, but emotionally withdrawn and pretty passionless.

We eventually switched back, each more comfortable with his own sex partner than with the other, and I fucked B36 with mounting urgency and determination. We were completely lost to anything except the pleasure the other provided, and I found myself approaching the point of no return almost involuntarily. Much more quickly than I would have preferred, I found that I’d broken through the plateau I usually stay at indefinitely and was right of the edge of any explosive ejaculation. I pulled my mouth back off of our kiss enough to let out a barking grunt before flooding his rectum with volley after volley of seed, each accompanied with another bellowing grunt. Jack scurried into the room with his bud and Cub and Daddy stopped what they were doing to watch me in a nearly out-of-body sexual release of twitching and jerking of convulsive intensity. I clamped back onto B36’s lips and continued my jackhammer pounding with a deep growl as he whimpered and moaned, never letting go of my tits. Instead of my usual cool-down after cumming, the fierce urgency to fuck continued unabated until, about ten minutes later, I found myself once again approaching climax and let loose with another series of barks, grunts, spasms and blasts of spunk.

I hadn’t had a non-stop twice-came fuck since my mid 20s, and had honestly never expected it to happen again. It probably took thirty minutes before I had regained all my senses and the final shudder finally stopped. Once again, B36 and I broke though a barrier to another whole level of ecstasy.

It was probably Daddy’s innate sense of competition that made him collect his and Cub’s things so quickly and leave. There was no way to top what B36 and I had just experienced and he probably preferred not to try. When Cub was fully dressed, he bent low to deliver me a kiss and promised they’d keep in touch though Manhunt, but I knew that Daddy would never allow it, so I just smiled and wished them well. As Jack was walking them out, his bud stood in the doorway and asked us what had just happened. I let out a laugh and started speculating on Daddy’s bruised ego when he cut me off.

“No: not them…you. What really happened with you?”

“I came twice without stopping.”

“Really?” He seemed incredulous.

B36 nodded and gave me a hug. “Bucko’s multiorgasmic. It was totally amazing.”

Pulling his face close to mine, I kissed him with tenderness and gratitude. “You’re totally amazing, baby.”

John sauntered back in, his long dick slapping the fronts of his thighs. “I still think you’re too loud, but that was pretty hot.”

I smiled. “You get any of it on film?”

Jack made a silly face. “After that joker and the scene he pulled? You think?”

We all guffawed slightly, and B36 got up to get us some Gatorade from the fridge.

Jack, his bud and I all pulled ourselves up to the top of the bed and leaned against the headboard, B36 handing me a bottle of green wet stuff before sliding next to me. Jack opened a laptop and in seconds the porn was replaced once again with the familiar blue and orange pages of Manhunt. Taking a sip from a glass, he clicked on a profile and asked us what we thought of the specimen featured on the large screen. My eyes lingered on the photos for a moment before I saw that he stated his HIV status to be negative and mentioned it.

“He’s not,” Jack’s bud replied, “He just says so on his profile. He also says he’s a versatile and he’s not that either: strict bottom.”

B36 had another laptop opened on his crossed legs and was typing furiously. When he was finished, he passed the computer over to Jack and asked him what he thought of the guy profiled.

“He’s an asshole.” Jack said flatly and with an air of finality. “I’ve known him forever. We never got along.”

The profile on the flatscreen changed and JeepStudFTL’s profile appeared. “What about him?”

He had evidently been a regular at Jack’s up until recently, and everyone liked him except me. “He’s pretty dull, and those pix are really old” I ventured.

“He’s not that bad,” Jack scolded, and sent him a note inviting him over.

This dragged on for about another hour. JSFTL never opened his note, so he never came over, nor did any of the “studs” B36 tried to entice over. But eventually a young man did who was something of a prize that Jack had lusted over for months without any success, though I’d never seen his profile before. Still in his early 20s, Jorge was extremely thin and quite tall and he affected a lazy thuggish look achieved with oversized ghetto jeans and a baseball cap skewed nearly sidewise. This look wasn’t followed up with any thuggish attitude, however, and his demeanor was rather quiet, oddly sweetly innocent and quite thoroughly gay. He strolled into the fuckroom shortly before dawn, very sheepish and shy with big brown eyes. As this personality was utterly at odds with the Latino hoodlum he purported to be online, Jack’s enthusiasm cooled in seconds before evaporating completely.

During the introductions, Jorge barely managed to look up past his cap until Jack mentioned my name. Jorge’s face brightened considerably as he scanned me from face to penis and back and cooed out “Hellllllooooo Bucko!” I smiled and in a deep voice told him to climb on the bed and give me a kiss, which he promptly did with enthusiasm. His lips, though tight at first, loosened then opened as he gave me a soulful, deep kiss on his hands and knees as he approached me up the bed, gradually going from shy kid to powerbottom-in-training. Backing up on his knees to kneel on the mattress, he spied the glass pipe on the bookcase behind us and asked if anyone were “partying”. Jack’s bud got up and fetched some rock, toking first then offering some to Jorge who indulged greedily. Passing me the pipe, I shook my head and thanked him, but mentioned that B36 would probably like some.

Jorge rolled on his back at the foot of the bed, exhaling the thick white smoke, evidently pleased with himself that his late-night drive over had gone so profitably and began watching the bareback porn on the flatscreen with intensity, rubbing at his crotch. I climbed over B36 and stepped of the bed, walking around to where Jorge lay stretched out.

“If you’re gonna hang out, you’re gonna need to lose those clothes, baby.” I said sternly looking down at him, my dick twitching to life out of its slumber.

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” I nodded as I pulled off his cap and began pulling at his belt.

“Just like that?” I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or genuinely perplexed.

“Just like this.” I pulled his oversized jeans down to his knees, exposing a pair of basketball shorts with compression shorts poking out underneath the bottom. “Are you wearing everything you own at once?”

“Nah, I just…” His voice trailed off as I continued yanking at his various layers, turning him over as I pulled down his compression shorts to display a much finer ass than I’d expected on such a skinny guy. “You work fast, Bucko.”

“I take what I want, baby.” I delivered a short slap on his ass. “Is there a problem?”

Jorge yelped slightly when my hand made contact but did not jump.

“I didn’t think so.” I said with an air of satisfaction, my dick gaining about a quarter of its full tumescence, making eye contact with the three at the head of the bed with smiles all around. I rolled him on his back with a quick spin and Jorge quickly cupped his genitals with both hands. “What? Are you suddenly shy now?”

Jorge looked deeply humiliated as he looked up at me, exciting me still further. “I’m a grower, not a shower.”

“Not too much I hope.” I smiled looking past him over to B36, who grinned broadly. “Lemme see.”

As Jorge moved his hands away, I saw a fairly hefty set of balls under a tiny flaccid penis, perhaps an inch and a half long and thin as one of my thumbs, with the foreskin rolled back exposing a bright red, vaguely pointed cockhead.

“This’ll do nicely.” I sat on the bed with my chest close to his face and pulled his head to my left tit, telling him to suck. As he began pulling on my nipple with his lips and some fairly strong suction, I reached over and pulled his foreskin back over the head of his dick, tweaking and tugging with my thumb and forefinger until he yelped again, asking me to be gentle. I maneuvered off the bed, twisting my torso until his head was nearly off the mattress. Lifting his hands up to my tits, I gripped the base of my cock and pushed as much as I could down his throat til his gag reflex cut in and caused him to sputter and be careless with his teeth. Replacing his hands on my tits, which had slipped away in the moment, I pulled back some and fell over him, putting his tiny, limp penis in my mouth, sucking hard on the foreskin and curling my tongue underneath. Twisting his hips up toward my head, I lifted his legs back toward his head and felt around his hole, which was dry and seemed clean, though I didn’t attempt analingus. Looking up at B36, I asked him to get some lube from the round table near the sling before delivering a few more playful fraps on Jorge’s backside.

Once I had the bottle of lube, I pulled my dick completely out of his mouth (he was a crummy cocksucker anyway) and squatted over his face, telling his to eat my ass. With little skill and no enthusiasm, Jorge kissed and licked around my hole without ever getting down to business. While he busied himself down there, I squirted some Eros on the tops of my right thumb, index and middle finger, rubbed a bit then set to work on his hole, which gripped and clenched in a most unwelcoming manner.

“You’d better relax, or this is gonna hurt, baby.”

He tried to talk, but my ass muffled whatever it was he was trying to say, so I stood up and looked into his face, asking him what he’d said.

“I will, Bucko. But can I at least party some more first?”

I looked over at Jack, who had been enjoying the proceedings immensely, and said that it was up to him, not me.

“Sure thing, kid.” Jack replied, clearing his throat. “Why don’t you come up here and we’ll work it out.”

Jorge sat up and crawled to the top of the bed between Jack and his bud, who was sparking up another bowl. After a few minutes of that, Jack suggested Jorge blow him for a bit, which I wouldn’t have suggested, personally, having sampled Jorge’s oral technique first hand: Jack’s cock was much longer and fatter than mine, a true monster, and I doubted he’d he satisfied with the results at all but I said nothing. So as Jorge assumed position on his belly in front of Jack’s enormous schlong, I tugged his hips up into a doggy style posture and added more lube to his upturned ass. Calling over to B36, I asked him to stand in front of me so that I could have his own tiny penis in my mouth while he worked my tits. My dick stiffened in seconds, I added yet more lube to it and slowly pushed into Jorge’s hole, which relaxed somewhat but was still extremely tight. Spit-roasted between Jack and me, his torso held fast between B36’s muscular legs, Jorge was completely unaware that Jack’s bud was filming us from a discrete distance with the camcorder.

Elliot,The Piano Bar Queen, or A Big Baloon

2008-06-10T21:30:00.016+10:00

Ft Lauderdale, Florida, Saturday, June 7th, 2008:

I was setting up the patio at The Ramrod before the bartender arrived, as is my custom. I had already stocked the beer and water, checked the bottles of alcohol to make sure we’d have enough for the shift, and was lugging a bucket of ice when I heard the following exchange from a corner or the bar:

“Oh, my dear” I heard a voice say.” Do you remember?”
A hush fell.
“What was the name of that musical…on a train?”
Another ventured “The 20th Century Limited?”
“Yes!”
“it starred…it starred…”
“Imogene Coca” I croaked, my voice hampered by a cold and 'Ramrod Lung'.
“Exactly!”
I looked up. Three guys somewhere beyond fifty were clustered around the bar: a bald guy, a bearded guy and an immensely fat guy.
Bald guy: looked up at me and mused, “How did you know that?”
“I was there”
Curious glances were passed between the three.
Bald guy continued: “There was a number where the chorus sang in eight-part harmony”
I nodded.
“That’s extreme, baby…. Who knew that shit?”
I looked up from what I was doing and looked at bald guy.
“88s or The Duplex?”
A strange smile crossed his face, mixed equally with curiosity and a sudden interest. “You’re from New York?”
Knowing the only place New Yorkers respect more than Europe, I smiled, opened my pack of cigarettes (despite my terrible laryngitis) withdrew a Parliament, and replied, “No.” I accepted a light from the fat one, “I’m from Boston. I lived there in 1988.”
Bald guy replied, “The 88s: I’m hardcore.”
We discussed piano bars and NYC, and the unlikelihood of there ever being a “leather piano bar”.

“I was always pretty vanilla to the piano bar scene in New York.” I smiled a wistful smile and said “I never got further than Suddenly Seymour and West End Avenue.”

We all had a good laugh, and I returned to my duties as a barback at the Ramrod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During my year in NYC I made scads of friends, and stayed in touch with a few when I eventually returned to Boston.

One, in particular, was this marvelous, larger-than-life New York type named Elliot. I remember being entranced by the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. He lit up the darkened bar with fierce, July sunshine on a hot afternoon at Boots & Saddles on Christopher Street, where I was enjoying a beer after work. He was enormously tall (maybe 6'6, maybe taller) and big around (maybe 250). He had the most beautiful, mellifluous speaking voice and was fiercely bright and clever. I introduced myself almost as soon as he walked in, pausing just long enough for him to make his official entrance and be properly greeted by the many guys who knew him, before offering to buy him a beer.

We bantered the way intelligent people do in seedy leather bars: alternating brilliant and pointed cultural remarks with smutty asides. I was unable to stump him on any of my references, which is both extremely rare and extremely attractive.

One beer turned to several, and eventually one of us must have gotten hungry or run out of cigarettes (or both). I remember it having turned twilight, not yet dark but no longer daytime, as he unlocked the bicycle he'd arrived with and followed me to dinner for burgers at The Riviera on Seventh Avenue, a local hotspot.

Food, beer, conversation in no particular order continued for several more hours, I was still in my workday suit (that wrinkly Valentino linen number that Carlos bought for me at Saks), clutching the leather, hard-sided attache that was my manpurse at that time, Elliot with his bike. We worked our way down Christopher Street from Ty’s down to One Potato, Two Potato. We laughed and flirted and, occasionally got around to more serious discussions, mostly architecture or politics.

It must have been after midnight when he suggested we go to the 88s, a sing-along piano bar that wasn't exactly my scene. But showtunes will be showtunes and in we went.

The piano player knew Elliot very well (as did everyone else, everywhere it seemed), we were greeted warmly and the next number was Elliot's, as I quickly discovered. It was something equally appropriate and typical (Some Enchanted Evening, maybe, or Someone to Watch Over Me?): whatever it was, his singing voice excelled his speaking voice in excellence, but very much in that brassy, Broadwayish kind of way everyone in NYC who can sing sings.

As I recall, we were both too drunk and too tired for him to come home with me. The bike was also a major obstacle, as it was unwelcome on the subway as much as in a cab. So we exchanged numbers and went home separately alone.

Elliot called me the next day at work and arranged a rendez-vous and we became fast friends.

The next time we met, after a dinner somewhere in the West Village, was a stop at The Duplex., More than even at the 88s, Elliot's star shone there most brilliantly. His repertoire included all the standards, but his best number was, without a doubt, Remember Me, about which no mere description can possibly do justice. It was provocatively brilliant. Elliot was truly special in a city where virtually everyone is exceptional. He would nod to the pianist (who looked precisely like Nina Simone) and would begin singing the opening bars to Suddenly Seymour. A waitress, from out of the shadows, would drop her tray and belt Audrey’s part better than any touring company’s production.

Elliot and I struggled to find ways of expressing our mutual admiration more physically, but it was neither comfortable nor natural, in any sense. When we eventually did have sex, it was overly polite and stilted and totally dry in the way sex in NYC in 1988 could only have been, excluding suicidal madness. In on of our endless philosophical discussions, he'd disclosed his poz status, and it terrified me.

I was still, technically, partnered with Carlos, my beautiful, impossible Venezuelan lover, despite our separation. After the sudden demise of one of our mutual friends in 1986, we’d sworn a mutual-suicide pact: should we prove sick, we’d not end up a walking skeleton, neither he nor I. We swore that, before ending up pathetic and hideous, we’d off each other. And we meant it. There were no proven treatments, only proven suffering and a certain death. Although neither Carlos nor I had ever taken any kind of precaution with each other, I’d otherwise spent the 80s jerking off, sucking and being (mostly) safe, as had he. We hoped that the plague had spared us. It hadn't, but neither he nor I understood that for several more years, by which time our pact had become a grim, private joke.

I know that it always comes back to HIV/AIDS, but it does.

I remember having dinner at some pizza/pasta joint having a rather violent discussion regarding my feelings: Elliot's being much more intense and immediate than mine. His physicality and his enormous, cut penis assured that, no matter how brilliant or talented, I wouldn't find him sexually attractive (my "type" being short, swarthy Latins with small uncut cocks). But, at least in my universe, I have always had sex with those who stimulated me on many different levels, and I was as stimulated as much as repelled by Elliot. It wasn't pleasurable for either one of us, not that we hadn’t tried to make it otherwise.

He tried to get me to open up, but I so very much didn't want to hurt him with an idle, unkind phrase any more than I wanted to lead him on, knowing he cared for me so much more than I could return.

At the most heated point, I threw down my fork and snapped.
"Stop it,...just stop it."
Seeing that he'd struck a nerve, he asked me what he should stop doing.
"Stop trying to define me or my feelings."
"I have every right to know where you stand."
I looked away, then returned his glare. "I'm not standing right now. I'm sitting and having what should be a pleasant dinner with you."
"But it's not."
"No", I shook my head, put my fork back in my mouth and started to chew. "You're making this all..." (swallow) "...needlessly complicated."

He batted those big brown eyes with long, black lashes and lit a cigarette. "I", he pronounced carefully, exhaling smoke through his nose and waving a hand in the air, "am not the one complicating things."

I paused for just a second, keeping eye contact, curled my lip and said "Ambivalent”, then began eating again..
"What?"
"I'm ambivalent."
He stopped and thought for a second. "That's not a good thing."
"It's not a bad thing." I took a sip of beer from my bottle.
"How is it not a bad thing?"

I had a moment of crystal clarity, and without thinking it through just blurted out: "Ambivalence is the root of passion."

We shared several seconds of heated eyelock.
Elliot smiled slowly. "I love it when you speak in riddles with big words."

I put down my fork and lit a cigarette, myself.

"Do you understand what I just said?"
"Sorta..."
"You understand the meaning of the word ambivalence, right?"
"It's mixed feelings."
"It's the simultaneous push and pull of emotion."
"OK"
"People whom I find merely attractive bore me quickly."
Elliot looked lost. "OK"
"If there's nothing else there, then actually there’s nothing at all, it’s that unexpected something...that vague sense of unease that is the root of passion. That itch that nothing can sctrtch…”
"Yeah..."
"It's that feeling of being pulled by something you'd rather push away."
"So you're not attracted to me?"
"I find you repellent."
He winced.
"But", I continued, exhaling smoke, "I am passionate about you."
"Passionately repelled?"
"Passionately intrigued. I am in awe of your talent and deeply attracted to your mind."

Elliot’s disappointment was highly obvious as he waved his hands up and down his sides. "This ain't chopped liver, baby."
"Never said it was."
"So what do you want?"

I thought for a spell, tamping down the long ember on the end of my cigarette into the ashtray, then replied, "I want us to feel comfortable and I want to spend time with you."

"Despite your ambivalence?"
"No, because of my ambivalence."

Having reached a coda, we each took a deep breath and started talking about something else.

I saw much of Elliot for the next few months, frequently spending the night either at his Lower East Side walk-up or my apartment in Tribeca, but it was rarely sexual. Our one attempt at buttfucking (protected, of course) went so poorly that he swore to never attempt it again with me. It humiliated us both deeply.

My life in NYC imploded in the space of one week. After months of putting it off, Carlos (from whom I’d been separated for months) finally told me, over the phone that, despite having co-signed the lease on our apartment in Tribeca, wouldn't be moving to New York after all. Days later I got a confidential call from one of my sources at the corporate offices of Scandinavian Gallery that they were closing stores in the Washington region in the middle of the night. My staff got wind of that and fled in less than a week, leaving me alone in the store with just a security guard.

The AC broke, but I couldn't pay cash from the drawer to fix it and SG's credit was too lousy to have it billed. So for three months (August, September and October) I worked frenzied, 10-hour days in a sweltering store at Madison and 41st, five days a week (corporate agreed to let me close the store on weekends). It was so insanely hot in the store that I gave up wearing anything but lycra bike shorts and tank tops (it was 1988, after all). The bronze trim on the grey-washed mahogany was literally hot to the touch.

I took to filching things and cash, feeling justified somehow. This made everything tolerable, but just barely, and added to the overall madness that had become my existence. My life was a swirl of sweaty work, taxis downtown to fabulous Tribeca dinners, then clubs and parties. I was drinking heavily, but avoided drugs, getting my energy from caffeine and nervous tension. Elliot was part of it, but certainly not its focus. In the final days of all the crazy, I gave him a titanium Porsche watch, which he treasured.

SG moved me back to Boston on the last interstore truck to leave New York, and installed me as the manager of the Brookline store, swearing that they had closed all the stores they’d intended The staff was enthusiastic to have a veteran of so many battles with corporate as their team leader. But when they started closing stores in Maine and NH, the writing was on the wall and, predictably, they all left.

My last days were spent processing deposit refunds on the credit card machine alone in yet another store. One morning I called corporate and the owner's private secretary answered the phone. She couldn't help me, she explained, because the entire accounting department had just walked out, along with most of the remaining corporate staff. I found out later that, from hundreds, I was one of the remaining twenty employees.

I shut off the lights, locked the door and took a streetcar downtown, handing my keys to a disoriented clerk at the Boston store in Park Square. That ended five years with a company that I thought of as home and helped grow from 18 stores to over 80. It was also the last corporate job (excluding a disastrous few months at Ethan Allen in 1999) that I would ever hold. Thereafter I only worked for entrepreneurs.

Once I'd come back, Carlos approached me right away, anxious to be forgiven. But I was wary and pretty bitter. As was typical for the relationship, we started our "reunion" with a terrific fight...ah, ambivalence…oh passion!

We hobbled along, but with limits I’d placed on everything: he was not to move into my new South End apartment, for instance. There were no expectations of exclusivity, and separate financial arrangements were to be maintained. When I begged off plans on Valentine's Day, 1989, after a hellish day, he finally felt justified in dumping me. It was such a relief.

Elliot and I stayed in touch by telephone, and that summer called me all excited about a play he'd written. He'd found a producer who would finance a short run of several performances in about a month and wanted me there. Without even thinking, I agreed.

Arranging for that specific weekend off, I took a late morning train down with an enormous bag (I'd overpacked, as usual). Elliot met me at Penn Station, thrilled to see me again and wild with excitement over having his play produced.

I was feeling a strange sense of numbness, as if I was watching a movie of myself, curiously detached. We took a cab to his place near Delancey St and dropped off my enormous suitcase. He needed to get back to the theater, so we arranged to meet up later.

I walked uptown slowly and with no purpose or sense of direction, totally encased in this weird fog of detachment. I retraced many adventures and scenes, but in broad daylight, not the night-time darkness when they’d actually taken place I eventually made my way to Uncle Charlie's in the West Village and ordered a cocktail, followed shortly by another and another. The drinking didn't help my sense of detachment, it rather enhanced it.

At one point I remember looking up at a gigantic video screen and seeing Liza Minelli singing I'm Losing My Mind.

It was at that specific moment, that the fog began to pass, only to be replaced by a melancholy that I can only describe as chemical. I shook my head, lit a cigarette and stared at the screen in a trance of intense sadness. The further the video progressed, the clearer and more immediate everything became. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew that I was about to cry with the intensity of a projectile vomit. I made it out to the sidewalk just in time for wave after wave of choking sobs. The harder I tried to control myself the more I heaved with sadness and tears.

I found a payphone and fished for the number Elliot had given me from my pocket. A voice answered and, through racks of sobbing I asked for him to be brought to the phone. Moments later, I heard his voice, sounding wary:

"Yes?"
"It's me."
His voice took on an edge of concern. "What's wrong?"
"I...I...don't know. But I can't..." deep breath "...stop crying."
"Where are you?"
"On Greenwich...near Uncle Charlie's." The words came out in punches. "At...a...pay...phone."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't...know."
I'll take a cab and be right there."
Nodding, I stammered an "OK", followed by a very weak "thank you" before another wave knocked the wind out of me.
I hung up the receiver and leaned against the phone barely able to breathe and completely out of control on a sidewalk in Greenwich Village in the middle of a summer afternoon.

I remember seeing Elliot running along the sidewalk toward me with a look of sheer panic. I tried to walk toward him but couldn't get far, so I rested my hands on my knees and waited for him. His concerned face had prompted a fresh wave of tears and I could hardly move. He grabbed me and held me against his enormous body, stroking my head.

"Baby, what's wrong?"
I shook my head and mouthed the words "I don't know" but couldn't speak.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Not...much...not...enough I...guess." I tried to laugh at my weak joke, which only made me cry harder.

I honestly don't remember much else of that day. I know that, somehow, Elliot helped me to stop crying, and we must have eaten something. I remember going back to his place to clean up and change for the show which was opening that night with Elliot directing.

The theater was a small, upstairs space somewhere in some seedy section of the Lower East Side or East Village. I remember rows of folding chairs, probably about 200 in total, arranged in concentric rows of semi-circles in the auditorium, which was separated from the foyer at the top of the stairs by double doors. The stage was about 8" off the floor and was obscured by a black curtain. The lights were simple but professional enough. Elliot sat me in the back row where he could keep an eye on me, and sat me between friends, just in case.

I have no recollection of the play itself. I'd love to say it was fabulous, but I don't recall being impressed. I do remember having several glasses of that standard white wine one always drinks at gallery openings and such, both before the show and during intermission.

But toward the end of the show, that familiar feeling returned, and before I could get out of my chair a fresh wave of hysterical sobbing seized me.

I was horrified. I had essentially stopped the show as people around me tried to figure out what the hell was happening. I remember someone next to me and Elliot himself lifting me out of the chair and bringing me to the stairs outside the auditorium, where I could sit down. I lit a cigarette and attempted to focus, but was basically a basket case for the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Elliot left me with his friend on the stairs and went back into the auditorium, the play having recommenced.

I regained something of my composure eventually and the friend brought me yet another glass of wine, then I remember hearing applause, whistles and cheers and thinking that the play must have ended. As the audience was comprised of nothing but friends and family of the cast and crew, everyone was highly complimentary, especially to Elliot. That was one of the biggest nights of his life and I was having a nervous breakdown.

I sat on the stairs, trembling and chain-smoking as the audience slowly exited the theater, some looking at me with concern, others with contempt, but most chose to just ignore me. That suited me fine, as I've never considered anyone's misery to be a good spectator sport, most especially my own.

When we left the theater, Elliot asked me if I wanted to go back to his place and crash, which I really should have done. Instead I insisted that we do what he'd planned on doing, which involved going back to the piano bar he'd always loved so much, The Duplex.

By this time, I was physically exhausted from all the sobbing, but I'll never forget sitting at that front table, seeing Elliot surrounded by all his friends and fans, the Nina Simone look-alike at the piano, my face wet with tears as he sang Remember Me.

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 9: Two-For-One

2008-04-01T21:54:00.001+11:00

Perhaps the most singular encounter I had during the Summer of 2006 (and probably of my entire life) happened in mid-June of that year.

It started off simply enough. I had been casually pursuing a guy with a French screenname for some time, but never got much of a reply until one afternoon he happened to finally respond, leading me to unlock the photos showing not just a hardon but my face, besides. He followed suit.

His public pictures featured a quite fetching youngish man (between 28 and 35, more or less) of medium complexion, a pleasant demeanor suggesting a handsome visage and physique of certain muscular bearing; firm without being especially overworked. Given his previous coolness toward my overtures, I was both surprised and slightly flattered when he at last deigned to respond to my notes and unlocked his private pix, which while attractive, gave me no greater indication of what, precisely he looked like in the all together: all disembodied parts and pieces, and a penis pic was conspicuously absent. On Mancunt, that inevitably suggests equipment of modest dimensions.

Given that he’d chosen an unequivocally Gallic screenname, my initial greetings were in assertive French. He responded first in kind, then switched over to English, explaining that he was, in fact, Peruvian: not French at all. I neither asked for an explanation as to his odd choice of screenname, nor did he offer any. But his responses were fast and furious and desirous immediate contact. We quickly covered all the bases: Poz, yes; Bottom, most assuredly; and with a small uncircumcised penis to boot.

He arrived at my door looking perhaps thirty pounds heavier than the pix, but overall seemed pretty much as promised. My loyal readers know by now that I’m a sucker for a cute face, and an open ass. The added weight added much to his desirably “child-bearing hips” and offered no impediment to my desire. Moments into our encounter my fingering turned into knuckling then deeper yet. His ass seemed to be inhaling my hand, which I didn't mind at all but hadn't expected based on our on-line banter.

Turning around, he asked if I'd fist him, to which I replied that there's no better way of preparing a nice, sloppy open hole for fucking. He jumped off the bed, kissed me, and quickly threw his clothes back on, saying he'd be right back. Following him out to the kitchen, I looked confusedly into his big brown eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve gotta run home, but I’ll be right back. I wasn’t expecting this to turn out like this.” His face was open and gleeful:. “What else d’you like?”
I thought for just a second. “Bring some toys…big toys.”
“I got lotsov ‘em. I’ll be right back!”

He bounded out the door, practically running through the garden and out to the car he’d arrived in. Before I could respond, he was gone.

I stood in my doorway naked, my right hand and forearm slathered in Crisco. The only remnant of my hardon was a thick, viscous stream of precum drooling from my dick and collecting in a puddle on top of my right knee down to my foot. Shaking my head, I turned back into the kitchen, made my way to the bathroom and ran a tepid shower. As I lathered up, I made a deal with myself: give him 30 minutes to come back before signing back on Mancunt.

He returned just as I was toweling off, carrying a large gymbag over one shoulder, which he tossed on my bed before excusing himself and retreating to my bathroom for about 20 minutes, turning on the shower at one point.

I wrote his odd behavior off to Tina, and sat on my bed, stroking absent-mindedly to some straight porn I had playing on the VCR, sipping some tea from a glass on my nightstand. Glancing at the bag leaning against my footboard, I opened it up, curious as to what he'd brought. There was an enormous black dildo, maybe twenty inches long and as big as my wrist, among several slightly smaller ones, and several battered old videocassettes. I popped one into the VCR and discovered it was a bad copy of very ordinary gay porn, circa 1993, all condoms and fluffy-haired boys having bored, vanilla sex, complete with the sort of atrocious soundtrack favored for such productions. Hitting reject, I pushed in another: it was a bestiality tape featuring a slim Mexican girl and a rather skittish horse. This one held even less promise that the first.

I went to my collection and plopped in an old Rocco Siffredi gangbang tape that I knew by heart but still preferred to what he'd brought.

He emerged from the bathroom wiping a towel across his broad back, which he spread on the sheets of my bed before climbing up on the mattress, knees down, ass up, doggy style. Three good pushes and my right hand completely penetrated his anus without his seeming to have felt a thing. Greasing my forearm up with additional Crisco, I pushed in further and he squirmed a bit, but still said nothing. A bottle of poppers under his nose, he pushed back onto my arm and it slid half-way to the elbow. He was, without a doubt, the most nonchalant fistbottom I’d even encountered.

Then he pulled his torso forward so that just my hand was left in and asked me to push up.

This confused me…I've been in enough asses to know that, from that position, there is no "up": there's only in and, maybe down toward the prostate. I was unclear as to what he wanted me to do. Sighing slightly, he told me to wait, and pulled his ass off my arm altogether. Flipping onto his back, he lifted his legs high and told me to try again, inhaling from the poppers, only this time to push down.

As "down" was only in the direction of his tailbone, I was genuinely perplexed but did as he’d bidden. About six inches in, I felt a flap of skin, just a slight fold, and he broke into a grin. Inhaling deeply, he nodded his approval at my having located whatever it was he’d been wanting me to find.

“You’ve found it,” he intoned in a voice heavy with emotion and lush with pleasure. “That’s the other hole. Open it up.”

It was gummy and gooey and tighter than his rectum, which was open wider than my closed hand. Gobs of Crisco oozed over my arm as I pushed one finger at a time until all four had found this odd, secret place. This excited him hugely. He wriggled and pushed until my entire hand was deep into this “other hole”, a place I’ve never even heard of before, let alone explored.

Clambering onto the bed, I eased myself on top of him and grabbed another towel I had nearby, telling him to wipe his hand clean before touching my tits. With my left hand still in his rectum, I guided my dick into his greasy “other” hole.

"Fuck the other hole" he told me, his voice suddenly flat and hushed in tone. I withdrew my left hand and grabbed the metal rails on the top of my headboard, pushing in as far as I could. He twisted his lower back up to meet my thrusts and off we went.

The harder I grabbed on to my metal headboard, the more I pushed his head up to it, until the back of his skull was rapping in a rhythmic clang against the metal. Imploring me to fuck him harder, he lifted his head so that it was twisted up, half on one of my feather-down pillows, half on the steel vertical spokes of the headboard. With my right hand I slapped his chest in a swinging palm/backhanded motion, and he responded by pulling even harder on my tits. I leaned in to kiss his open mouth, then pulled back and struck him hard across the face.

The harder I slapped, the greater in pleasure seemed to increase. I alternated deep, soulful kisses with backhands against his cheekbones. His “other hole” gripped the outer third of my dick, being the only part that could penetrate so deeply into the “other hole”. I toyed and played with it, alternating hand and dick and several of the toys he’d brought, pulling out into his yawning rectum before driving home, again and again. That secret place unleashed something from some hidden primal place of my own, a place up until then I’d never explored with such ferocity.

After untold time, I yanked his hips up to my pelvis and pushed and pushed until I reached the point of no return, seeding his “other hole” with a frenzy of screams and bellowing curses, backhanding him one more time before latching on to his mouth, pulling air from his lungs and chewing on his full lips. Twitching and bucking, my orgasm continued for minutes on end before a low groan formed in my lungs. I pushed my way as far into him one last time, as I could manage.

I have no memory how we returned to reason or of his leaving, or what we might have discussed as he packed his gymbag and got dressed. But I distinctly remember the fact that my entire bed, metal bedframe, my sheets and pillows and the several towels strewn about were caked in molten wet goo of Crisco and sweat and cum and something I’d rather not contemplate. At a certain point I must have showered, or at least toweled off, because I almost immediately got Matty on IM, though it was very late for him in the wee hours of the Australian morning:

Bucko The Depraved: BTW- odd bit just happened
BtD: I wanted to ask you...
Matty The Damned:: honours you for dealing with it in this manner
MtD: ;-):
BtD: Hehehehehe
BtD: It's all natural...
MtD: I had to . . . . well you read the email
BtD: Very understandable
BtD: Yup
BtD: That's fine
BtD: part four's in progress
MtD: yup
BtD: Anyways, something just happened
MtD: yup
BtD: I had a very provocative encounter
BtD: Sweet guy from Peru
MtD: Natch
BtD: Kinda big through the hips, but you know...
MtD: O_o:
BtD: Really cute
MtD: ;-)):
BtD: But he seemed to have two holes inside
MtD: honey I'm running out of smileys here
BtD:: It was really weird
MtD: 2 holes?
MtD: wtf?
MtD: weeeeeeeeeeeeeerd
BtD: He directed me "down, over, find the other hole"
BtD: I was up to my wrist
MtD: and it wasn't a woman?
BtD: Nope
BtD: real live guy
MtD: oh god no
MtD: -shudder-
BtD: WHAT???
MtD: you had a
MtD: fistula lover
BtD:: ???
MtD: fistula
MtD: you know what that is?
BtD: I wish I did
MtD:: ok
MtD: cool
BtD: Should I be worried?
MtD: not really
MtD: a fistula
MtD: is an opening from one structure to another
BtD:: OK…
MtD: most commonly found in women
BtD: That's kinda what it felt like
MtD: from the vag to the poo tube
MtD: but
MtD: men have it too
MtD: it's a bad thing
BtD: It was exceptionally odd
MtD: for the owner of said fistula
MtD: and can be corrected surgically
BtD: I wonder where it led?
BtD: Wherever, it got a heavy load
MtD: usually in men it leads from one part of the bowel to another
BtD: It was kinda like a shortcut
MtD: or, rarely into the bladder
MtD: yup
BtD: I had to open it with my hand
BtD: then he wanted me to fuck it
MtD: it's weird and gross and should be corrected by surgery
BtD: definitely not the run-of-the-mill ass
MtD: honey
MtD: you were playing straight into that queen’s digestive system
MtD: honey
BtD: yum!
MtD: a high fist is one thing
MtD: but knowing the pancreatic process is just strange
BtD: This was inside, starting at about the length of the back of my hand
BtD: about 5-6 inches
MtD: babe
MtD: woteva
BtD: right
BtD: hot fuck, whatever it was
MtD: there are openings where your pagan deity did not intend them to be
MtD: and weird stuff going
MtD: on
MtD: I'm sorry but a queen has only so many holes
BtD: That's why I wanted to ask you
MtD: Smart, wise crone that you be
MtD: you've encountered a fistula
MtD: which inevitably results in peritonitis and blood poisoning.
MtD: for the bloke with two bum-holes
BtD: Right
BtD: I was intrigued
MtD: yup
MtD: may her surgeon be skilled.
BtD: Prolly should have not proceeded
BtD: But it was oddly
BtD: hot
MtD: oh it is
BtD: Kinda "medical" though
MtD: anatomical comes to mind
BtD: Right
MtD:: ;-)
MtD: look babe
BtD: As long as I didn't fuck an alien
BtD: : -0
MtD: nope
MtD: just a side show freak
MtD: but it's all Appalachian (I mean good)
BtD: ;-*:
MtD: honey, MtD has to sleep
BtD: I know
BtD: It's so late for you
BtD: Sleep well, sweetheart
MtD: poor Bucko
BtD: Nah
MtD: nighty night
BtD: I'm fine
MtD: I love you
BtD: I love you most
MtD: always
MtD has signed out. (6/19/2006)

The HIV Closet

2008-02-17T23:49:00.003+11:00

If you are HIV + and not comfortable with your new state of health, you need to read this and absorb its content to your life. This is not only admirable, but places you squarely in a position to take action to change your state of mind. Remember, it is your mind and not anyone else’s, and you have total power over it and its workings.

I don’t care if you are a Gay person, a Straight woman or Straight man: it is a part of you and a part of who you are. You might deny it, but to do so is not only futile, but is also very damaging to your own psyche. In the same way, HIV is now part of who you are. It will be with you until you die, and that is just the way it is. So, do you by any stretch of the imagination consider it prudent to try to hide this very part of you, and not disclose for the next 10, 20, 30 or 40 years? Whew, that would place such a strain on your own mind, heart and persona that sooner or later you are going to crumble. Part of the acceptance of HIV and living with it is that very nasty subject of disclosure. How difficult is it going to be to go through the next 30 years making every effort in your being to keep this secret from everyone that touches your life? How difficult is it going to be to try to trust someone enough to become a good friend, knowing that some day in the future, that friend might make a slip and let your secret out of the bag? Remember, HIV is for a life time. That is a very long time.

Considering this factor, was one of the most liberating and empowering things that I have learned while living with HIV. Acknowledging that you are in fact HIV+ is one of the biggest and most daunting hurdles that you must conquer, and disclosure to family, friends and work, then sets you up to “create” a new and exciting life while “Living WITH HIV/AIDS” and not IT living with you! I realize that it all sounds like semantics, but I assure you that all long term survivors that have been self empowered, have at some time in their lives taken the bull by the horns and come out of the HIV closet. Many of us have nailed the damn thing shut, which then frees us up to do and create exciting things for our lives with the consideration of our HIV limitations. Remember, I was confined to bed for the better part of three years, and from then confined to a wheel chair for another five years. Now when I cannot walk, I mount my electric Zippy Cart and off I go, with my red ribbon firmly stuck to the back and in plain view of anyone that isn’t blind. Am I special for that? No, not one iota, but do I gain comfort in the fact that I will not let HIV get me down and crush my life? That is a definite yes. I try to celebrate life, even when my head is in the toilet every morning, barfing up what is left of the Trizivir from the night before. It is just part of life as I now know it.

Many have suggested that when living with HIV, one must stay flexible and that plans are always tenuous at best. This I have found to be very true, and when making plans, I must consider that my body might change those plans. I cannot get all worked up over that reality, but only accept that maybe I shouldn’t have made the plans I made for that period of time.

Please look at the message 1 have given you here, and please remember that part of your survival and good health in the future will totally depend on how you deal with the virus, both physically and emotionally, and coming out of that damn closet of secrecy will change your life, and do so in a positive direction. Oh yes, some in your family will shit all over themselves, but this is not their life. They gave you life, and for you to take this bug and force you into the darkness for the next 30 years would be so very sad and destructive. There are many, many of us out here that have nailed the closet of secrecy closed for good, and I must tell you. I don’t miss that thing at all. It was totally miserable.

These are my thoughts.

Its ALL about Oil....

2008-02-13T02:17:00.000+11:00

Strange isn’t it that “We The People” are being used by our own government to not only fund a war, but also to loose many of our young people in that war, simply to benefit Oil Companies. I’m sure this is no surprise to most readers of the Spin Cycle, but actually knowing why or how this is going on, then empowers us to not only inform those in our own circles, but to fight the law makers who happen to be on the take from said companies.

In doing a bit of research online, I was able to find some websites which illustrate this fact in an all too plain a fashion. This link will show you how the Energy Information Administration of our own government is tracking the oil fields located in the Caspian Sea area of the former U.S.S.R. http://www.eia.doe.gov/emeu/cabs/Caspian/SummaryTables.html This one will show the deal that was struck by congress in 1998 firming up plans for constructing a pipeline from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf, of course traversing the mountains of Afghanistan, and Pakistan. http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/oil.html And this one is a report from the BBC about the culmination of that deal, which is dated 2002. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/2608713.stm

I don’t know if any of you are alarmed by this news, or if any of you actually give a hoot, but if you read the history of the Vietnam War, and go way back to the struggles the French put up in that country; I think you will find that war was also over oil and rubber. In that case, Michelin had a whole lot to do with the impetus of France going there.

Now we are faced with a new administration that is going to be dealing with this problem and on top of that; a war in Iraq which is a war to claim more oil reserves which are not ours. All of this to support Halliburton and Bechtel corporations in their vacuuming of tax dollars into their coffers reconstructing the oil infrastructure we destroyed while attacking that country. This of course is due to a promise made by our number two man, Cheney, to make up for the incredible losses he created while at the helm of Halliburton. All in all, we have been duped and led to believe yet one more very huge lie about us being there for the support and spread of Democracy. What a load of shit.

I find it so amazing that not only the Republican base is firmly in support of these two conflicts, but in fact many Democrats are there too. Even more astounding, those pesky Christians are right in the mix with their prayers and support of these conflicts. Even my parents when they were alive told me that it was vitally important to kill all the infidels and enemies of Israel, who were the personification of the devil. I of course asked if all people who worship through Islam were devils and should be killed, which they assured me was correct according to scripture. For those who don’t remember, my father was a minister and a missionary, and was schooled in John Brown University, a Baptist school of huge renowned. Unfortunate also that the extreme conservative side of Islam is also in the same struggle against us, and funny thing, they also go to their own scriptures in the Koran, to justify their war against us and Israel. Why is it that people must invoke the name of God to go on a national killing spree, and then when they are in the middle of it, spend huge amounts of time asking God’s blessing on the conflict? I would welcome any answers.

I don’t have a clue what any individual can do to not only renounce this “Oil” political policy, outside of driving an electric car, or some other very expensive or burdensome action. On the other hand, I remember when I was a youth in the sixties that when we became informed of issues of this incredible importance; we got busy and got active to create opposition to the idiotic issues at the time.

Now days, it is so very easy to find information on the web and to inform ourselves about the decisions being made in Washington that are going to affect us, or you can be like the lady in my bank who’s son is now in Iraq and when I speak of these things she stops what she is doing and holds her hands over her ears and won’t listen to any of it. I understand why she is hesitant to find the answers, being that her flesh and blood is there and involved, but this illustrates to me so very well how many of our country are just turning a blind ear and eye to our deplorable political record in this world. In my humble view, if I was in my twenties to forties, I would spend as much time as possible dedicated to this glaring miscalculation of policy and fight it until everyone in this country was aware of it.

My worst and most feared sense to this foreign policy is that the media is in on it and is playing patsy to the government. I know this administration has already told the Whitehouse press corps that if anyone prints anything about it they will be barred from press conferences immediately, and very few news networks are willing to be put in the spotlight for resistance to the norm. Furthermore, our news in this day is driven by advertising dollars, and we all know that the congress is now owned by the corporate world and for that WE are only to blame.

Funny thing is, now that I have placed all these facts down on paper, it seems so very obvious and such a waste of time, that I feel like hitting delete and just canning the whole thing. Maybe through my placing it here, I can inspire one person in this country to action, then I have done my part in fighting this obsession with world dominance that we have now placed ourselves in. Fortunately the world will go on, even when the United States kills itself and its economy though simple ignorance. When China moves into Washington D.C. and forces us to accept their domination and their rule, then maybe we will have awakened and will then be able to do something and make an attempt to save our nation. Unfortunately I don’t have a whole load of hope that this will actually take place and I see a time when China will not only rule our economy, as it does now, but will also move into the halls of congress to RULE us directly.

I am glad I am 61, and I fear for those children who are now growing up in a climate of hopelessness and frustration with our lack of direction. Hopefully their parents will be able to guide them into fields of work that will insulate them and make it possible for them to be able to pick up the pieces and make something of what is left of this shambles we are now creating for them.

When did our democracy become a “Demockery”?

How will YOU vote?

2008-02-07T02:05:00.001+11:00

I have heard all kinds of reasons people are going to vote for this candidate or that one, and I have heard all the inane reasons for these choices. Hillary is a whore, a lesbian, shouldn’t have stuck to her vows with Bill and left him, is part of the establishment and so on ad nauseum. As for some of the other candidates; I have heard just as much, including that Mr. Obama is a Muslim. Gay people are talking about voting for McCain because the Democratic slate is so fucked up. First off, just like when Raygun got into the job, few people asked the citizens of California what kind of a Governor he was. Well, you need to ask a few Republicans in Arizona how McCain has worked out for us before you waste your precious vote on an imbecile that is rapidly becoming a shell of a man.

There is plenty of conversation about the economy, the cost of gasoline, the cost of food in the market, and the increasing cost of living without anyone addressing the lack of money in the salary to pay of all the current needs of living. There is a smattering of a discussion about the war that the conservative Christians of this country have foisted on us. There is a huge amount of time and words being given to illegal immigration and the stresses that they place on our society and budget. How come nobody is holding the Christian conservatives’ feet to the fire about how they are NOT enforcing the current plethora of immigration laws? Health Care, while a very important need, is right at the top of the list due to the thousands of bankruptcies in this country on an annual basis, due directly to the thousands of people who ARE insured under the new and improved health care mess that the conservative party has forced on us.

The candidates to a person are sticking to these very few talking points and messing about in a cloud of confusion about all of them and none of them. It seems that the new mantra this time around is “CHANGE”. I have news for you people out there with such a short memory. George Bush ran on the mantra of change, and change he did! Change in itself is not a bad thing, but one must be careful because the change you ask for is the change you probably not going to get. Change alone is not a reason to elect the leader of one of the largest countries on the planet, because after they get to Washington, they will find out that all those high in the sky promises they made to the electorate are just about as far from their capabilities as becoming Santa Clause. Remember, this congress is not useless; it is just imbalanced because we didn’t elect enough democrats last time to carry a majority against a congress that has become fat and rich. Just think, how much do you think any of the candidates really know about the stresses of everyday living for the normal middle class person like us. Shit, the worst decision any of them have had to make for years is “do I wipe my ass now, or wait for another few minutes to see if I am really done or not”. Think about it. They don’t even have to pick their clothing on a daily basis due to their Multi-Millionaire status in our economy now.

I want to bring a few things up that it appears nobody is talking about at all.

If you haven’t been sleeping under a rock, you would realize that the next Executive of this country is going to be faced straight up with a record debt that we have never had before, and a war that is about 4000 years old, and we will never have any way of winning let alone come out looking “Victorious”. They will be hit head on by a continued diminishing oil supply, with no alternative in the wings to help out,
a crumbling Interstate Highway system that hasn’t been maintained for at least 9 years. Global warming that is accelerating far beyond what the scientists projected just three short years ago. A rail system that is crumbling into oblivion, with no investment from the government for years. A social service system that is drowning the country. Tax receipts that are not paying the bills, and will never do so as long as the ultra wealthy are exempt from any tax liability. And the list goes on and on.

When I hear and read that people are not going to vote for a Lesbian, it literally makes my skin crawl. How shallow can someone who is a college graduate be when they say that they are going to let their vote be directed by such garbage? I guess the hopelessness must extend to the “educated” electorate that to this observer seems to be sleepwalking because so very few of them are really thinking about the real issues of the next four years.

I know Global Warming is an issue that you have heard me mention on more than one occasion, and when it is snowing on the coast of California, it probably seems even more remote a thought. However, the latest science out of Greenland shows that the globe is far from warming unilaterally. At the end of last year, a report came out about the warming on a regional basis, and for one degree of warming on the equator; the poles are warming from 2 to 3 degrees. The temperature average in Greenland is now at an accumulative total of 8 degrees warmer than it was for the previous 100 years. No wonder rivers of melting ice are eroding the foundations of their glaciers, and acting like grease to accelerate their trip to the ocean. The projections for the rise of the oceans has now been moved up and they now expect that in five short years, cities like New York and London are going to have to really move rapidly to keep their cities from being flooded forever. Florida is going to have to start working on ways to keep Miami afloat yesterday, but alas, they haven’t even thought about it.

No folks, this time the office of the President must be filled with a very competent person who has a world view, has experience working WITH the rest of the planet, and must have the balls (or ovaries) to call the difficult shots, and put the oil companies in their place. They must invest in new technologies so that this country will become the leader of the world in harnessing the expulsion of damaging chemicals into our atmosphere. They will be forced to funnel monies into our infrastructure in ways and amounts that will make the conservatives shake in fear. The rail system needs to be super funded, and passenger/car service must be incorporated into Amtrak. The actual rail beds must be rebuilt and fortified so that when I get on a train here in Arizona, I can go to Jacksonville Florida WITHOUT having to go through Chicago.

From my observations of this presidential campaign; I am left speechless that such idiotic reasons are coming out of the mouths of intelligent people for their reasons for voting for such and such a candidate.

I think Ron White is correct; “You Can’t Fix Stupid”.

The Weather It is a Changing.......

2008-02-07T02:05:00.000+11:00

So, while the Presidential candidates are jibbing and jabbing at each other, all seeking to get into the ugliest job in America; what would happen but the "Bible Belt" gets smashed by the storm that left snow on the coast of California.

I watch the news each day with the anticipation and glee of a kid in a candy store, because my hunger for seeing what is happening in the world verges on an unhealthy obsession. I don't know if it comes from my past and my experiences of traveling the globe on a regular basis, but it really doesn't matter where the hunger comes from. I am watching as they are placing pictures of buildings, homes and cars all looking like the toys that the six year old had their way with. What a mess.

How do I react? That isn't such an easy answer. In my heart I am totally able to relate to the mess and to the urgency it places on the people that live in that area of the country. I have seen devastation and have witnessed the utter hopelessness that it brings to the people affected.

HOWEVER; my twisted sense of reality overwhelms me when I see someone on the screen saying "we prayed and prayed to help keep us save and alive, while all around there was hellatious destruction". My first question is, "what were you doing last week when California was getting slammed for a week with a winter storm that none of us alive have ever witnessed?"
Further, have you been living on this planet long enough to figure out that the storm systems in the northern hemisphere travel in a west to east direction and that in about a week you will be slammed with the same storm? Don't you realize that in about three days from today, England and Europe will be smashed with this same storm?

The most astounding thing that came to mind was the huge question "why are you praying and praying for protection?" Don't you realize that the God you are praying to was the same God that allowed the storm that is destroying your neighborhood to arrive today?

It is obvious to this writer that the planet's imbalance due to global warming is the main cause of these constant stream of "The Storm of The Century" repition we are witnessing now? Geeeesh. I guess this old man is just not with it, because I just don't understand the utter stupidity of this nation.

We claim to be a Christian nation, yet we slam our ignorance into the face of God above, and then wonder why he/she is allowing this pestilence upon our precious country.

Wake the Fuck Up!

I am a Christian

2008-01-25T04:44:00.001+11:00

I am writing this as an American Citizen and the views and biases I iterate here are based on that fact, and the reactions to the present political climate in the United States.

That being said, how many times in your life have you heard the above statement, “I am a Christian”? Or as a literal translation, “I am Christ like”. I hear it all the time here in the Southwest of the U.S. and it is something that falls out of the mouths of Baptists and other theologically influenced people all over this country.

First off, we need to establish that Christ was in fact a man who did live in the geographical area of present Israel. I think the historical record of his life is fairly substantial, both from the churches’, and from the secular historical record; so I accept that he was a man who in the first 30 years of his life was a carpenter and a fairly good one. His unpaid service record for Christianity was the last three years, where he trundled throughout the Middle East with no wife, no girlfriend, and 12 men in tow; all with long hair and wearing dresses and sandals.

The Biblical record we now hold as the standard is the King James Version of the Old and New Testament. Why the King James Version? Mostly because in the time of King James in England, the church was in a huge state of turmoil over which books of the Bible were the anointed words of God, and which were not. He assembled a committee to translate a new modern version of the Bible that would serve to clear up all the confusion of using worn out text versions of the originals, which were written in Hebrew and Greek, the Old Testament was written in Hebrew and the New in Greek, which were the two universal languages of that era in the Eastern Mediterranean countries. They started with all the original works which had been discovered at that time, and the actual volume of material was vast. There were nine gospels at that time, including one written by Mary Magdalene. The committee narrowed this volume of work down to four gospels and left out several letters from Paul and other post ascension works, to what we now “accept” is the complete words of God. Of course they also left out the one book written by a woman, and we don’t know to this day if it was because of sexism, or just because it wasn’t well written. If this fact doesn’t cause you to question the accepted fact that the King James Version of the Bible are the complete and only words of God, then you need to be awakened from your deep dark sleep!

Imagine if you would, a large Baptist church in any state from Texas to Florida; a man enters with hair down to his shoulders, wearing a dress and sandals, and an entourage of 12 men all looking pretty much the same. Would he be welcomed, or would he be rejected? I don’t even have to answer that question. Now if you will, recall all the present politicians who have invoked the name of Jesus in their speeches, and in fact the present president of the United States has on more than one occasion stated he is a “Christian”. Oh my goodness! Would Jesus, who never ever advocated violence for the solution of any problem, have entered Iraq with the sole purpose of killing off their leader and claiming all of their oil reserves for his own? Would Jesus ever have cut funding for the infirmed, causing them at the very least, a load of discomfort, and at the most death; in the case of those who died while on waiting lists for HIV medications? Would Jesus ever have advocated selling the treasury of the country to the Bank of China? Would Jesus sell out his charges to make his own wealth more important than the needs of the country he was given the responsibility of leading? Would Jesus ever be caught driving a Hummer, with a plastic “Christian Fish” pasted to the rear door? Would Jesus ever commit to a campaign to become the president of the United States of America? I think the answer to all of the above would be NO!

I can hear you now complaining about the record of the many “Holy Battles” in the historical record of the Old Testament. I agree, many times in the Old Testament, there are detailed and gory accounts of the many battles that the tribes of Israel had to enter into to escape Egypt, where they were held in slavery. However, most of the time they were in conflicts that were fought with a Holy injection of power, such as the plagues that were brought on the Egyptians that held them, and were used to break the Egyptian resolve. In New Testament times, which we are now living in; Jesus was the ultimate “Peace Hippy”, going around the Bible belt helping everyone, without even a thought given to their church affiliation. In point of fact, the only record we are given of Jesus giving in to his “Anger side” was when he went into the Temple in Jerusalem and found the church leaders selling “stuff”, collecting taxes for the Roman government, and generally turning the Temple into the central market place. When Jesus entered this environment, he went ballistic and started throwing tables and chairs all over the place, evicting all the “Officials” of the church and telling them never to come back again. This is the ONLY time in the whole of the Biblical record that Jesus showed and acted on his anger. The ONLY time.

We can gather from this, that Jesus was fairly disconnected from the actions and traditions of the masses, and especially the politics of Rome. In the Gospel of Mark, we see that the early Christians were admonished not to beat their slaves, but to treat them with love and respect. Christian slaves were admonished to love their masters and to work for them without question or without complaint. Nowhere were they instructed to go to Rome and lobby the senate to change the laws to outlaw the ownership of slaves. It is not a foreign fact to anyone knowing anything about the time of slavery in this country that this particular passage in the New Testament was used time and time again to place God’s blessing on the trade and ownership of our brothers and sisters from Africa. Never were the early churches told to interfere with anything going on in Rome, on the contrary, they were always told and instructed to give to Rome that which Rome required to run the empire. Never were the early churches instructed to protest the capture and butchering of their numbers in the coliseum in Rome for the entertainment of the “Ultra Class”. On the contrary, they were told to submit and die with humility and with the peace of Jesus in their hearts. Further, they were told to turn the other cheek and let the dominators have their way. The Biblical record gives us great detail about the lead up time to the crucifixion of Jesus, and we see where the then leader of Rome, Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Jerusalem, was in shock that the leaders of the temple at the time, were the ones that had condemned Jesus and were the ones that were trying to force the Roman government to sentence him to death for his “false” ministry. During this whole time, he never protested, never once uttered a whimper of complaint, only a plea from his Father above for mercy for those who were out to actually “Kill Jesus”. If you remember the record, Pontius washed his hands of the complete mess and turned Jesus over to the leaders of the church to do with him what they will. It is vitally important here to recall that truly, the government at the time had absolutely nothing at all to do with the death and torturing of Jesus, but it was in fact the direct actions of the temple that brought all this on him. I find that fact disturbing and find that the actions of the “Christians” of today must be held suspect and Christians should never be trusted when they invoke the name of Christ to fortify their hateful and destructive actions against the society at large.

Now jump to today

The current church in the United States is up to it’s eardrums in political action and is interfering in Washington in all the every day details of this country. They are currently trying to force the country to amend the constitution to outlaw gay marriage, ban abortions forever, and many other things which do not in any way fall under the purview of the church. In fact they are only to have influence over their own church. When Paul wrote his letter to the church at Galatia, he started the letter by saying “Oh my dear idiots in Galatia”.

The church in Corinth was having a terrible time with their members fucking themselves into oblivion and the orgies that were taking place at their gatherings were denounced by Paul on every side. This is where he went into great detail on the “Sanctity” of relationships, never once telling them to extend these rules to the church’s non-members living in the city of Corinth. No! They were to apply these rules to their own church and their own members; never the society at large.

All in all, I am very uncomfortable with the involvement that the church in this country has forced on it’s citizens, and I am at the same time amused when one of them gets caught in the Minneapolis airport trying to pick up a trick, or a “Christian” member of congress is humiliated for soliciting sex from one of the many gay pages that make the congress of this country function. Most of them have intimate ties to the “Christian Fundamentalists” which are causing us more and more anxiety on a national level. I must ask “Oh my dear friends in the Christian Church of this country, how is all this working for you?” Unlike what is printed on our currency, we are NOT a Christian nation, and we do not “trust in God” in any sense of the word, nor have we ever been a Christian Nation, or we would never have shed a drop of blood to defend and nourish the richness of our land. We would have learned how to live “With” the natives who already owned this land. We would have never entered the first or second world war but would have acted much like Switzerland and been seen mostly as “Peacemakers”, which is after all, the true meaning of “I am a Christian.”

Praise Be

2008-01-25T04:44:00.000+11:00

For those three or four people who might just be wondering; no I didn't fall off the earth when I was "banned" from using the POZ forums site. I just went on a sebbatical from not only the internet, but my HIV work also. I was obviously getting far too touchy and far to incapable of controlling not only my anger but also my patience.

This morning I was playing with my computer and finally, with the direction of one of my dear friends, was able to unlock the AIDSmeds forums once again and see the actual forums, instead of a message that said, "Moffie you have been banned from using this site and you know the reason why". What an interesting statement to place in front of a person who is looking to read their forums. Anyway, enough said about that information.

I am having a really difficult time with my HIV, and am probably in need of recovering my ability to type into the ether and see what bounces back. I am currently working on a disertation of the religious sort, but have been overwhelmed with other issues, so it is taking a long time.

Just wanted to let you all know that I am still here, still thinking of all of you, and hopefully still capable of placing two or three thoughts together in a logical format.

For those of you who have sent me e-mails and other greetings without a whimper of a response; I appologise, and hopefully I will soon be able to catch up with all of you.

Yours,
Tim... (Moffie)

As Positive as You Wanna Be: ICP 2.7

2008-01-12T13:48:00.000+11:00

'sup Faggotz,

Ever committed to the global touchy feeliness that is HIV/AIDS on the Internet, the Spin Cycle is proud to play host to Edition 2.7 (January 2008) of the International Carnival of Pozitivities. We here at the Cycle have a special place in our collective rice-grain sized heart for the ICP. We were the inaugural post on the inaugural Carnival, way back in . . . well, a long fucking time ago.

Here's how it works. A whole lotta folks have penned articles on their blogs with HIV as a common theme and we link to all of them here. This is chock full of some excellent shit people. There's science, there's community activism, there are heart rending accounts of the human cost of AIDS, there are videos.

Videos!

There's even stuff for the religious sorts amongst you.

Our contributors are an eclectic mob to say the least. From newbies to established bloggers, to the Red Cross and Red Crescent, and even the fucking US Government. It's a red letter event, my lovelies.

So without further delay and in no particular order, welcome to the January 12, 2008 edition of international carnival of pozitivities!

Dave Wessner and Ali Cundari of Davidson College present Cognitive Dissonance Theory & HIV/AIDS Prevention.
posted at: The AIDS Pandemic

Mark of DropDeadHappy has nominated Burnout on the Frontlines.
posted at: Protectinsite

Nadege will tell us all about Creating a Positive Attitude.
posted at: Clearly Envizion

Alvaro Fernandez wonders if we might be interested in Travel and Engagement as Good Brain Exercise.
posted at: Sharpbrains

Baan Gerda reports on How a Dying Mother Helped Define Our Community.
posted at: Baan Gerda

Daniel Garcia comes over all grateful as he tell us that it Makes him think...of how thankful we all should be.
posted at: 2Sides2Ron
Daniel goes onto to say that When we rarely get out of our own sphere of living, we forget the vast differences in the world that exist beyond the horizon. This video helps us get a new perspective on the world and HIV plays a role in it. Please visit the The Miniature Earth Project.

More science, why not? Drs Myhre presents Tuesday Night Numbers-Still in Bundibugyo examining parallels and differences between HIV and Ebola prove that understanding both can be critical for public health.
posted at: ParadoxUganda

Everybody's friend, Daniel Dames presents Men's Health and HIV/AIDS in the Black Communities of Africa and the Caribbean.
posted at: Dennis Dame's TIGBlog

Melody offers us More from the winning essays in Nata.
posted at: The Nata Village Blog

Mark informs us that HIV Stops With Me.
posted at: HIV Stops With Me

Jack Hampster presents Worlds AIDS Day.
posted at: Drill and Hammer

The lovely Dragonette hopes to Exhale.
posted at: NotPerfectAtAll

Noted eggheads Nelson Vergel and Dr. David Wohl present HIV Metabolic Complications Myths.
presented at: Surviving HIV

ICP Ring Master Ron Hudson sneaks one in with Today is my 23rd, uh, no 22nd Anniversary.
posted at: 2Sides2Ron

O NOES! It's da Fedz! Herewith the US Government's Transgender Factsheet.
posted at: US Department of Health and Human Services

Jeremy gives us the Friday Minutes.
posted at The Evolution of Jeremiah

You loved them in Dissonance Theory, now marvel once more at Dr. Dave Wessner and Andrew Johnson of Davidson College as they report that Merck announces failure of V520 HIV vaccine candidate.
posted at: The AIDS Pandemic

Alexander Robinson presents Let's Not Forget About AIDS on World AIDS Day.
He notes: "National Black Justice Coalition CEO: It is urgent that the LGBT movement begin to refocus more of its energy and attention to dealing with HIV/AIDS and strike a delicate balance between the hard fought social issues of today and the public health concerns of HIV/AIDS that lies ahead of us on tomorrow."
posted at: The Bilerico Project

Rachel Walden sticks one up Mike Huckabee's big baptist butt with HIV Related Bigotry in Politics.
posted at: Our Bodies Our Selves

Andrs Duque presents Puerto Rico: Government should end offensive STD prevention campaign, activists ask for a public apology.
posted at: Blabbeando

Jim Johnson presents for the religious types Rick Warren: Church "Here to Stay" On AIDS Ministry.
posted at: Straight not Narrow

Hospice Guy presents Hospice Blog: HIV/AIDS and hospice
presented at: Hospice Blog

AIDS Chicago presents, in glorious YouTube Vision, Faith Responds to AIDS.
posted at: YouTube

The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies have come over all "interfaith" to bring us Living with... and speaking out HIV/AIDS Stigma.
posted at: YouTube
Please visit The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies for more information.

Marie at Myspace presents High Rate of False Positives at DC Clinics.
posted at: Marie at Myspace

SIDACTION of France sobers us all with SIDACTION.
posted at: YouTube France
For those who, like Matty the Damned, don't speak a word of French (and why would you?) the caption reads: "In the world, someone dies of AIDS every 10 seconds. Time flies. Send in your donation to SIDACTION." Should you want to part with your hard earned, see this link for more details.

The HUB-Witness brings us Awaiting Tomorrow - people living with HIV/AIDS in Africa.
posted at: The HUB-Witness

Farid de la Ossa (a special guest artist with 2Sides2Ron) presents Farid de la Ossa's "Awareness Due HIV".
posted at: 2Sides2Ron

Last of all we have Mohammad Khairul Alam another guest writer with 2Sides2Ron.
posted at: 2Sides2Ron.

And there you have it people, Edition 2.7 of the International Carnival of Pozitivities. Take the time to examine each of the offerings here carefully because, unlike you lot, these people are actually making an effort.

A special note of thanks here to Ron Hudson, ICP Whipmaster for a sterling effort. Ron is a long standing friend of the Cycle and one of our preferred perverts. His assistance in getting this Edition out has been invaluable. We salute you Ron!

I'm advised that the next edition of the ICP will be held at NotPerfectAtAll and is scheduled to hit the Netz on February 10th. For more information see the ICP Website.

IN SOLIDARITY

MtD

Vale Christine

2007-10-18T16:52:00.000+10:00

Today we at the Spin Cycle lost one of our dearest friends. Christine, from the AIDSmeds Forums, lost the battle against AIDS at 2 PM on October 17th. The picture you see is of Christine enjoying her recent and last birthday.

HIV positive since 1993, it didn't seem to matter what treatment Christine tried. They all failed her dismally. To those who say HIV infection is a "manageable chronic illness" we say -- Feh! You wish!!

She was good and true and honourable, unlike the arseholes who read and write this blog.

I have disabled the comment facility for this article. Frankly a proportion of our readers are dead-set butt-munches and I won't have those sorts of people profaning Christine's memory.

There is a condolence thread for Christine in the AIDSmeds Forums.

All of us here at the Cycle send our condolences to Christine's loved ones.

For and on behalf of the Spin Cycle,

MtD

The Way to a Boy's Heart is Through His Broken Ribs

2007-08-16T10:01:00.000+10:00

A faggot is his own worst enemy. To know this as gospel truth one only has to spend half an hour with the most irritating of the professional victim set, gay survivors of "intimate partner violence."

Now that HIV/AIDS has become passe, gay bars are no longer edgy places for straight hipsters to be seen in and the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras is so dated not even Community TV will televise it, the moderate GLBTQ activists have to find something else to put on their government grant application forms.

For confirmation of this meet David. Go on, click the link. Be moved by his touching honesty. I know I was. My heart bled as surely as David's nose did when he pushed Anthony too far.

You see the neat thing about websites like the one where David, Kim, Brad, Kent, Ruth, Lisa and Adam get to "share their stories" is we only hear one side of the sordid affair. They're victims. They claim to have been abused. They must be telling the truth.

And if you dare to question them, you might as well admit to eating fillets of new born infant in whale blubber gravy whilst watching kiddie porn.

Of course what we don't get to hear about is how David was a shrieking, personality disordered, commitment phobic racist meth-whore, who didn't know when to shut the fuck up. Quite frankly if David didn't have Anthony as a convenient scapegoat, it would have been his remote, uncaring father or obsessive lush of a mother who would be the reason his life amounted to nothing. Just so long as he doesn't have to be responsible for himself.

After reading David's account of things it becomes apparent that the true crime here is not that Anthony hit David, but that Anthony didn't hit the fucker hard enough.

Of course this has given birth to yet another industry for people who graduated with degrees in cultural policy, gender studies and holistic dance. We know it's the vital, burning issue facing gays and lesbians today, because a self help book was published about it back in 1991.

Perhaps How to Dodge Punches for Dummies would be a more useful text for the modern beaten boyfriend.

Naturally there's "research" to back all this up. Some studies claim that up to 25% of lesbian relationships are violent with that figure rising to 29% for gay men. Of course the sample sizes from these learned academic papers can be counted on two hands. But someone graduated with second class honours on the strength of them, so it's proof indisputable.

And no, I'm not going to provide a reference for that. You lazy motherfuckers are going to have to google for it, like I had to.

Domestic violence in same sex relationships is not the fault of the batterers, rather it's a product of gay and lesbian people yearning to live like straight people. Our headlong rush to emulate the breeders in every shape and way has it's downside, people. Sure marriage (or civil unions even) might bring you the right to keep the house and the 401(K) when Gavin fails his last treatment option and succumbs to PML, but you also get the negatives as well.

Like a broken nose. See? You've got more in common with your valium munching mother than you might have thought.

Of course it's not all physical violence. There's emotional and mental abuse too. If your partner calls you a cunt when you humiliate him in front of your friends, he's not telling the truth. He's assaulting you. Emotionally. And you too can jump on the IPV band wagon. There's plenty of room.

One thing that all the same sex DV websites preface their tedious arguments with is that IPV is the "shameful secret of gay and lesbian communities". Really? As far as Matty the Damned can tell, lesbians don't treat abuse in their relationships as a shameful secret, rather they seem to acclaim it as an Olympic event.

Meet Denise. Current world champion for knocking your femme girlfriend out with one punch. Butch Division.

And for fags, well I suspect it's not so much a dirty secret, as a non event.

The idea that a 315lbs, 6'8" muscle bound leather man can be beaten to a pulp by a bantam weight Thai ladyboi with acrylic nails and a booze problem truly boggles the mind. Though I'd buy it if he'd been shanked by a PCP addled Puerto Rican street queen who calls himself Concepcion de la Flores.

The truth is that batterers are not the monsters the IPV weenies would have us believe them to be. They're ordinary fags and dykes like you and I and just like you and I they have their limits. And sometimes those limits are breached.

So the next time your overworked, under-appreciated partner knocks you down the stairs when you ridicule and belittle him, take the hint.

He's just trying to help you.

IN SOLIDARITY

MtD

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 8: Floodland (BBW Part two)

2007-07-19T16:38:00.001+10:00

A low moan came from deep inside Hector’s chest as he pushed his pelvis squarely against mine. Once the dam was burst, my piss came in an urgent, steady endless stream. Time seemed to pause indefinitely.

Eventually the urgency ebbed and I pulled slowly out of his ass. Hector turned around and gave me a deep, soulful kiss, pulling on my nipples as I reached around and kneaded his soft, pillowy asscheeks. As my right hand’s fingers plied his gash, I delivered several hard spanks with the left. Pulling me as he stepped back into the rain of warm water coming from the shower head, we continued our facesucking, rinsing our heads and shoulders.

I took his face in my hands and pulled away slightly:
“That was incredible.”
Hector’s face pulled into an expression combining mirth and curiosity. “You never did that before?”
I shook my head slightly, grinning.
“Anytime you need to pee, you don’t let it waste. You call me”
We both let out a playful laugh and stroked each other’s backs.

Turning a quarter-turn to the right, I took a bottle of shower gel sitting in the niche built into the showerstall and squirted a small dollop into my hands, rubbing them first together then into his chest. He held out his hands and I squeezed some of the green liquid into them. Hector massaged the suds into my shoulders for a few moments before I spun him around and soaped his back. As my hands ranged downward, Hector bent low at the waist and grabbed my tits from behind. I fingered his ass for a bit before grabbing his hips and reinserting my dickhead into his open, pouty asslips, using soap as lube. I pulsed out precum before pushing in fully then withdrawing completely, over and over as a low grumbling moan left our mouths in unison.

I felt a return of the urgency to piss and pushed up into him as far as I could reach, letting it flow again deep into his bowels. After several seconds, Hector pivoted around and squatted in front of me, taking my dick into his mouth. Looking up at me, he nodded as we made eye contact down the length of my torso. I released a fresh load of piss into his mouth as Hector began jacking his long rubbery dick in earnest and was throbbing hard in moments. Pulling his mouth back off my penis, I continued the stream onto his face and hair.

When I was finished, Hector stood up and kissed me again. I could taste the mild saltiness of my piss on his lips and tongue, a new sensation for me. As I’ve stated previously here, I’ve peed into bathtubs before but hadn’t really explored WS as an element of sportfucking . As much as what we were doing in the showerstall excited me, I wasn’t ready to return the favor yet. Hector sensed this and was content with my limits without any discussion between us.

I returned to the bottle of shower gel and soaped us up again, rubbing the suds into his hair, massaging his scalp. Rinsing off, I opened one of the sliding glass doors and grabbed a towel sitting on the pedestal sink opposite, stepping unto my bathroom rug. Drying my head and shoulders, I opened the door to the small shelved-in closet and took out a clean towel for Hector, who was shutting off the water. Stepping into the showerstall with the new towel, I caressed it over his torso and shoulders first, then rubbed it vigorously over his head. Leaving the towel over his head, I squatted down in front of him and took his still-hard cock into my mouth. Pulling his balls to my lips, I paused only for a moment before inhaling from my nose and swallowing his entire length down my throat.

“Bite it, Papi. Bite me…”
I moved my jaw and gently chewed his shaft with my molars.
“No…harder.”
Pausing for a moment, I inhaled again through both nose and throat before masticating his massy cock in earnest. Pulling my head back slightly, I found his foreskin with my tongue and sucked hard, shoving my tongue deeply under the soft skin, licking his head as I applied a fair amount of pressure to his overhang with my front teeth. Hector took my head in his hands and began headfucking me hard, snaking his dickhead down my gullet with insistent tugs on my neck. I raked the bottom of his cock with my back-most teeth, closing my jaw down until I’d found his limit, much harder than I would have expected.

At last I stood back up and asked for a break. Hector nodded in agreement as I made my way to the bedroom with shaky legs to fetch my glass and pour some more tea.
“You want a cigarette, Papi?”
“Sure, sounds great.”
Hector pushed open my kitchen door and we both stepped down into my garden into the sultry night air.
“You are a total freak, baby. I love it.”
“You inspire me, Papi, your piss is so mild.”
“Hmm,” I considered for a moment, “…must be the tea.”
Hector’s face animated into a broad grin.
“How you learn to piss while hard?”
I considered his question for a moment, before responding.
“Same way I learned to edge, I guess…practicing for hours watching porn. It’s a skill I thought I’d never use.” I smiled shyly.
“Practice makes perfect” Hector replied as he took me into his arms, hugging me close.

Returning into the apartment, we slowly built back the sexual urgency dissipated by the break. Hector brought some dildos from his bag, which I alternated with hand and dick up his hungry hole, occasionally using a combination of two at once. We spent hours exploring each other’s bodies, walking back and forth into the showerstall whenever I needed to pee, pushing limits and exhausting each other in the process.

Rather late into the encounter curiosity finally insisted that I open the rectangular box he’d passed me from his bag hours earlier. I pushed a small latch at the split that separated the box into top and bottom halves and a spring snapped it open. Looking at the interior of the box, my face betrayed a certain confusion as I looked over at Hector, quizzically asking what it was I was seeing.

Taking the box from my hands, he pulled an aluminum rod about the size of a pencil from its place within. It was tapered like the knitting needles I remembered my grandmother using, but shorter.
“It’s a sounding kit, Papi”
His accent made what he was saying indistinct, and I scrunched my brow into an expression of incomprehension.
“Here…I’ll show you.”
Hector took a tube of KY jelly from his bag and laid back against my feather-down pillows, his shoulders leaning against my metal headboard. Unscrewing the cap, he took his half-hard dick in his left hand and retracted the long foreskin, squeezing a substantial amount into his urethra. He then set the rod down nearby.
“Wash your hands, then warm this up for me.”
Dutifully I nodded and washed all the Elbow Grease from my hands in the kitchen sink, lathering up to the elbows of each arm. Coming back into the bedroom, I saw Hector pulling absently at his dick with the KY.
I picked up the tube and started rubbing it between my hands. It eventually warmed slightly and I nodded when Hector asked me if I was ready.

He took the rod from me and inserted the tapered end into his pisshole, breathing deeply. I watched with increasing apprehension as he inched the length of the tube down his shaft. I tried to disguise my distaste with a blank expression, but felt the sweat drip down my sides. When all but an inch or two of the rod had been swallowed, his voice fell into a dull whisper:
“Pull some of it out.”
I nodded dumbly and gripped the end protruding from his dick, now gone completely soft. As I pulled it toward me, my face close in, I saw that it was pulling KY out of his slit as it was slowly withdrawn, running down his glans in several directions like lava from a volcano.
“Now push it back in”
I swallowed and retraced my efforts, sinking the rod back into his penis about half-way from where it had been.
“Jerk me…pull my dick.”
I gripped his shaft, which even soft was longer than the width of my hand, and held his foreskin back with thumb and forefinger as I gripped and slipped my hand up and down. Hector threw his head back and took deep gulps of air before inhaling from a bottle of poppers. I noticed a gradual thickening and lengthening as he responded, until I could no longer feel the rod inside his dick at all. With my left hand, I gripped the end of the rod and slowly pulled it in and out in inch-long movements.

He looked down at me and smiled, taking the rod from my fingers and withdrew it completely. Taking another rod from the case, he urged me to continue jacking him. This second rod was shorter but much stouter, almost as wide around as my pinky. When it was pushed entirely into his penis, Hector asked me to put his dick into my mouth and chew on it again. Holding his shaft between my molars, I moved my jaw down until I could feel the rod between my teeth. He was transported into fits of delirium, hissing and moaning softly.

Eventually we put the sounding kit away and returned the focus to his ass, where I deposited my seed after an extended bout of missionary fucking, my tits between his fingers, tongues meeting roars in each other’s throats.

Feeling very hungry, I suggested a dawn breakfast at The Floridian, a twenty-four hour landmark not too far from my house. Although too tweaked to eat, Hector agreed to drive me there. After yet another trip to the shower, we got dressed and piled into his Range Rover.

“Nice car,” I fingered the wood trim on the door. “What do you do?”
“I recently closed my business, when I broke up with my boyfriend.”
I nodded slowly.
“It was a furniture store. I ran my design business out of it, in Pompano.”
I was intrigued, as furniture and design were my career up until recently.
“What was it called?”
He repeated a name which I recognized with a rush. I had applied there several times during my first months in Florida, back in 2003. I strained to remember the voice on the other end of the phone line three years previously, but come up dim. All I could really remember was the amount of follow-up I’d invested in trying to score a position with the man driving us down the empty pre-dawn streets.
“You might remember me,” I offered. “I applied there several times in 2003. I even sent you a Christmas card that year.”
An odd look crossed over Hector’s face as he turned his attention to my face again, apprising with new eyes. He asked me to repeat my name, and I did. His face screwed into a ball before suddenly brightening.
“That was you?” He looked at me with an incredulous expression.
I nodded. “Seems we were destined to meet one way or another, baby.”
“Well,” he sighed, pulling my shoulders close, hugging tightly, “You might be right. I’m glad we did finally meet.”
“Me too” I exhaled, cuddling into his chest.

As I ate an omelet and drank tea, Hector sipped from a drink and the conversation continued in many directions. We discussed past design projects and shared client horror stories, chuckling at some of the more eccentric requests we’d tried to accommodate over the years. He spoke at length about his ex, a lawyer from whom he’d just recently separated, and their issues with drugs and monogamy. I listened mostly as I ate, nodding in agreement or asking for clarification when appropriate. When the bill came, Hector insisted on paying.

It was after 7:00 when he finally pulled out of my parking space, gym bag thrown in the back, with oaths of a next rendez-vous. Peeling off my clothes, I pushed the button on the fan in my bedroom and crawled into bed, too tired to resist the sleep descending like a curtain all around me.

Mid-summer was quiet at my job, allowing me more energy and time to pursue my exploits on-line. I continued to chase after Dawg, who would sometimes appear online all night without opening any notes I sent, and others after whom I lusted. Although many were more talk than action, I continued my streak of good luck with attractive powerbottoms wishing to push their limits.

A case in point was a young Indian whom I’ll name Raj. Raj approached me shyly one evening asking if I found him attractive as he opened his private pix for my inspection. Studying his profile, I noticed that he disclosed very little beyond his size and age (5’5, 120 lbs, 26 years old), and the pictures weren’t much more enlightening except as regards the shapeliness of his ass. After a brief discussion and a confirmation of his HIV status, he decided to drive up from Miami and was at my house in less than an hour.

Meeting him outside as is my custom, I saw an attractive young man climbing out of his car, extending to shake my hand while looking down. Raj was painfully shy and barely spoke above a whisper as I pulled his arm toward me and ushered him into the garden outside my apartment. The perimeter lighting confirmed my impression of a sweet and open face as it revealed a slender, boyish physique. As the tall gate clicked shut, I grabbed him close and kissed his closed mouth, attempting to open it with my tongue and the pull of suction. His eyes betrayed a slight panic and I wondered for a moment if I’d made an error in having him come over.

“Let’s go inside. I don’t want your neighbors hearing us.” His voice was low and masculine, with a hint of song in an accent that didn’t sound like it came from India. I asked him about it as we clambered up the steps and into my kitchen, and he explained that he had been raised in Jamaica.

In the muted light of the kitchen, I took control immediately.
“You sure you’re up for this?”
“Yeah” his gaze met mine directly. “I just need to use your bathroom.” He held up the small bag he’d carried from the car.
I directed him around the corner to the bathroom and turned on the light.
“You wanna watch?”
“No, thanks. You do what you’ve gotta, I’ll be in the bedroom.” I pointed down the hallway.

Raj had explained that he wanted to be taken, brutalized and violated by an “older white guy”, but that in order to accomplish this, he required injections of Chrystal Meth. As the scenario intrigued me, I agreed to his requests, confirming that I neither wanted to see him boot nor had any interest in joining him in the “party”. I sipped from a glass of tea and turned up the music on my computer as I heard him run water in the sink behind the bathroom door. Padding into the bedroom, I ripped open my board shorts with a tug and let them fall, throwing them on the chair near my armoire. Turning to the TV, I pushed the buttons on top turning it on, sound way down, and picked up the VCR remote laying on top. Thirty Men For Sandy snapped on and I went over to the bed, opening the nightstand cabinet to get the tub of Crisco inside.

I heard the bathroom door slide open (all interior doors in my apartment are pocket doors that slide into the wall) and saw Raj at the doorway, looking nervous. Without asking I assumed that his injection had gone as planned and told him in a firm tone to come over to me.

“Take off your shirt.”
He nodded absently and began pulling his shirt over his head.
“Wait!” His eyes scanned my face and settled on my eyes. “When I tell you to do something, say ‘Yessir’”
Apprehension mixed with a growing lust as he whispered “Yessir”.
“Louder, dammit.”
Big as saucers, his liquid brown eyes, blinked once before stammering out “Yessir” with somewhat more robust enthusiasm.

As he laid his shirt on my bed, I pawed at his small chest, pulling at one of the burgundy-colored nipples with a twist of my finger and thumb. Turning him around, I loosened his belt from behind and pushed my left hand into the seat of his pants. His ass was round and firm and I felt wiry hairs spread across the cheeks.
“Very nice…show me your ass.”
Raj opened his shorts and let them fall in a puddle at his feet. He was wearing bright red briefs made of a shiny synthetic which he hooked with his thumbs and pulled down to his thighs with a sharp tug.

Spitting on my right hand, I probed between his cheeks with insistent fingers, breathing heavily. He yanked the briefs off and stepped out of the shorts, spreading his legs slightly, arching his back. With my left arm I grabbed his neck and pulled his head close.
“Kiss me.” I whispered into his right ear.
Raj twisted his head as far around as he could, kissing me this time with greater enthusiasm, mouth open.

“Get on the bed, face up”
“Yessir”

Unsure of what I’d planned next, Raj climbed on the bed and rested his head against the pillows. His tiny dick stood out fiercely from an untrimmed black bush, his eyes scanned me from face to knees, pausing to study my hardon on the way back up. I grabbed his shoulders and spun him a quarter-turn around, leaving his head off the mattress. Grabbing my dick at the base, I guided the head into his mouth.

“Relax and breathe”
I got about half-way in when he started sputtering and gagging.
“I told you to relax. Trust me…”
He nodded as best as he could with my hands cupping his head, thumbs under his chin. Another attempt was met by lingering resistance, Raj still unable to swallow more than half of my hardon. I pondered for a second before reaching for the Crisco and slicking my dick with a couple of strokes.
“This should help you, but you gotta relax.”
“I’m not used to this angle.”
“It works best for deep throatfucking. You’ll see.”

The Crisco did the trick getting past Raj’s gag reflex, and at three-quarters in I fell over his torso, taking his modest dick into my mouth, feeling it throb at the back of my palate. As my right hand still had some lube left on it, I renewed my attack on his ass, finding his prostate, pushing up. With my left hand I directed his right hand to my chest, clamping my left nipple with his fingers inside my hand.
“Pull my tits, boy. Feel me throb.”

As he pulled on my nipples, a rush seized my body and without thinking, I thrust my dick down his throat to the root. He immediately began sputtering again, flailing his arms and pushing at my hips. I withdrew as he coughed and sat up.

“You OK?”
“Yeah, but maybe we’ve done that enough for now.” Raj looked at me sheepishly.
“I wanna check out that ass anyway. Bring it over.”

He twisted around and kneeled doggy-style up on the bed. I slapped his butt hard, up with my palm, down with a backhand, watching him make a grimace in the mirrored closet doors.
“Hold your ass apart for me.” I directed his hands to his cheeks which he dutifully spread for my inspection. Unclear as to how clean he was, I avoided tasting his puckered hole and pressed two newly-lubed fingers into the breech, which swallowed them with ease. Taking his balls and hard dick in my left hand, I stroked gently as I fed him another finger, twisting in a clock-wise motion.
“Push back on my fingers.”
I felt his muscles clamp down hard, but no pressure to expel.
“Push”
He understood my request better the second time, and I felt a slight pressure on my knuckles pushing them outward. I let my fingers withdraw about half-way before pushing in again with a determined force. Raj let out a low moan, shaking his head back and forth.

“Fuck me.” He hissed through clenched teeth. “Fuck me now.”

With a quick slap of shortening, I was lubed. Standing on the mattress, I directed my dick into his winking, ready twat. Leaving the head in for a moment, I assessed the snug fit and pushed half-way in, looking for his reaction in the mirror. Raj’s face was contorted in a mask of pleasure and anticipation. Pulling almost completely out, my second thrust dove straight into his hot guts, right to the balls.

With my left hand, I pushed his shoulders down until his forehead was touching the mattress about eighteen inches from the mirror. I reached my left foot around and pushed into his neck with the ball of my foot. Raj twisted his head away from me as I held his neck fast and began sawing his ass with deep strokes until his knees buckled and he fell into the mattress with a deep sigh.

I stepped off the bed onto the Tibetan carpet and yanked his hips down with me, pulling his legs off the mattress. I turned him on to his side, lifted his right leg and reentered him, lifting his hip and pressing myself between his open legs, bucking wildly. He yelped as some unspoken fury took over. I pounded relentlessly at his hole until he begged for some water.

“You agreed to rough.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting it so fast.”
I looked down at his penis, head fierce and red poking from behind a thin membrane of foreskin.
“You’re enjoying it…look how hard you are.”
“You just took me by surprise…never said I didn’t like it.”
“The water’s in the fridge. Get two bottles.”
“Yessir.”

I’d already drunk a pot of tea earlier and was feeling racy and lightheaded. A momentary cloud of concern passed through my mind as I wondered if he was up for the challenges I had in store for him. Dismissing his reticence as residual shyness, I sat back on the bed and watched Sandy take on a room full of horny Italians.

Raj returned with the water and I took a bottle, urging him to lay next to me and pull on my tits as I watched the porn on the TV. We spent a moment with his arms around my neck, hands straining down my chest. Waves of electric shock tore through me as I jerked and convulsed with body orgasm, my dick throbbing and pulsing a steady drool of precum.

I quickly turned around and pulled his legs up to my shoulder, sinking my cock back up into his rectum. His dick was too small for me to reach with my mouth, so I spit on my hand and started jerking him as I fucked. Moments of this and his face twisted open, eyes gaping, as he shot a load all over his chest.

“What the fuck? You in a hurry?”
“I…I couldn’t help it.”
“I want to keep fucking you.”
“Go on…no big deal.”
“You sure? Most guys want to take a break after they cum.”
Raj reached up and twisted my nipples.
“Fuck me…fuck me hard.”

I leaned down and sucked at his face, nibbling at the lips before they opened and allowed my tongue to explore his mouth. Minutes passed before Raj’s expression changed from bliss to concern (again).
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I have to use the bathroom.”
A confused look passed over my face.
“Didn’t you douche?”
He bit his lower lip.
“No. I didn’t have time.”
I withdrew, and finding several brown clumps under the edge of my cockhead, frowned.
“Do you have something I can clean with?” He looked mortified.
“No, I don’t have anything…hmmm…” My mind’s cogs were spinning. Then an idea dawned on me.

I took Raj by the hand and led him into the bathroom. Flicking on the light, I saw his works laying on the small dish I keep my razor on, momentarily startled. I steered him into the showerstall and directed him to lean against the opposite wall. Spreading my legs slightly, I entered him again, instructing him to stay still and wait a moment. The tea and water worked their magic and within several minutes was washing out his large intestine with piss.

He reacted oddly at first, as I hadn’t warned him of my idea, and he didn’t understand what was flooding his insides until I told him. Nodding when I reminded him to stay still, my stream eventually died down to a trickle and I was prepared to exit.
“Hold it until you reach the toilet. I don’t want any accidents.”

I opened the sliding glass door nearest to the john and bid him make haste. When he cleared the door I turned the shower on and began soaping up, concentrating on my dick. I could hear him release the torrents of urine I’d just deposited and hoped that, although it wasn’t a full douching, it was perhaps sufficient to clean him out. It was.

Raj stayed at my place for almost twenty-three hours. He booted several more times in the bathroom, we went out midday for some fast food (I ate, he watched). I came three times and lost count of the times Raj did. I even dozed a bit without ever trusting him enough to actually fall deeply asleep.

In early August, toward the end of my Summer’s adventures, a friend of mine lent me her car while she visited relatives up north for a week. I took advantage of this windfall in transportation to do a large food shopping, spend a free day at the beach and expand my possibilities on Mancunt, as I generally always host. Not every interesting possibility is willing or able to travel.

I saw Dean’s profile almost immediately and was intrigued. In his late thirties, he presented as yet another shaved-headed musclegod, nicely accessorized with a variety of tattoos. I’d tasted frequently of the type in the preceding months and found them to be ravenous uberbottoms when on the prowl online. After a quick phone call and a moment in the shower, I was off, driving down Sunrise Boulevard in the direction of the beach.

Unlike South Beach, Ft Lauderdale has few architectural marvels. But rising proud amid a clutter of seedy Spring-break motels and renovated gay “resorts” a block from the beach is the Birch Tower, named in honor of an early beachfront resident. The Birch Tower is a masterpiece of mid-century moderne with sweeping ribbon windows, the entire structure cantilevered out from a ground story supported on reverse parabolic arches. It had been recently purchased by a developer who was in the process of converting it to condos when I pulled up at the guest parking at 1:30 on a steamy morning. Dean was waiting for me there, very complimentary when I stepped out of the car. A brief hug and he ushered me into the dismal lobby (the dingy marble no doubt now refreshed with a good cleaning and furnished with chrome and leather architect chairs), up the original elevator to one of the higher floors. Sweeping views were to be had from the open hallway connecting the elevator to Dean’s apartment, but I didn’t stop to linger.

As he opened the door, I noticed immediately that the apartment was a construction zone. Plastic tarps covered the small amount of furniture scattered here and there amid piles of marble tiles and buckets of compound and grout. He led me into a kitchen that was nearly finished, with glossy lacquered mahogany cabinets and a suite of brand-new European stainless appliances. Pulling a stainless saucepan from underneath somewhere, he filled it with water and lit the stove with a turn of a dial. Gas stoves are so unusual here in SoFla that I asked about it, Dean explaining that the building had its own supply of propane. Nodding mutely I withdrew several pillow bags of tea and placed them on the counter.

“Alls you want’s that tea?” He smiled a perplexed smile.
“Yeah, that’s all I need.” I glanced around. “When are you thinking the renovation’ll be finished?”
“Probably a few more months…unless we get a hurricane.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“Such a sweet man.” Dean pulled me into his enormous arms and gave me a big smooch, slapping my ass through my standard board shorts.
“Show me around?”
“Not much to see right now.” Dean directed me back toward the front door to a large living area. Waving his arms in the general area where we were standing: “The dining area’ll be here, seating over there near the windows.”
He pushed open the door to a rather small bedroom. “Study will be here”. We leaned into a darkened room filled with construction supplies.
“Master suite’s over here.” I followed Dean’s large frame through the eventual seating area and paused as he opened the door.
“It’s all a mess right now.”
I grinned. “That’s fine, my ex and I renovated several places. I’m used to it.”

Sitting in the center of a large room was a queen-sized mattress and box-spring heaped with pillows and messy with crumpled pale blue sheets. A small portable TV sat on a folding card table, VCR/DVD combo unit next to it. A Corbu chaise stood off near the windows, covered with a sheet of clear plastic. The scene out the windows was splendid, with unobstructed views of both the beach and Intracoastal Waterway.

“The windows are gonna be replaced by the developer.”
“That’s a shame. The horizontal accent is really nice from the street.”
“The new ones’ll look the same, but they’ll be impact resistant.”
“Oh, OK…usually new windows are so ugly.”
“Yeah, but this is a landmark building. Gotta keep the same look.”
I smiled. “I didn’t think Florida had landmark statutes.”
“Oh it’s not a law, It’s just that the developer has taste.”

Dean came over to me, giving me another burly bearhug. I reached around and groped his rock hard ass and vascular legs. He must live on steroids and protein shakes, I mused. I stood up on my toes and pulled his head down to my height. He spread his legs slightly and reached his two wide mitts up my thin tank, finding my tits and giving each a twist in opposite directions. I panted into his open mouth and pushed reluctantly on his hard pecs.
“Bet that water’s boiling.”

Dean nodded, looking into my eyes. It was too dark for me to discern the color of his.

Tracing back to the kitchen, I twisted the dial to the off position and threw the three bags into the pot, watching them slowly color the water as they sunk to the bottom. I looked up at him as Dean was heating the bottom of a glass pipe with a miniature blowtorch. He inhaled the white smoke as it snaked down the pipe’s length.
“Sure you don’t want some?”
I nodded, smiling.
“You don’t mind…?”
“Of course not. I told you on the phone that partybois are the only ones who can keep up with me.”
Our eyes met in a conspiratorial glance. I tried to see their color in the brighter light of the kitchen, but all I could see were big black pupils and waxy whites.
“Can I have a glass?”
Dean opened a cabinet and handed me a large green-glass goblet sitting on a short, wide stem. Thanking him, I filled it half-way with tea and pushed the dispenser on the door of the fridge, letting several ice wedges fall into my hand. Plopping them into the scalding liquid, they quickly turned it cool enough to sip without scorching my lips.

“Come over here, bud.” Dean was chomping at the bit. I sauntered over, putting down the glass and pulled at his clothes, top first, then nylon shorts. His physique was amazing, if slightly overripe and exaggerated. When I reached for his white jockstrap, however, he switched the focus to me, pulling my tank over my head and pushing the shorts down in what seemed like one quick maneuver. He revisited my nipples and in seconds my hardon was pulsing and drooling. Squatting low, he took a substantial portion in his mouth until I felt the back of his throat. Reaching down, I returned the favor he was performing on my tits.

Both standing up now, he directed me into the master suite, where we both tumbled into the bed. I climbed on top of him and fed each of my tits in turn to his open mouth, urging him to nurse. Reaching down his torso, I felt first his navel, stubbly with new hair growth from a recent shaving, then his groin, which showed no life whatsoever. Continuing my path down, I paused for a moment on his perineum before exploring his hole.

Although he shaved his belly, he either waxed his anus or it was naturally hairless, I couldn’t tell which. Poking around some, I found his hole open and ready, dripping with lube.
“You started without me?”
“Just loosened up with a toy. You said you prefer ‘em not too tight.”
“I’m not complaining.” Three fingers slid into his fundament with no difficulty, nor any extra lube. “Impressive.”

I dove down between his enormous thighs and pushed them up until they rested on my diaphragm. I spit on my hand and wet the shaft of my dick with the saliva before pushing it in. I met no obstacles until I was deep to the root, my balls resting against his asscheeks. Dean reached out his hands and gripped on both tits, pulling and twisting with a masterful touch. I flooded his ass with strings of precum drooling from my throbbing cockhead as I began fucking in earnest. Meeting me thrust for thrust, Dean was obviously enjoying himself as much as I was, but still nothing stirred under the cotton folds of his jock.

We took frequent breaks, with me consuming glass after glass of tea (on top of what I’d drunk before leaving my apartment). Dean was a total pigbottom, taking dildos and cock up his ass together like a pornstar, his big beefy hands rarely leaving my tits. Edging was a difficult feat with so much stimulation, but I was determined to make it last all night, if possible. Whenever I got too close I’d stay still or come in close for a round of facesucking.

Eventually I felt the urgent need to piss.
“Where do you want it?”
“Up my ass, of course.”
“No…I meant where as in on the bed or in the shower?”
“Right here’s great.”
“You sure?”
“Let it go baby.”
Unable to hold back a second longer, I broke out in a grunt and let the piss fly up his ass.

Dean’s expression changed from surprise to expectation to satisfaction back to surprise as the volleys continued over sixty seconds. I bit my upper lip, scraping it with my bottom teeth, moaning softly.
“It’s still coming?”
“I told you, I hold back until it’s an absolute emergency.” It was beginning to taper off and I resumed fucking in long strokes, almost withdrawing completely before sinking back down.
“Feels fucking awesome, bud.”
I nodded. “Same for me…just incredible.”

I leaned back into his face and we fell into a deep kiss. As I was so much smaller than he, I was obliged to twist his pelvis as far up as I could to accomplish this. Gripping hard on my tits, I changed my approach somewhat and withdrew completely before repenetrating his hole. I’d sink to the root before withdrawing for a second and entering his slack gash, no hand required. This was driving him nuts, his head rocking from side to side in ecstatic delight. We continued this way for what seemed like a quarter hour, each reentry causing a growl to come from Dean’s mouth.

As I slowed down, I let his hip pivot back onto the bed, causing him to moan loudly. His ass opened up and a fountain of still-hot piss gushed all over me, from navel to knees.

To be continued…

Questions About Life

2007-06-23T01:47:00.000+10:00

First, I want to thank Matty and Bucko for inviting me to contribute to this very esteemed Spin Cycle. I will not commit to any number or intensity of posts here, but I wanted to start out with this contribution. For many of you, my writing is not foreign, but to others that are fans of the Spin Cycle, I do hope that my writing creates discussion among you. With this, I present my first load of subject matter for your parusal.

Recently, I have been observing something that has really disturbed me, but then it is most likely because I just wasn’t aware of something which was obvious, if only focused on. I guess life is the subject here, but viewed from possibly a bit different skew.

In my youth, I was inspired by the Peace Corps programs that were started in the time when we as a nation finally figured out that civilization is only possible in the truest form of the word, if we always make sure to bring our less fortunate neighbors along with our progress. This inspired so many young people to dedicate at least three years to helping someone here on this planet, to achieve what might have been the impossible, if not for their help. I speak of clean water wells in the Congo, and education in self sustained farming and other things we have learned and can share. The Peace Corps were soon known all over the globe as a real and tangible answer to helping others to help themselves.

In that time, labor was not a curse word, but an honorable and respectable way for someone to take care of their families. One could be a landscaper, or an auto mechanic, or a construction laborer, or a painter, and all these would not only sustain you and your four children; but would leave you enough to pay for your insurance, medications, a new car that would carry the six of you and your luggage in comfort for a week or two vacation, and finally, pay for that humble but sufficient home. One could work in these jobs for 20 or 30 years, and then have enough money to retire, and live comfortably on a lakeshore in Arizona, or some other state where the cost of living was remarkably affordable. Little by little, people and companies that had these positions available hired people from other countries because they could do so without paying for benefits, and without worrying about paying a living wage. It isn’t that people are not willing to still do laborious jobs, but the pay is not able to support a citizen and still pay all the things that are needed, including taxes. Now retirement is reserved for only those who had the blessing of earning money in excess and now have a million dollars stashed away, to support them for the last 10 or 20 years of their lives. I won’t even go into a deplorable medical climate that strips one not only of that money, but the very pride of self support. The people we elect to government are ALL millionaires, several times over, and don’t have a clue what we are talking about when we say this isn’t working, and usually couldn’t even give a damn. Just send them more money to squander on their re-election campaigns to extend their joy ride at our expense. How very sad..

Somewhere along the way, it only became respectable for one to have a college degree, and hopefully not just a Bachelors degree. The median home had become a five bedroom, three baths, 3500 sq. ft. mansion, along with the hugely expensive SUV, and each one of the kids must have a new car on graduating from college. All this left those people that had previously not been able to pay for college, or were not able to take the time out of paying for life, just a bit out of the picture. This creates a divide in the society that comes along with anxiety, and other sub-conscious feelings and emotions that then grow into far different events.

I have been wondering why it is that so many people, both HIV + and not, have become so dependent on therapy, drugs, and many other forms of distraction from our lives. Where does one draw the line of consumption, and addiction? I know many people I have come to know and love, suffer terribly from various forms and intensities of depression, and I ask myself just why this is? Has this always been the case, and we just never knew about it, or is it a very unpleasant side effect of our luxurious way of life in the Western world? Why is it that in a world where there are no food shortages, water is just a tap away, outhouses don’t need to be emptied or filled and re-dug, and walking has become an exercise program; that we are now terminally depressed about it? Why is it that those who now have money in excess could care less about their more unfortunate neighbors? Why do I see hateful bumper stickers that admonish us to annoy a liberal, by working, succeeding and being happy? Have these people never met any of the liberals I know that are now millionaires, and have not only prospered, but left the country to live in Europe, Mexico, Canada, and many other places on the planet that more closely resemble a “normal and healthy” culture?

What started this writing, was wondering just why Crystal Methamphetamine is now the most dangerous and ominous cloud over this country, and in fact the world. I know many of my friends have ridden this nightmare, and have now come out the other side to live their lives, and heal their bodies, yet so many more have no way to break that grip and ultimately kill themselves with it. I realize that drugs used for recreation is not a new phenomenon, and if you ask your grandparents, and ask them to be honest with you; they will tell you that in fact cocaine is not new, neither is the extensive use of Marijuana. No my dears, the government has been in a drug war since the early 1920’s, and all I have to say is, “how is that working for them?” Crystal Methamphetamine is a very dangerous drug, and can make you an addict after one use, simply because of the permanence of the drug on your brain, and what it causes your brain to do in it's basic chemistry. Why then do people turn to this, rather than try to face their issues head on, and possibly work their way through a problem, rather than to seek out a simple, but deadly answer?

Where did we go wrong?

What is it that drives the family in the jungles of central Africa to fight for their lives and go out and get food in the jungle each day? They work for every cent they have, and when they can afford it, send their children off to school in the village to learn, and hopefully gain a better life. What is astounding is that their school curriculum is far superior to that of a public school in this country, and most teach a foreign language starting in the third grade. (English or French) Where do those people go when they need “therapy”, or when they simply need a Tylenol to maybe assuage that headache brought on by the sound of land developers on the edge of the forest, decimating their tree growth, and stripping away their very way of life? How is it that they can live a full life and not have to deal with all the concerns that we accept as normal “white noise” of life here?

Could it be that we have screwed up, by compromising our education system when at the very moment we were doing that; we should have gone just the other way and made it superior? Could our emphasis on professional sports as the end all and be all of a person’s value, have diverted our funding to support this very expensive pastime, instead of saturating our science and technology departments with millions of dollars? Could it be that in doing all this, we have in turn alienated and completely sidelined a vast number of very capable and wonderful citizens? Could our reliance on technology, such as this very internet, driven us to become a cold and very crass, self absorbed people that are so starved for attention and love, that we end up destroying ourselves through vice and self loathing? Could there be another way? I sure hope so.

I wonder what our world would have become if we had still emphasized that penchant to help others, to make sure we knew our neighbors, and to keep our neighborhoods open and welcoming? Should we have kept our kids busy with leaning about nature and the things which give our world a sense of permanence? Should we have taught them that the meat we eat comes from livestock which must be killed, cut and cleaned, before it ends up in the refrigerated showcase in the local supermarket? Should we possibly have shown them life AND death, to somehow help them understand loss and the real path of life? Why is it when people, living with a terminal disease such as HIV and Cancer, receive no end of static from everyone when they talk of that final curtain call, and making plans for the end of life? Is it such a horrible thing to die, or is it simply a step which all living things on this world make during the time they are here?

I have always thought that the better and more constructive way to raise a child is to give them boundaries, give them a respect for self worth, teach them that society has rules, teach them that they are indeed perfect, and capable, and what ever life brings to their pathway; it is to make them truly better people. Anyone who is an observer of nature will know that most mammals spend a great deal of time and energy teaching and disciplining their offspring so that they will be survivors and successful parts of their world when they mature. When did it become the norm to chastise someone for being a brainiac, and encourage our children to make fun of them and mock them for not being interested the least in sports? Has nobody ever thought that kid that everyone is mocking might just be a Steve Jobs, or a Bill Gates? Why is it that many technology companies are now hiring directly from India and other places, but I already know that answer?

More and more these days, I see the children demanding what is going to be in the home, instead of the parents standing firm and making the decisions for their children. Parents complain about not having enough money for college, or for even the basics in life, but when the children “need” that new i-Pod, or that new disc for their Wii game, they end up having it, and it seems like few are given the responsibility of paying for these very “necessary” pacifiers that simply become yesterday’s gizmo, and end up useless in very short order. When did it become the norm for the parents to pay for higher education, when the child is the one that should be burdened with this responsibility, to give them a sense of the value of that education? When did it become OK for a child to demand transportation, but then not have a cent to support such extravagance? I can remember when I was still living at home, when my father let me start driving the car, I had to pay for the extra insurance, and the extra fuel, and the extra wear and tear on the car. Soon it was obvious that I couldn’t afford to drive the family vehicle, so I didn’t, unless I was driving the family somewhere; like prayer meeting on Wednesday nights. Yes, we have moved away from giving children responsibility for their lives, and have showered them with educations that the rest of the world would die to get, and yet when they come out of college, they have absolutely no way of understanding even the basics of independence and making it on their own. They refuse jobs which require labor, and refuse to even pay back their $50,000 college loans that are backed by the government and the taxes we have all paid to fund those useless certificates of higher learning. What the hell did we expect would happen? Thankfully, people from India and other countries are completely willing to take just about any job and work their way into citizenship in our great country. How pathetic we really are to then complain about the fact that when we call for help on our Dell computers, someone in India answers the phone and does so happily!!!!

When we switched our priorities to become a “professional” society, and culture; we forgot that trade schools were also needed, and people to run the inventions of those brainiacs have to come from somewhere. Well, I have news for you. Just about the time we were disposing of decent education in this culture, India, and many other countries were investing in theirs, and now they and other countries are turning out people with vastly increased skills and talents in the intricacies, very important to modern day capitalism.

I guess I just don’t understand anymore, and when I get frustrated at the status quo, I then sit down and write out things like this bit of mental diatribe. Maybe by getting it out, and questioning in a public forum, I will find the answer, and find the way of the future. Otherwise, it seems we are destined to complete destruction by our own ignorance. What a complete waste of potential, and what a complete waste of a perfectly good culture and society.

Can anyone spell “Roman Empire”?

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking Part 7: The Brazilian Bowelwash (Part 1)

2007-03-23T19:49:00.000+11:00

Author’s preface:
My Dawg's tale has not yet run its course, and I don’t feel as though I have enough material to construct a coherent finish to the trilogy. I beg my reader’s patience on this matter, and indulgence in allowing me to relate other tales from my experiences during the Summer of 2006. Dawg’s tale will eventually be told, but in the interim…

As I related in chapter 5, the texture of my exploits on Mancunt began to change both in duration and with regards to what I’d always previously called my limits. After my encounter with B36, I chose to take a fresh look at my habits and attitudes and was determined to see how far my comfort level (as well as that of my beaux) might be pushed.

In the hours I spent on-line, several profiles intrigued me, but I’d always resisted contacting them because the true dynamic of such encounters made me slightly uneasy. Principal among these were guys looking to play more intensely submissive roles than I’d customarily considered. I’ve always preferred a more active participant, someone who brought their full power of wit and enthusiasm to bed, and had always considered submissive and passive to be synonymous.

But my experiences with the latest crop of powerbottoms whetted my appetite for a more dominant stance. They seemed to expect a more domineering top, perhaps because their consumption of drugs put them into an extreme state of mind. Beyond a doubt these drugs (primarily Meth and/or G) both enhanced their exigency and raised their threshold of pain tolerance to near-superhuman levels.

The morality of what separates “rough” from “abuse” whirled briefly in my mind as I contemplated my next steps. I’ve never been accused of being physically abusive (emotionally distant, however, has been a life-long criticism), but my past choice of partners generally veered toward simpler passions. The more complex passions were usually reserved for tricks and anonymous one-time events.

It wasn’t that I respected piggy fistbottoms less, it’s that I felt that such a steady sexual diet would ultimately jade me, and I harbored fears of where such encounters might ultimately lead. Although it seems naïve in retrospect, at the time it made an odd kind of sense and constituted one of my principal limits.

So it was that I began approaching my encounters without trying to restrain wilder sides of my psyche (or libido). The first of these was with a couple who live about a mile and a half from me, in one of the more upscale neighborhoods close to the ocean. I had seen their profiles separately, never knowing that they operate as a team.

One, whom I shall call Manny, appeared completely Asian but was in fact Latino. He is quite short, no more than 5’3, very muscular, and seemed to be hovering around forty years old. His profile describes him as “versatile” and suggests one ask him regarding his HIV status. Manny and I had had some near-misses in the past, with his backing away at the last minute. Although I hadn’t exactly written him off, I was surprised when he approached me around 1:30 on a hot morning in early July.

He was curt and to-the-point, providing a profile name for my consideration in a three-way. The tone was take-it-or-leave-it and put me somewhat off, especially as the pix did little to entice or impress me. “Paul”, tall and portly, seemed as enormous as Manny was tiny. I sent him a half-hearted note and unlocked my private pix for him, curious as to what kind of scene they expected. Paul’s response was simple and direct: they needed a fearless and aggressive top with stamina and had heard from another member that I would suit them very nicely. The referral was an early-morning regular of mine, a musclehead powerbottom whom I’d seeded on occasion. Smiling a private little grin, I got the address and told them I’d be there after a quick shower.

Going as directed to the rear gate, I stopped for just a moment outside. Trance music throbbed from the tropical garden on the other side of the fence, and I heard splashing water. I opened the gate and saw a small patio paved with smooth white square panels of cement puddled in water. To the right was a pair of large, single-paned French doors leading to a small bedroom, the queen-sized bed covered with a black, shiny latex spread. To my immediate left was a small cylindrical hot-tub set off the ground on a wooden platform. Beyond was a small wooden toolshed, through the open door of which came the music and dim flickering light.

I called out as there didn’t seem to be anybody around.

Manny emerged from the toolshed, a studded black leather harness criss-crossing his beefy chest, leather bands on each of his highly-developed arms. His dick was much larger than I’d expected, fat and hanging low next to his powerful thighs. He gave me a quick appraisal, up and down, his expression serious, his face set without mirth. I approached him and pulled at his dick with one hand, pinching a nipple with the other. His cock was slippery with lube and did not respond as I gripped on his foreskin and rolled my index finger underneath. When I attempted a kiss, he moved his face silently to the side, so I moved my mouth down to the free tit and sucked hard, rolling it between my tongue and bottom teeth.

“Take off your shorts. He’s waiting”. Manny’s voice was masculine, spiced with the slightest touch of a Spanish accent. His hands moved to my nipples and pulled on them with just the correct pressure. I hadn’t bothered with a shirt in the drenching humidity and oppressive SoFla midsummer’s heat, and pulled off my shorts and sneakers in seconds. As I followed Manny into the toolshed, my eyes scanned his broad back and big, bouncing ass.

The interior of the toolshed was illuminated by several tall pillar candles. Two large stereo speakers sitting on the rough wooden floor boomed out a relentless electronic beat. Suspended from the exposed wooden struts of the walls was the black leather sling that held Paul. His legs were up, resting on heavy chains, his hole open and wet. Even on his back, hanging in mid-air, he cut a large and imposing figure.

He was wearing a kind of jump-suit made entirely of black latex, stopping at his shoulders and the middle of his thighs. It had been slit to expose his wide ass, a generous scrotum and a tiny penis, about two inches long. He appeared to be totally devoid of body hair, his armpits as smooth as his balls, and his skin was milky pale. His voice was low and masculine:
“Hey! Glad you made it.”
“This is quite a sight. ” I observed, smiling.
“Manny’s been getting me started.” He moved his neck slightly and pointed his nose at a shelf hung on the wall to my right. It was lined with several dildos, ranging in size from large to menacing. The thickest of the lot was as wide as my forearm and was easily twenty inches long. Most were jet-black.

To my left, parallel to the sling, as a small table that held a tub of Crisco, a roll of paper towels and several bottles of poppers. Paul reached for one of the bottles and inhaled deeply. Sticking my right hand into the tub of Crisco, I withdrew a substantial portion with three fingers, rolling it into my palm in a circular motion. Large clumps clung to my index and middle fingers, which I rubbed together before approaching and inserting them into his waiting hole. Meeting no hint of resistance, I slipped my ring finger underneath and diddled him to the last knuckle for a few minutes, getting the lay of the land. Looking over my shoulder at Manny, I instructed him to work my tits (as he’d done so nicely outside), and I was up pronto.

Removing my fingers, I used the grease remaining on my palm to slick my cock and stuck my head inside.
“Ready?”
Paul grunted and steeled himself with another hit from his popper bottle, groaning as I sunk in to the balls with one long thrust. Manny pulled on my tits with increased tension and began licking the small of my neck, which was level with his head, sucking and chewing occasionally.

I started slowly, making long strokes up and in. Grabbing at the chains, I stood on my toes for maximum penetration.
“Wait,” Manny mumbled and retrieved a wooden box from under the sling. “I need this too.”
The box served me perfectly. Paul’s ass was right at optimum height and it eliminated any strain I might have put on my back or neck.

I’d been fucking for quite a while when Manny went to get some Gatorade for the three of us, as we were drenched in sweat. Paul reached up to my chest and grabbed at my nipples, but his fingers were greasy, and I made a noise as I pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just prefer dry hands on my tits.”
“Hand me some paper towels then.”
Holding a square in each hand, he twisted my tits with more enthusiasm than experience.

Manny returned with three plastic cups, and it made me pause. Proper etiquette demanded sealed containers be presented for any beverage consumed in such circumstances. It went unsaid that an open container could contain anything and these two were still strangers to me, fucking Paul’s ass notwithstanding. I took my cup from Manny and withdrew from Paul’s ass, stepping down off the box. I sniffed the liquid.

“Don’t you trust us?” Manny looked at me warily.
“I don’t know you.” My voice was flat, gaze direct. We kept an eyelock for several seconds, neither blinking.
Paul spoke up finally from the sling: “Just get him a bottle of water.”
Manny broke the stare first, putting down the cups and turning on his heels.
“It’s nothing personal” I offered.
“Don’t worry about it, he’s fine.” Clambering out from the sling, Paul suggested that we rinse off in the hot tub, which sounded pretty nice.

We were installed in the small tub when Manny returned with my sealed water bottle, passing it in with his usual glare.
Paul looked over at him. “So, you gonna try out this guy for a while?” He put his arm on my shoulder.
I felt as expendable as one of the toys arrayed on the shelf in the toolshed.
Manny turned and headed for the shed as he replied. “Sure...why should you get all the fun?”

Bending my knees, I took one more dip down into the hot, bubbling water before stepping up and out. Paul was right behind me, the latex suit glistening as water ran off his belly. The night air didn’t feel chilly in the least, but the dip was refreshing.

Stepping into the shed, I found Manny already up and in the sling. Looking at me along his body and through his legs, he said:
“I’m not an intermediate like Paul, here. Give it to me hard like I’ve heard about...if you can” The contempt in his tone whistled through a snarl on his full lips.

My heart began beating more rapidly, my breath strained to small measurements through my nose. Reaching into the open tub of Crisco, I slicked my dick first, and pushed a couple of fingers into his hole. It wasn’t as relaxed as Paul’s had been, “intermediate” or not, and resisted in response to my probing. Paul pulled on my tits with better assurance than he’s shown previously, and I stepped up onto the box, hardon slipping in and out of my fist.

Despite the firm grip Manny had on my fingers, my dick found no impediment into his fundament and I drove it to the maximum. Withdrawing completely, I pushed in again with vigor and energy. My closed right fist pounded at his hard abs.
“Feel it yet?” My heart raced.
“Almost.” Manny bated.
I filled my mouth with saliva and spit a gob on his forehead, the trail running into his left eye.

I withdrew entirely again and grabbed the can of Crisco from the table, pulling a handful out and rubbing my right hand up to the wrist with my left. Stepping down from my perch on the box, I bent low and surveyed Manny’s ass. It winked into a gape for me before closing tight. I looked up to see him inhaling from the small brown popper bottle. Our eyes met for a moment, and his head nodded in a private conspiratal affirmation.

Paul seemed slightly annoyed, his deep manly voice took on a whiney, high-pitched timbre. “What are you doing? Aren’t you gonna fuck him anymore?”
“I will. But this hole’s too tight.” I scooped up another gob of shortening and smeared it in. “Didn’t you hear? I like ‘em big and sloppy.”
“Oh he’ll loosen up, just give it some time.”
“He’ll have plenty of time. I’m a patient man.”
Manny smiled at me for the first time that evening.

I reached to my right and grabbed a dildo that was about the girth of my hardon, but absurdly long, well over two feet. I lubed up the head and stroked on the shaft before taking aim at Manny’s hole again. Inserting the head, I slid almost half up and in before beginning a sawing motion. A clump of shortening was stuck to one of his asscheeks, and with my left hand I scooped it up and slid three fingers in besides. I looked up and saw Manny tossing his head silently from side to side, inhaling continuously from the poppers.

I looked up and over at Paul, who was leaning forlornly against the door jamb of the toolshed.
“Help him with those poppers,” I suggested. “He’s gonna burn his nose.”
Big as he was, Paul managed to scurry under the sling and emerge on the other side. He took the bottle from Manny and screwed the cap on tight. He began a low moan and looked up into Paul’s eyes, then reached up and pulled Paul’s head down into a soulful kiss.

Meanwhile, I was making great headway and decided to upgrade the dildo for one of the truly massive ones with the circumference of my wrist. The tradeout was accomplished quickly and easily, and he took the greater part of it up his ass, his breathing steady in big, noisy gulps. I switched my hand for the dildo and soon found that forming a fist while inside and pulling it almost to his asslips ratcheted him into a whole new level of delirium. We continued this for over an hour, until Manny finally asked for a break.

This time all three of us climbed into the hot tub, sending a rain of chlorinated water up and over the rim, soaking the patio and garden nearby. Manny and I each lit cigarettes and Paul asked me how long I’d been fisting ass.
“Well, let’s see…” I thought for a second. “My first experience was when I was really young, about twenty-one or twenty-two.”
“How’d you get into it?” Paul seemed genuinely interested.
“I met this older guy in a bar on Beacon Hill…I’m from Boston. I can’t remember his name, but I used to call him Wolfie. He was a brilliant mathematics professor at MIT, just incredibly intelligent. That was his thing, and I guess he seduced me into trying it. I remember that he could be very persuasive.

“The first time was really strange. I’d fucked a lot of ass, but this just seemed…extreme, I guess.” I took a drag from my smoke and continued.
“I remember bolting out of his apartment afterwards, swearing that I’d lose his number and never return. But I went back soon enough and tried it again. We saw a lot of each other for about six months. It seemed like it was always cold outside, musta been over a winter. It eventually ran its course and we just stopped calling each other. But I always thought of him as my first step into oblivion. I remember a friend of mine was horrified when I told him what Wolfie and I use to do. But I was too young to be believable in leather bars yet. It wasn’t really until I was in my thirties that I was credible as a fisttop, and it’s still not my only thing.”

Manny jumped out of the tub and fetched some more drinks. This time I asked him specifically for a glass of Gatorade.
“Sure I’m not trying to poison you?”
“I’ll take my chances” I said, grinning broadly.

It was Paul’s turn back in the sling, and Manny and I took turns on him, alternating hands and toys and our dicks. He seemed relaxed and was obviously enjoying himself, but I had the feeling that he was holding back, somehow. As available as his body might have been, his mind seemed miles away.

When it came to be Manny’s turn again, Paul resumed his station at the head of the sling while I took advantage of Manny’s now-wide open state. I alternated my dick with my hands, then in a moment of inspiration grabbed one of the relatively-moderate sized dildos from the shelf and slid it next to my dick. I’d push with one while pulling with the other, sending him into a whole new level of sensation. Adding a second dildo, this time one of the massively large ones, caused him to scream in fits of delirium. His greasy gash was opened to a degree I’d only ever seen on video before, way beyond gape into another, more magical realm.

With his encouragement, I removed everything and began punchfucking him in rhythm, left/right/left/right/left. I was hypnotized by the action and humbled by his total lack of limitation. The fact that he trusted me, a total stranger, to perform such a potentially deadly service on him both thrilled me and set up vague rumblings of passing disquiet in me, but I continued for what seemed like an eternity. It was Paul who eventually suggested that we go into the house.

Paul jumped in the shower while Manny showed me around. The décor was all very SoFla sunny, with some decidedly girlish features (hideous window-treatments, crimson fully-upholstered and skirted dining chairs, for instance) and I was once again dismayed that an otherwise expensive piece of South Florida real estate was defaced by pedestrian taste and amateur stylisms. The kitchen, having been professionally done, was bland but expensive, with acres of granite and stainless steel. Passing me a glass, he asked me what I thought.
“You guys are great. Thanks for hitting me up.”
His lips curled into an inscrutable grin. “Paul’s new to this.” His face twisted slightly.
“This is his house.”
I swallowed a sip from my drink. “He seems to catch on quickly. He’s lucky he has you.”
“We’re not lovers.”
I wondered where the conversation was turning and made an expression of curiosity as I exhaled loudly, looking around at nothing in particular.
“I’m just showing him the ropes, so to speak.”
Paul’s voice yelled from the other side of the house.
“Let’s take our showers, he wants us back.”

Entering into the bedroom again, I noticed that the shower was still running in the adjacent bathroom.
“You guys take your shower together, I’ll make myself comfortable.” Paul had removed his latex suit, exposing his pink, flabby body. His manbreasts sagged, his nipples perfectly flat but bigger around than poker chips. I hadn’t understood how much support the suit had given him until he’d taken it off, and found the results even less erotic.

Manny and I stepped into the shower together, the water warm but not steaming hot, as is the custom here. He reached for a bottle of dish-washing liquid sitting on a shelf built into the stall. Smiling faintly, the dim memory of an old fistbuddy from my mid-thirties came flooding back. Such detergent was preferable, he used to say, because it removes all the Crisco. Besides, he would say, we get to smell lemony-fresh. This time around, in that shower stall with the fetching if enigmatic Manny, we smelled of green apples.

Manny squirted some of the thick green liquid in his hands and rubbed it on my chest, creating bubbly suds.
“You know”, he started, “No one ever do that to me before.”
“Did what?”
“Punchfuck me…always wanted it, never happened. I broke through a limit”
I leaned back into the water and let it pour over my front, rinsing and fresh.
“Glad to have obliged.”

For our last round, Paul announced two goals: he wanted to be doublefucked in a sandwich by Manny and me, and he wanted one of us (no matter which) to jerk off to the point of cumming with the fist of a hand up his ass. I nodded my head as if to prepare mentally for the obstacles to his goals that I might encounter. Manny spoke up:
“You sure you’re ready for a fist and cock up your ass the same time?”
“I think I am.”
“You gotta know you are.” They held a steady eyelock, complicated by the fact that Paul was easily a foot taller than Manny. “Otherwise, you get hurt.”
“I want to try it.”
“OK” Manny’s voice had a sing-song quality. “But tell us when you had enough. Be honest.”
“I’ve always been honest with you, Manny.”
Feeling like a voyeur, I suggested that we get back to business and started sucking on Manny’s dick, curling my tongue up under his copious foreskin as he laid face up on the mattress’ shiny black latex cover.

When Manny was hard enough to fuck, I greased his pole and eased it into Paul’s open, twitching twat. Paul breathed deeply and sat down until Manny’s balls kissed his anus. Standing up on the bed, I fed Paul my half-hard cock and pulled his hands up to (increasingly sore) nipples. I was soon ready to take position and moved around to the foot of the bed. With one hand I pushed Paul down against Manny, with the other I steadied my dick and with a push met Manny’s dick inside the warm wet hole.

I quickly learned that porn stars make such theatrical gymnastics much easier-looking than they are in real life. Paul’s anus seemed so low in relation to his enormous, bright-white hairless asscheeks. I felt bruised and tit-pulled to an extreme and miles from actually cumming. Paul would shift position and out we’d pop. After the third time this had happened in five minutes, I suggested that we switch to dildos instead.
“You tired?” Paul seemed vaguely disappointed.
“Not really” I lied, massaging my thighs, “But I got a leg cramp.”
I looked down at Manny’s dick and noticed that it had deflated completely.

The energy level had ratcheted down considerably from the riots in the toolshed.
“Go get some.” Manny offered, making a gesture toward the French doors.

Making my way the twenty feet across the patio, I first heard the discord of hundreds of birds before looking up at the brightening sky. Making my way into shed, I selected several of the dildos, contemplating various possibilities. On my approach back to the bedroom, toys stacked like firewood in my arms, I overheard Manny and Paul speaking in hushed by emotionally-charged voices.

“I think I’m gonna head out, guys.”
“You OK?” Paul was standing up, Manny still on his back, pulling absently on his soft dick.
“Yeah. I think I’m just done tonight.” I dropped my load of dildos on the bed.
“You want another shower?”
“Nah, I’ll just take a rinse in the hot tub if you don’t mind.”
Manny spoke up. “Suit yourself.”

I smiled a weak grin and grabbed a towel, remembering suddenly that my shorts and shoes were still on the patio.

On the way out I stepped into the bedroom one more time. Manny had his right hand in Paul’s ass to the wrist and a slightly bored look fixed on his face.
“I had fun, guys. Thanks…” I leaned over and kissed Manny’s cheek, as he had turned his head away from me.
“We did too.” Paul turned his head and I kissed his open mouth one last time.

By the time I’d made it to the end of their street, the stars had disappeared and the sky was a brilliant hard cloudless blue. The birds sang a riot of conflicting symphonies and I felt strangely renewed and utterly alive.

About a week after I’d met up with Manny and Paul, I got a message from someone who called himself SoBeFfun in my mailbox on Mancunt. His account, at least with that specific profile, has since been deleted from the website so I can’t quote it verbatim. But the gist was very vague. The pix weren’t much more enlightening, although the ass shot showed much promise. His stated age was thirty-eight, which online might well have meant fifty, but there was something in his profile that piqued my curiosity. His writing made it pretty clear that English was not his first language, and he rather quickly requested my phone number.

Almost immediately I got a call with a Miami area code and answered. His voice was deep and flat and accented. He repeated his first name, for which I’ll substitute “Hector” (for reasons I’ll explain later). Hector was from Venezuela and gave me the usual rundown of height, weight and general preferences. At the end, he asked:
“So what are you into?”
“I’m a top. I love to fuck and I suck uncut dick like a pro.”
“You party?”
“No, but bring what you want. I prefer to play with partybois. They have the stamina to go all night. I’m not looking for a quickie.”
“Cool…you a freak?”
I laughed softly. “Bring it on, baby. I’m up for anything.”
“You mean anything?”
“I wasn’t joking if that’s what you mean.”
I gave him directions to my house.
“I wanna ask you something.” My mind turned with possibilities and horrors. “The double-F in your profile…it mean what it should?”
“You fist?”
“Been known to.”
“What else you like?” His voice was very curious.
“Bring some toys. I like toys.”
“Like what?”
“Bring your favorites.”

About ninety minutes (and close to midnight) Hector showed up, driving a Range Rover. I met him out front and directed him to my empty parking spot in the front, separated from the driveway by a large tree. Through the windshield Hector had a sweet and open face, pleasant but not distinguished by the Native American or Arab look most Latins have. He stepped out with a gymbag over his shoulder and we shook hands. I remarked to myself that he had a firm shake and looked me in the eye with intelligence, both excellent signs. His age seemed to have been quoted accurately.

Once in the kitchen, he kissed eagerly and with passion, open and wet and firm, not mushy. My usual clangy, raucous music blared from the computer. His hands rubbed briefly across my pecs before focusing on my nipples and I was leaking precum in moments. With one hand he reached into my shorts and milked the ooze with his hand, pulling it up to his tongue.
“Titpig indeed."
“Just keep that up, we’ll be just fine.”
“So I see.”

I pulled back somewhat and slapped his butt through the shorts he was wearing.
“Show me your ass."
He turned around and leaned against the solid cherry table that takes up too much space in my small kitchen. As his shorts dropped, I saw that he had a very serviceable (if not specifically bubble-shaped) butt. Ranging closer, I saw that his crack and hole were hairless, but saw no evidence of shaving, the same with his low-hanging balls. Everything was clean and fresh and I kissed his button as I spread the cheeks further apart. He moved his hips lazily from side to side, making sure that I got the best view from all angles. Diving in one more time, my tongue pushed at the gate and was admitted immediately.

I reached around front and yanked on a long, thick prick with an extended rubbery foreskin. With the index and middle fingers of my left hand, I pulled at the overhang hard, twisting it between my fingers then fingers and thumb. He responded rapidly to my rough treatment, letting out a deep, breathy sigh as he sprung to life. I pulled my mouth back and aimed a gob of spit on his hole, already winking from the attention of my tongue, and sunk two, then three fingers in and rapidly withdrew them. I backhanded his ass hard and watched it giggle.

Standing fully upright again, I jerked his face toward me by the hair. Staring deeply into his eyes I muttered “Follow me, and bring your bag. I wanna see what you brought for us to play with” before I kissed his mouth, pulling with my lungs.

I was stretched out on the bed with my back against the feather/down pillows before Hector made his way through the bedroom door. As our eyes met, a spontaneous smile overtook each of our expressions, an eager smile of complicity in the crimes that were to follow. Slung over his shoulder was the gym bag, which he zipped open quickly before setting it down next to me at the level of my hips.

I peered inside. The assorted dildos were surrounded by clear zip-lock bags of various sizes, the contents of which were obscured by the low lighting and my poor viewing angle. He fished around a bit before presenting me with a box of some sort, the corners of which were rounded, covered in black vinyl. It piqued my curiosity.
“What’s in that?”
“Open and see.” He was very eager for me to see what was inside.
“Hmmmmm,” I pondered various possibilities before setting it down on unopened on my nightstand. “I will in a bit..”
I was in absolutely no rush.

He withdrew a small ditty-bag and rested it on the TV. Unzipping the top, he gingerly withdrew a glass pipe and mini zip-lock bag about one inch square containing several nuggets of glassine crystal rocks.
“You want some?” He asked as he took one of the nuggets from the bag, placing it in the round opening at the top of the pipe.
“No thanks…I’m good.”

I watched him without emotion as he lit a tiny handy blue blowtorch and hovered the glass bowl over the flame, swinging it back and forth with rapid movements.

My mind skipped quickly over the first time I’d seen this done in front of me. I had walked over to the apartment of a guy who’d hit me up several times on Manhunt before I agreed to go over. The change in his demeanor after inhaling the thick white smoke was vivid and profound, a Jekyll & Hyde act worthy of some silent-screen melodrama, as he went from butch Italian musclegoon to panting ravenous pigbottom begging for hard cock and hot wet seed.

My subsequent experiences were all very anticlimactic, with the ritual serving more as booster hit than primary dose. I never tried to count the times I’d seen it but surely would have lost track by the time Hector finished his tokes and climbed into the bed leaning over me, gripping my tits with a greedy lust.
“You find me sexy, Papi?” His rubbery face was full of expectations.
“Oh yeah, Nino” I stretched my left arm to the cabinet door of my nightstand and withdrew a tub of Elbow Grease, about half full. Holding it over his head (so as not to interfere with the tit-action), I unscrewed the lid and dug two fingers into the soft white paste. Standing up, I fed Hector my drooling dick and bent over to lube his gash.

He grunted loudly and nodded his head as I fingered him, my left hand slapping his ass in a staccato rhythm following the music from the kitchen. My head was buzzing from the tea I’d drunk (about a quart) and the frenzy of sexual excitation. Bending as far as possible, I dug deeper into his ass with three then four fingers right to the top of my hand, his ample hole yawning to accept anything without hesitation.

I pulled his mouth off my dick and spun off the bed, Hector pivoting to facilitate my movement as if we’d planned and discussed the choreography beforehand. With my feet planted firmly on the Tibetan carpet, his ass was the height of my shoulder. It pushed back against my fingers, stopped by the top of my hand and thumb. With my left hand I served myself another dollop of lube, greasing the thumb, back and outer edges of my right before balling it up and slipping it all in.. I looked up and saw him staring at my face reflected in the closet door mirror, sweat pouring from his forehead.

Minutes were spent in this fashion, eyes locked in the reflection, my left hand alternating first inside the rim of his stretched asslips next to my right wrist then stroking my hardon.
“Come down on the floor, standing up.”
He nodded and backed off the bed slowly as I moved my arm back and forth, my wristbone disappearing and reemerging from inside him, glittering with white lube. In a lightning-fast move, I switched my hand with my dick, fingers meeting shaft just for a moment before I gripped onto his hips and fucked furiously. Hector dug into his bag and found a zip-lock filled with little brown bottles, selected one and hastily unscrewed the cap, inhaling. Passing it up to me, I slowed down briefly, took my turn and threw it on the mattress after replacing the cover. The poppers exploded in my head and chest. Wild music rang in my ears as I continued fucking wildly at his wet open quim, lost in the ecstatic moment.

Reason returned slowly and I asked for a break. He heartily agreed, asking for some water. I pushed him forward against the bed, my dick slipping out as he fell face-first into the bed, grinning.

I lumbered into the kitchen, soaked with sweat and slick Elbow Grease as I lifted the handle on the kitchen faucet with the top of my forearm. Hector came behind he and hugged me tightly just as I reached for the bottle of dishwashing liquid
“You play rough, like me. I like you”
“You’re pretty special yourself, baby.” Rubbing my hands into a lather, I twisted my head and opened my mouth, seeking his. We kissed briefly and smiled.
He looked over at the pot of brown water on my stove, four round pillow bags resting on the bottom. We had discussed the tea over the phone earlier.
“You need some more?” Hector passed me a couple of sheets of paper towel so I could dry my hands.
“My glass is over there” I pointed toward the desk with my nose. Hector fetched it and I filled it with the tepid tea from the pot.
Going to the fridge to get his water, I asked “Do you smoke cigarettes?”
“No…why? You want one?” Hector picked up my open pack of Parliaments sitting on the counter.
“Yeah. You mind?” I handed him a bottle of water.

We went into the garden and he took a cigarette from the blue box, put it to my lips and lit it with the lighter he’d found on the counter.

“What’s that music you play?”
“Mostly old stuff, but some of it’s new. You like it?”
“I’ve never fucked to it before. It’s got some great energy.”
“When I go over someone’s place, they’re either playing porn or Trance. I hear Trance all night at work,” I made a face. “And porn’s not really necessary for me most of the time. This is different.”
“It’s very exciting.” He put his arms on my shoulders. “Like you.”
Then he looked at me with a mild concern. “You need more tea? I’ll get it.”
I grinned and let out a little laugh.
“Yeah…that would be great.”

Back in the bedroom we twisted and crawled all over the bed, soaking the sheet with sweat and Elbow Grease, exploring and pushing each other into ever-greater heights of depraved delight. Perhaps another hour had passed (and several more glasses of tea consumed) before I looked into his eyes and asked if he were ready.

His eyes danced with exquisite anticipation as we marched into my showerstall. He grabbed the shower head and bent low at the waist as I approached from behind. His hole was wide open as I entered him and rode him roughly, feeling a tingling and urgency I’d never associated with fucking previously. Edging and holding while pushing and attempting a release, my urgency finally overcame me and I began streaming load after load of hot urine into his lower digestive tract.

To be continued…

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 6: Collar & Leash, Dawg's Tale (Part 2)

2006-12-20T16:22:00.000+11:00

About a week later Dawg sent me a message on Mancunt, asking me if I’d help him move. As I knew that my landlord had ultimately rejected his application, I asked where and when. The address he gave was actually rather close, about a mile away, and the date was the coming weekend, which, of course, I’d be working. Telling him that I’d provide whatever assistance I could, I asked him to call me with the specifics, but he never did.

But the following week he did call to invite me over to his new place. I was honored, as his profile is very clear that he never hosts, and any attempt I’d made to see his old place was met with fast excuses. I took it as a sign that maybe, at last, we could spend time together not focused exclusively on sex. I was elated at the prospect, and he gave me directions, asking me to come by at midnight. Unsure how long the walk might take (and over-estimating, as usual), I was a couple of blocks away twenty minutes early. I saw a 7-11 and went inside. I purchased a Powerbar for myself, some Gatorade for the house and, in a moment of whimsy, a rather expensive bar of Swiss dark chocolate for Dawg. Consuming the Powerbar on the way, I just had time to pop some gum in my mouth before finding myself in front of his new home.

In SoFla it is very common for a property to be composed of a house (of varying dimension) and a small cottage out back. In a reversal of the usual, Dawg lived in a tiny cottage near the street, the dark bulk of a house in the shadows beyond. The front yard was landscaped with numerous potted plants and an inoperative fountain, the whole thing surrounded by a picket fence. The driveway was filled with various cars and I wondered if, for a moment, he was having more than me for company. I opened the gate and knocked on the door.

My knock started a frantic barking inside, which almost drowned out a faint voice within. As he opened the door, Dawg asked if I’d closed the gate. Nodding that I had, two small, yapping dogs raced through the opening and greeted me in the yard. Names were mentioned (and quickly forgotten) as I offered each my hand to sniff before giving them each a pat on the rump. The Yorkie grabbed hold of his tail and spun in circles at my feet while the puppy, unimpressed, ran to a potted plant and lifted his leg.
“That’s quite a trick.” I smiled, pointing to the gyrating Yorkie.
“He’s nervous…started doing that a while back.”
I nodded.
“Dunno know why he does that.”
“Ever get him checked?”
He ignored my question and bid me to enter, calling to the dogs who quickly followed.

We entered a thin room, maybe twenty feet long. To the right was a small loveseat, armchairs left and right. On the wall hung a very fine contemporary painting of trees somewhat abstracted, thick with impasto. To the left was a pine armoire that had been outfitted for a TV but which now held his laptop and an HP All-In-One, along with stacks of discs and books, mostly of the college textbook sort. Between the loveseat and armoire was a large pine trunk, much too tall and large to serve as the coffee table he’d intended. Beyond was a tiny table with two chairs, of specious wood lacquered a bright white and beyond that, up a step, was the sort of kitchen one might encounter in a cheap beach house let by the week. The counters were covered in linoleum that was peeling around the chrome edging holding it down. The stove was the very least expensive model possible and the fridge ancient. I passed him the bag with the Gatorade, pulling out the chocolate bar.
“A small housewarming,” I said. “I hope you like dark chocolate.”
“Thanks, I do.” He said, placing it up on a shelf and putting the Gatorade in the fridge. “Come see the bedroom.”

I followed him into a small room dominated by a mattress and boxspring sitting on the tile floor under a thin cotton rug. The only other of furniture was a dark lingerie chest next to the door and Moroccan-type brass trays on thin wooden stands that acted as nightstands. Against two walls were dozens of empty painting-sized picture frames, most seemingly quite old, leaning against each other in a rough composition. The nightstands and lingerie chest were covered with clocks of all descriptions, most inoperative judging by the times they showed. On the far side was a small closet bursting with assorted leather goods. Over the closet door was a shelf arrayed with boots and heavy shoes. I noticed his BA diploma from Northwestern hanging on the wall.

Nodding around, I told him that it was all very nice. Asking me back into the living room, Dawg offered me a drink of the Gatorade I’d brought. Taking the glass, I asked about the painting.
“George did that,” he answered, pulling a framed photograph from the armoire. The picture showed a gentleman in his late fifties sitting on a sofa next to an implausible Dawg, wearing a Chicago-winter sweater and sporting an $80 haircut, blown-dried and parted neatly.
“I met George when I was in my early twenties. He taught me everything I know. He died about five years ago.”
I looked intently at the strange faces smiling out from behind the glass, trying to glean a personality, but came up blank.
“You must have loved him very much.” Looking into Dawg’s face I continued: “I lost a lover to AIDS when I was thirty-two…your age. It almost killed me. We lived together in Paris.” I sighed, thinking how long ago that was.
Dawg replaced the picture on a shelf covered with others, all happy smiling people, all dressed for winter.
“Is that how you got it?”
I gulped my drink. “Nah…I doubt it.”
I was turning wistful despite myself; Jean-Marc seemed so awfully far away at that moment, and I felt strangely alone and insecure.
He touched my arm. “I didn’t know.”
“How would you? I rarely discuss it…Hey, it was a long time ago.”

He sat on the loveseat and motioned for me to join him. I curled into his arms and snuggled closely. He smelled good, like my Dawggy, all mansweat and leather. Pulling up my chin, he gave me a long kiss, reaching under my tank and giving my right tit a tweak. I pulled away long enough to wipe a hand across his head, feeling the short, pointy hair, so soft when rubbed. Smiling softly, I went back to the smooch and rolled on top of him, pushing my hands down into the gap of his pants above the ass. Yorkie began barking and spinning again. Dawg flashed a look at him and suggested we move into the bedroom. Nodding in agreement, I stood up on my heels in the small space allowed by the enormous trunk. He followed me in, closing the door.

Falling on the bad, I immediately noticed the high quality of his sheets. They were crisp and cool, a high-thread cotton finely woven, freshly washed. His pillows were all down and crunched to nothing under the weight of my head. Dawg carefully undressed me, sweetly and without hurry. Studying my chest, he rubbed my abs with the calluses on his fingers before sucking hard on my left tit. I followed by pulling off his layers, pausing to inhale the deep musk of his pit before reaching at the ass under his pants.
We were naked and embraced in our usual tumbling roll when he reached down with a dry hand and began pulling at my dick.
“Get some lube.” I suggested.
He nodded and jumped off the bed, opening the top drawer of the lingerie chest, digging around. “Hmm…I don’t…” opening the second drawer “seem to…have any.”
I made a face.
“We can get some.”
“Where, at this time?” I was more curious than anxious.
“They sell it at The Ramrod. It’s right around the corner.”
My face brightened. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”

We were making our way to the Ramrod when a police cruiser drove up and pulled over, the passenger side electric window lowering with a hum.
“Hey, B***, what’s up?”
Dawg replied that we were going out for a drink and introduced me to the cop, who was in his early forties, balding and wiry thin.
The cop began a jovial discussion of a hold-up that had just taken place down the street, being very familiar and, while seemingly totally straight, obviously cruising Dawg. Leaning into the cruiser’s open window, he responded with a nervous jollity, laughing at the right moments and responding where required. I took a half-step back into the shadows, unsettled by what was happening. It wasn’t jealousy so much as concern. Knowing that Dawg was frequently (if not generally) on some sort of illegal substance, the cop’s friendly tone and attentive interest unnerved me. My limited experience with Ft Lauderdale’s finest had left much to be desired, they had all proven to be small-town hicks with guns. Finally the conversation ended with waves all around and he pulled away.

“He has a thing for me…been stalking me since I moved here.”
“What do you mean ‘stalking’?”
“Comes by at all hours…sometimes he parks outside my house and just sits there.”
I collected my cool and didn’t ask particulars. With Dawg’s various kinks and issues, it might have been a uniform thing, it could have been an authority thing, it probably was a danger thing. All I knew was that a cop was interacting in a highly inappropriate manner with someone of Dawg’s ilk, and it rattled me deeply. We walked the rest of the way in silence.

The Ramrod has a small retail shop just inside the door, selling the usual assortment of toys and videos in addition to an exhaustive stock of lube, from KY to Crisco. Not expecting a pit stop, my clothing was selected for easy removal, not a leather bar: I had on flip-flops, with board shorts and a thin tank. I looked like I’d just come off the beach and contrasted sharply with Dawg’s heavy leather outfit. The clerk was chatting up a pair of grizzled bears who were dressed in chaps, their bellies making a mockery of any suggestion that their vests might ever close. Surveying the goods, we quickly decided on Elbow Grease Original. I raised a hand flagging the clerk over. While I was getting the lube, one of the bears came over and pawed Dawg like a new toy, all grabby and constricting. He outweighed me by well over a hundred pounds, and my outfit made me feel vulnerable and (nearly) naked. In another situation I might have spoken up, but at that place and time I felt powerless and tiny and incredibly queer and fey. Besides, I was still trying to make sense of the scene with the cop. Sending me a couple of looks, I was able to do little more than tell Dawg that we had to go, and eventually the bear relented. As we beat a path to the door, he turned to me and asked:
“Did you want a drink?”
“No,” I quickly replied, “Did you want to stay?”
“Gawd no!” He gave me a quick hug across the shoulders and we were on our way back to his place, relieved.

We were nearly at the turn to Dawg’s street when the cruiser pulled up a second time, blocking our path.
“Found the punks who robbed that store. They were carrying these.” The cop pointed to several half-gallons of orange juice. “Want one?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“So, what are you boys up to tonight?” There was a menacing quality to the question as the cop handed us a stolen jug of juice. The question was not jovial.
“Just heading home. Thanks for the juice…” There was an edge to Dawg’s voice as well.
The speaker on the radio inside the car started squawking and the cop responded gruffly. “Best head straight home…”
“It’s right here…yes sir.”
The cop jerked the car into gear and sped down the dark, residential street.

Needless to say, the evening was hardly as I would have chosen it, what with the shades of dead lovers, weird cops, aggressive bears and all. Our trip to get lube, as well-intended as it was at the time, served as a series of distractions, and my libido does not recognize vulnerability as a response trigger. The humiliation was complete when nothing, not the lube, not the promise of Dawg’s well-trained ass, nothing, would stir me to excitation. All I wanted was to drift to sleep wrapped in his arms, which we eventually settled into, he spooning against my back. Any disappointment on Dawg’s part was completely masked in a sweet fog of drowsy intimacy. We were nearly asleep when there came furious rapping at Dawg’s front door, which caused us both to jump and gasp.
“Stay very still. Don’t move and he’ll go away,” he whispered into my ear, pulling me close.
I didn’t dare ask if it was the cop or someone else. I just closed my eyes and let the sleep come.

I was awakened by a smoke detector blaring in the next room. Dazed, I jumped up and found Dawg in his kitchen, scraping at something over his stove, smoke thick in the air.
“Hope you like pancakes.”
Rubbing my eyes, I told him that I love them, but that he didn’t have to bother. The dogs began shouting their morning greeting, with the Yorkie grabbing his tail and beginning a spin.
“Oh, no bother.”
The chaos of barking dogs and smoke belied his assertion somewhat, but it made me chuckle. I made my way to the bathroom and shook out a piss.
“What,” I asked, crossing back to the kitchen “Are you cooking with?”
“My pans are still packed somewhere, so I improvised.” He pointed to an aluminum baking pan sizzling on the stove. “Here, yours is ready.”
I stared at a plate of blackened pancake batter swimming in syrup being offered and thanked him. For no particular reason I chose the oversized trunk as a good place to sit and eat and, picking up the fork provided, took a mouthful. It was dreadful, dry and sticky and missing a key ingredient that my sleepy head didn’t name but recognized. Dawg came over and offered me a tall glass of the cop’s OJ, which helped me to swallow the burnt-yet-raw batter I was pushing around the plate. The sound of a truck pulling into the gravel driveway came from outside, followed by a knock on the door. Suddenly aware of my nakedness, I hurried into the bedroom and pulled on my shorts.

Dawg’s voice shouted as I heard the door creak open. In the space of time it took to find and put on my shorts, the puppy had located my plate and evidentially found its contents more appetizing that me, though not much. I hurried back in, apologizing for the carelessness in leaving food within the dog’s reach.
“He almost got it all.” Dawg said, still scolding his pup.
“Nah…just a bite.” I smiled and took the plate back.
Standing in the door was a thin, attractive straight man in his mid-twenties. We were introduced and shook hands as he took a seat on the loveseat. Peering into the driveway through the open door, I saw a large truck with a landscaping company’s name stenciled in its side, the bed filled with plants.
“We gotta run soon,” the guy stated. “Gonna be a busy day.”
I finished up the plate and got dressed as they carried on a very work-oriented conversation, discussing the challenges of the workday ahead.

Making the short walk home, my head buzzed with opposing concepts. The landscaping job was evidentially genuine. Dawg had told the truth on that one, which suddenly made me feel guilty for not having believed him. But it was all too implausible and a bit Flashdancish- Stockbroker turned landscaper by day/leather denizen drug-shooting powerbottom by night. One and one do not make five, and there were many parts of the puzzle still left opaque. The cottage was furnished very nicely (for the most part) but all of the really fine things had an inherited quality, as if he were using someone else’s things. The fabric on the loveseat, for instance, was expensive and fine, if somewhat fussy…what a woman would call “masculine”. And I just couldn’t picture Dawg hunched over fabric swatches. And then there were all those empty frames and stopped clocks…

Although I saw no evidence of drug use in the cottage, I wouldn’t really know what to look for, and wouldn’t have snooped even if the chance had arisen. Yet, whenever I asked someone online if they’d met Dawg, the answer was always the same: Sweet guy but troubled and drug-addled. He had an infamous reputation. And, of course, I’d seen him both buzzing-high and trance-stoned, even if I chose to ignore it. He’d mentioned rehab once, during one of our first encounters but never since. If not forthcoming, he never lied about his drug use but I’d never inquired. I asked myself the futile question of how much is too much, then stopped myself from answering, knowing the truth. Dawg was playing with fire, especially with that cop. What was he trying to prove? Or was he stuck, trapped inside a scene he couldn’t control, but which could only end poorly?

Making my way home, what really hit me was the breakfast, so sweetly intentioned and so horribly executed. He had made the effort, though. The idea that the plate of “pancakes” was an attempt to bring the normalcy of domestic happiness back into his sphere of reference choked me with sudden emotion. As his cooking supplies hadn’t been unpacked after more than a week, it was obvious that he didn’t cook often. Yet he’d cooked for me. I was deeply touched and moved by the gesture. And if I hadn’t been already, I fell in love that morning.

Arriving at home that morning, I made a big pot of tea and sat at my computer, staring at a blank Word document for almost a half hour before I began typing:

6/25/06
Dear B***,

I sometimes wonder how much of the intimacy I feel when we’re together is a projection of some kind of longing on my part and what is a shared bond of real emotion. I’ve never really handled being alone very well for very long, but I tend to tangle what I want and what is real until they are nearly impossible to separate. I’m trying to avoid that with you, but it’s sometimes difficult to tell, so I’ll need your help a little bit in straightening everything out.

You have met me at an especially challenging and difficult time in my life. Almost everything that I’d ever held important to me and my persona has been stripped from me. My career is history, my confidence shattered, my possessions given away or otherwise lost. Much of my sense of right and wrong has become so relativistic as to be rendered meaningless as a moral compass. To say that I’m adrift is both a tired cliché and a recognizable depiction of my current state. At times I feel the only things that remain of me are my mind and my libido, and both of these things have been capricious as well.

I have had many relationships in my life, of different types and flavors. Some involved joint-checking accounts and shared living arrangements, plans for a future and the acquisition of much stuff. Others were fleeting and more diaphanous, with no clear boundaries or rules beyond our respect and lust for each other. Occasionally there was a bleed-through of one type into another, shifting and overlapping with the various commitments I’ve made in my life. At this moment I can’t honestly say that one type can claim superiority over the other, as each has is strengths and obvious weaknesses.

I’ll also share a secret with you: I am the subject of something of a curse, as are my sisters. We three live with something that I have called “The Love Curse” and I shall someday write a book of that title. I predict that it will be the breakthrough gay book that is so universal and so popular that it will shatter stereotypes and myths and lead to a greater understanding of how we live, love, and fuck. It will probably be made into a mediocre movie that everyone will compare disparagingly to the book.

Anyways, the curse is an odd thing to be burdened with. I inspire intense feelings, often expressed as love (with all its attending baggage) in people who have met me briefly (at times no more than a matter of minutes) and/or who don’t know me at all. It is demoralizing to me, because it distorts and twists the true meaning of love and makes sharing real feelings very difficult, as these people seem to be in an unrealistic fog of unrealizable expectations. When, at last, they discover that I’m just another guy (with demons and eccentric habits) who is both straightforward and complicated, the “love” takes on more sinister aspects.

My last partnership lasted for nine years and ended with death-threats and the wholesale loss of so many material possessions, as well as the ruination of my financial well-being. That was almost two years ago, but I’ve yet to shake the implications of what happened. In these last two years I’ve met many guys who seem under the curse, most of whom want to “take care” of me after a short acquaintance. I ran away from these entanglements as quickly as I could, as tempting as some of them were in theory, because in practice they would have been just impossible to maintain. Last September I met someone who didn’t seem to be under the spell of the curse, and was oddly pulled in. He seemed to offer the chance to explore real intimacy without the burden of unrealistic expectations and the instant affections that mar so many of my interpersonal dealings. But, in the end, it wasn’t because he wasn’t in love with me, it’s that he was a slave to his demons of drugs, compulsive sex and his inability to tell the truth to me or anybody else (most especially himself). In seeking relief from the love curse, I found someone incapable of any kind of love, which went a tad too far. And even as I write this, I know that as deceitful, selfish and impossible as he was, he tried to love me just enough for it to break my heart.

I first joined Mancunt to catch him in the act, so to speak, but never did. See, throughout the six months we were together, he and I never had real sex, just some unsatisfactory, rushed JO and occasional oral, never lasting more than 3-4 minutes. But his demeanor was totally sexualized, relentlessly so. I knew that he had experiences outside of the tight leash we lived on (there was abundant evidence), but could neither make him tell me the truth nor see me as a desirable object of his sexual passion. This bit hit me especially hard, because no matter what else has befuddled my life, I’ve always been certain of my sexual allure.

This is where you come in. You hit on me before I’d posted any pictures or even completed my profile. It struck me as slightly ludicrous that you would be attracted with so little of me revealed. You are very beautiful. When I finally responded to your overtures and you came over that first time, I was astounded by you, your energy, your drive, your looks, your acquiescence. I presumed that there was something hidden, something secret about you. Frankly, my first impression was that you had a daddy or master who sent you out on dalliances only to profit by the results when you got back. Not wishing anything more involved than a sexual relationship, I accepted that you had a bigger life that wasn’t “Dawgpound” and shrugged wistfully. As I have nothing materialistically or monetarily to offer you, I figured that you were beyond my reach.

I did try to initiate rendez-vous beyond early-morning booty calls with offers for dinner and several attempted phone calls which went unanswered and unreturned. These confirmed in my mind that you were unavailable beyond the proscribed limits of our encounters and I shook off any other pretenses. As Manhunt is, really, a very small place, I asked about you here and there and heard various interesting stories that essentially confirmed what I already knew about you, but added no new parts to the puzzle. You have a number of ardent admirers here and there, but remain enigmatic.

I heard tales of rampant drug use, which I took both with a grain of salt and accepted. My own history with drugs is complicated. I used heavy drugs recreationally as a kid, but stopped at the age of 23 when real life and the necessity of providing for myself outweighed the fun. I suffered a series of accidents which exposed an underlying arthritic condition in my neck when I was 41, that left me bed-ridden for almost six months and on a cane for months after that. Under the care of a Pain Specialist, I went from Morphine to Fentanol and Valium in huge and ever-increasing doses. I spent several years dependant upon these medications, and the eventual withdrawal was harrowing and has left me with rather high daily pain levels which I now control with Ibuprofen. There is some slender piece of myself that knows, no matter what pain I’m in (and at times it’s intense), I’m better off dealing with it. The meds never really controlled it for very long anyways, but left me so muddle-headed that I made a series of catastrophic decisions leading to the cancellation of my health insurance and my dependency on Ryan White funding for my HIV meds, the income restrictions of which rendering me permanently poor and bankrupt. This has left me vastly demoralized and clinically depressed, occasionally suicidal (although I’ve never attempted, only contemplated it).

When I speak of the drug habits of my six-month ex, it can come off as somewhat prudish or judgmental. In truth, it was his closed mind and heart that ripped me up, his betrayal of me involved dishonesty. The meth that he’s smoked for so long (eleven years or so by my reckoning, perhaps more) has rendered his brain incapable of producing Dopamine naturally has left him dour and moody. His only escape to pleasure involves sparking up the glass pipe. But because he hid all that from me (and denied any involvement strenuously when I confronted the obvious evidence), I was never allowed access to that part of him. And with the joy he got from Tina came compulsive sex, which I was barred from experiencing as well. Why he chose to keep me on a shelf like a porcelain teacup will remain something of a mystery, but it must have fed one or another of his needs to perceive me that way.

Look, I have no false illusions about anything. I am a big boy with my eyes wide open. I understand that we each have demons chasing us. I myself have many, not the least of which is a self-destructive streak that occasionally gets the upper hand on my more reasonable nature. And, as I’ve said previously, I have nothing to offer beyond my (occasionally cloudy) mind and capricious libido, so insistent at some times, so absent at others.

But you sound deep chords in my spirit. I crave your presence in my life. I want to trust you, but I have no real desire to possess or control you. I just don’t want you to repeat the mistake of others presuming that I am incapable of handling the truth, raw and unvarnished.

I seek a deeper level of understanding with you, and believe that you would like the same with me as well. Open the door and let me in. I take nothing for granted, ever.

Trust me, B****. I’m real. Given half a chance, we can learn deeply important lessons from each other.

Bucko

* * * * * *
From: Buckob
Subject: Check your mail
Date: Sun Jun 25, 2006 01:30 PM

> On Sun Jun 25, 2006 01:30 PM, Buckob wrote:
>
> I've sent you something from bucko****@gmail.com.
>
> Please read it carefully. It took me a while to write it.

* * * * *

From: dawgpound
Subject: Re: Check your mail
Date: Mon Jun 26, 2006 01:55 AM

> On Mon Jun 26, 2006 01:43 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> are you there?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Mon Jun 26, 2006 01:45 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> Hey. I'm here. What are you doing?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Mon Jun 26, 2006 01:48 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> was just getting ready for bed, you?
--------------------------------------------------
> On Mon Jun 26, 2006 01:51 AM, Buckob wrote:
> I was hanging out, chatting with pals, flirting and waiting for your
> reply.
> -------------------------------------------------
> On Mon Jun 26, 2006 01:55 AM dawgpound wrote:
>
> i take some time to reply to letters like that; I need to process it > and
> formulate
> my reply such that I feel as if my thoughts and feelings are > accurately
> expressed.
> it was a beautiful letter, and I want to thank you for taking the
> time to sit down and put into writing (beautiful writing i might add) > how you
> feel.....few people can do that.
> --------------------------------------------------

I had to subliminate my anxiety about Dawg’s potential reply, otherwise I’d have crawled right out of my skin. His strange, stilted response did little to put me at ease, and as days passed into weeks with no reply, I found my efforts increasingly worthless. I’d fantasize about his showing up at my job, all tortured and needing to talk. I took to sleeping with my phone on the nightstand, ready for the text or call that he might send but never did. At first I imagined that he was laboring carefully over a reply that contained just the right mix of caution and hesitation, pragmatic but hopeful. Then I feared that I’d misread the situation and that all he’d ever want from me was a hard dick at 3:00 AM.

I bargained with the spirits that, if only they could assist Dawg in crafting a letter, or induce him to call me, I’d be braver, apply myself better, be more attuned to them… I’d go back to the gym, get more rest and eat better. I’d lead with my head rather than follow my heart if that was what was required. In my bargaining, no sacrifice seemed too spartan, no appeal unreasonable.

I saw that he was seemingly always on Mancunt. Generally he’d appear around 11:30, his icon (all leather and Fu-Manchu moustache, tattoos and bulging muscles) would slowly drift down through my Buddy List as the evening wore on. I’d leave messages, non-committal and friendly, that were never opened. At least once a week I texted him “Good night” or “Be well”.

Time passed at a furious clip, with work and play being joint loci for my energy. My hours, which had never been very regular, became extreme. I rarely dragged myself to bed before 4:30, occasionally much later. If I’d had no luck on Mancunt that night, I’d catch the early birds. Sleep would come in marathons after having been neglected for days. More than a few times, I’d rack up several encounters in one night, or attend parties where the bottoms always seemed to outnumber the tops (thanks, Tina). I got many “referrals” from guys, usually fistbottoms, who’d heard of my patience and fearless stamina, and I changed my profile to include the lines:

“When I read D&D free, I take another puff from my cigarette and say ‘Oh well…’”

And

“Expanding limits seems to be a specialty lately, got any you want pushed?”

* * * * *

From: dawgpound
Subject: Re: can you come over now?
Date: Fri Jul 21, 2006 04:20 AM

> On Fri Jul 21, 2006 04:20 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> >?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Jul 21, 2006 04:21 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> I’ll be there in 20 mins. Just have to walk over
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Jul 21, 2006 04:22 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> call a cab
> ill pay for it
> you have cash to pay the driver and ill reimburse you
> when you
> come inside?
> addres is *** NE 15th st
> door will be open, come on in
> --------------------------------------------------

Chainsmoking as I waited outside for the cab to arrive, I marveled at the spirits for their (teasingly tardy) reply to my pleas. I’d be careful to not project too much neediness yet not be too aloof. I chuckled to myself, wondering if Dawg ever went through such mental contortions before arriving at my door. Probably not, I decided. He’s a stone skipping across space, a force of nature, bigger than the sky yet small enough to fit in my hand. Which game is on the agenda tonight? Shall I be the Drill Sarge and he the Raw Recruit? Maybe the Stern Dad/Juvenile Delinquent in need of a spanking? Which scenario proposes strangulation, anyway? The purposeful pots of tea I’d consumed throughout the night pushed at my bladder and buzzed in my brain. Fresh outrages seemed ripe for the plucking. As it says on his profile:

“Love is…committing a crime.”

The cab slowed down as it turned on my street, scanning the dark houses for my number. It was Dawg who’d re-introduced me to the glamour of taxicabs, bringing me back to my carefree days trolling the bars and streets of Boston and New York, so very long ago. My mind raced quickly through times past (and projected) as I waved the driver over. I felt young and vital and carefree and oh so brave, brazen and unique, endowed with a mental acuity few possess at those dreamy hours preceding sunrise. And I was happy, deliriously happy.

Stepping into the cab, I recognized the driver from other nocturnal adventures and bid him a good morning. Reading from a slip of paper with Dawg’s address scribbled on it, he let out a funny laugh and repeated what I’d just said, asking if I were sure.
“Yeah, that’s it…something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. But you’re the third guy I’ve driven over there tonight. Whassit… some party goin’ on at B***'s?”
I inhaled a measured breath. “Well, I guess I’ll find out when I get there, won’t I?”
For some perverse reason, that made the driver laugh uproariously.

The cottage seemed still and quiet as I opened the latch to the gate in the picket fence. I couldn’t see any lights on and wondered suddenly how long I’d been musing before the cab showed up. Turning the doorknob and giving the door a push, I saw that everything was lit by perhaps a half-dozen pillar candles. The room seemed disheveled, with a toss pillow on the floor, chairs turned around and plastic cups littering the trunk and tables. Making my way inside, Dawg emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed and looking bleary. His eyes were red and swollen and his posture seemed to signal defeat with each step. He pulled the corners of his mouth into a tortured version of the beaming smile I’d seen so often.
Very quietly I said “I’m glad you asked me to come.”
“It’s my birthday today.”
“Happy birthday.”

We stood about five feet from each other. I wanted to run over and hug him hard, but something in his demeanor suggested that I shouldn’t, and an awkward air settled between us, lasting several silent seconds.

“Your e-mail…your e-mail was…”
I sighed. “I never should have sent that.”
“Oh no, oh no.” There was vehemence to his contradiction. “It was beautiful.”
“I was afraid that I’d said…something wrong, something that made you uncomfortable.”
“I never said that.”
“I never wanted…”
“It was beautiful.” Dawg seemed to mark a perimeter five feet from my position as he moved. “But that word…I never expected that word.”
I paused and looked down, scanning the e-mail in my head for the word that set him off, but came up blank.
“Word? Which word?” My heart raced and my throat closed.
Dawg turned toward the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Whatever you got.” Watching his back move as he walked, I asked again:
“Which word?”
“Relationship”
He handed me a cup of juice.
I blinked several times, trying to remember the context in which I’d used “relationship”, but came up blank. I was confused.
“Maybe I said too much.”
“I never said that.”
I sipped my drink. His tone was odd, unexpected. My mood had evaporated, replaced with uncertainty. I looked deeply into his bloodshot eyes and said quietly:
“Let’s see what happens. I just felt…I just feel…” Be brave, an interior voice encouraged “…when you feel something, it needs to be said. And I said it.”
Dawg approached me:
“I’m glad you did.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed me gently on the lips and we went into the bedroom. As I helped him undress, I looked for tell-tale signs of earlier play but found nothing. He smelled like his randy usual self, very manly, rather ripe, but not cummy or slippery with lube. Whoever it might have been earlier in his cottage, he had remained dressed.

But Dawg was bushed, dog-tired. I took him in my arms as we lay together, stroking and kissing and we drifted into sleep.

I awoke with a start. Dawg was fully dressed, leaning over the bed.
“Go back to sleep. I left your breakfast on the counter. Just let yourself out, the door will lock automatically.”
I smiled a bleary smile and thanked him, rolling over.

I stirred around ten, hearing the dogs barking in the other room. Shaking an unremembered dream from my head, I made my way to the bathroom with an urgent pee. Looking down on the tiled floor, I spied two good-sized turds on the rug and the stench of dried urine filled my nose. Maneuvering carefully in the small space, I lifted the lid on a filthy toilet. Making a small face, I directed the stream on a couple of clumps inside the bowl but failed to dislodge them.

Walking into the main room, the dogs greeted me with barking, the Yorkie doing his spinning trick. Looking at him in daylight, I noticed that he was missing a substantial amount of fur from his rump, his underbelly matted and dark with neglect. I wondered when he’d last seen a vet.

Making my way up to the kitchen, I saw a plate of French Toast sitting on the counter, amid many days worth of dirty dishes and various food containers, some empty, others not quite. One of SoFla’s larger roaches was making a path across the backsplash linoleum. The double-basin sink was overflowing with bowls and cups and plates, the right basin filled with stagnant water almost to the rim, dishes piled high inside. Flatware encrusted with old food stuck out everywhere, and a nasty rotting smell hovered under my nose. Whatever else he’d been doing, housework hadn’t been a priority, nor had walking the dogs. I lifted the plate he’d prepared, but decided against eating anything, settling for a bottle of water I found in the fridge.

I threw my clothes on and went out in the yard for a smoke, contemplating Dawg’s actions and words the night before. He’d reached out…I hadn’t scared him that much, which was always a good sign. The deplorable condition inside put me on edge, to be sure. Although hardly a model housekeeper myself, I’d never let anything accumulate to such extremes. Depression, neglect and a certain self-destructive streak ran through us both, obviously. Anything we might pursue had trouble written all over it, and I knew it. But I didn’t want to marry him, did I?

What was that pull, that vacant feeling whenever he wasn’t within arm’s reach? Why would I obsess on his profile and pix on those occasions when he made himself unavailable? What masochism inside me did he touch so well, and with such miniscule effort? He was handsome, of course, but so were the scores of other men I dallied with so very frequently. He was younger than my average, but not by so very much, certainly fewer than ten years younger than, say, B36 whom I adored but didn’t love. I wondered what I could have to grip onto should anything progress with Dawg. The only thing I felt, most of the time, was the void of a beseeching loneliness that I knew we shared but doubted the other could fill. But I didn’t want to control him, I wanted to explore him, and my own feelings when I was with him. We neither offered the other any calm harbors.

I went back inside with a purpose and went to work in the kitchen. Removing my watch, a stainless-steel number with a smart designer name that G had given me for my birthday the previous January, I started with the right-side basin, sticking my arm into the cold, clotted grey water and fished for the drainstop. Something oddly satisfying passed through me watching the dishes emerge from the muck, the sucking sound of the resulting whirlpool seemed energizing. The work had the marvelous effect of centering my mind, and I focused on the task at hand.

As I was preparing to leave, I pulled a piece of paper from his All-In-One and wrote a quick note:

Thanks for the French Toast, it hit the spot. In lieu of sending flowers, I washed your dishes.
Happy Birthday!

B

Carrying out a bag of trash, I let the dogs go out in the yard one last time, gave a contented look around, and shut the heavy wooden door. It wasn’t until I had thrown the bag into one of the municipal dumpsters provided that it occurred to me that I’d left my watch on the counter. Momentarily dismayed, I reassured myself that I’d retrieve it the next time we saw each other.

To be continued...

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 5: Collar & Leash, Dawg's Tale (Part 1)

2006-12-02T04:50:00.001+11:00

From: dawgpound
Subject: Re: How are you tonight?
Date: Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:14 AM

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:14 AM, Buckob wrote
>
> >What’s up?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:16 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> im tired, just starting to unwind now....and you?
> --------------------------------------------------
On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:16 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> I'm kinda beat
> A friend and I were up all night
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:18 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> all night last night?//
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:21 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> We ended up cuddling like kittens. We were up til 7
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:22 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> you crazy kids! so why arent you fast asleep now?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:23 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> Wired on nervous energy. I worked ten hours today
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:25 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> sounds like you need to release some of that energy
> --------------------------------------------------

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:25 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> Indeed I do
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:26 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> any ideas? any way i can help?
> --------------------------------------------------
On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:28 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> You can always help. Wanna come over?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:31 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> sure....ill be over shortly
> -------------------------------------------------

Much more quickly than expected, Dawg was knocking at my door. Gone was any pretense of the servile toy solider I’d met a few weeks previously. In his place was an aggressive kid who attacked me as I opened the door, grabbing me and lifting me up nearly a foot off the ground. His lips pulled at my mouth, his tongue licking at my teeth.

Pulling my head back to breathe, I apologized for not having yet showered. “I must stink of cigarettes.”
“Don’t be silly. You smell great. Hold on…”
With a steady gait he plodded slowly on his heavy boots down the hall and set me down on my bed, our mouths interlocked the entire time. Bending over me, he tore at my shorts with frantic hands.

But my subconscious reacted with a slight grip of panic at my loss of control; his hands found me soft and limp. Trying to right myself and sit up, he pushed me down with heavily muscled arms.
“Relax and enjoy this.”
I lay back as he took hold of my tits with his hands and milked my soft cock in his mouth. Closing my eyes, I tried to summon mental images of the beautiful man servicing me, but came up blank. There was no urgency at all in my feelings, and subsequently found nothing stimulating in his actions. After a few minutes of this futile effort, I sat up, smiling a wan smile.
“Take your clothes off.”
“You OK?”
“Yeah, just taken a bit off guard,” a broader grin opening up my face. “Here…stand up.”
I sat on the edge of the mattress and peeled first his shirt then T-shirt from his torso, scanning the tattoos on his chest and navel. His hardon was pushing the front of his Levis and I massaged it through the stiff fabric before undoing his belt. Opening the fly, I found his white underwear stained with deep yellow patches. He smelled as if he hadn’t showered in days, that not entirely unpleasant aroma of balls filling my nose, followed by a pungent whiff of pit perfume. Yanking the pants down to his knees, I unlaced his heavy boots and removed them as quickly as possible. When I went for the socks, Dawg asked that I leave them on him. Without spending more than a moment wondering why, I left his white socks alone, stained brown from the boots and who knows what else. Foot odor added to the pheromones thick in the bedroom air

Standing straight out, red and fierce, his small cut dick was pulsing but dry, I devoured it with an easy gulp, my nose deep in his untrimmed, auburn bush. Pulling his hands to my tits, I reached around and kneaded his round, pliable ass. Knowing that I’d find it in something of a deplorable state, I avoided the hole, content to merely giving the cheeks a couple of slaps. The urgency I’d found so lacking while in a passive role returned immediately, and I was soon drooling precum down my leg.

Standing up quickly, I opened the cabinet to my nightstand and withdrew the can of Crisco inside. With a quick wank, I was lubed and ready for the assault. Seizing his hip with my left hand, the right guided me between his fleshy cheeks and, with a groan I roughly entered him in one thrust. Breathing deeply, I used the weight of my body to move him face-down onto my bed, a Crisco-greasy hand print reflecting the light off a tribal tattoo in the small of his neck. Glancing into the mirrored closet door on the other side of the bed, I saw his face was screwed into a contortion of emotion and sensation, mine staring and intense, already wet with sweat. Lifting my left leg, I began a sawing motion, fucking as deeply as the position allowed.

Eventually the combination of a leg cramp, dissatisfaction with the shallow penetration and lack of titplay caused me to pull out and roll him on his back. Coming up to his face, I lifted his legs and re-penetrated, kissing him deeply. Feeling no need to edge or control myself, I let go after a few minutes of this and came quickly, yelling his name staring deeply into his big brown eyes, which were oddly blank in return.

Rolling me on my back, Dawg got up and lumbered to the bathroom. Hearing his stream hit the basin of my toilet, I shouted out an offer of water, which he gladly accepted. Finding my feet, I made my way to the fridge and pulled out a couple of bottles. Walking into the bathroom, I came up from behind and hugged his waist, passing an unopened bottle around. Twisting his head, Dawg gave me a kiss, shaking the last drops from his now-soft cock.

“What” he asked, “is the deal with this house?”
“Whaddaya mean…deal?”
“Is it always empty?”
I recounted him the story of the blow-hard coke fiend who’d just recently abandoned the property back to the landlord, taking only his dog and clothes, leaving the rented furniture to be collected later. Describing the space in general terms of layout and size, I asked why he wanted to know.
“I’m gonna need to move soon. I was thinking that this is a nice place.”
“Yeah,” I replied slowly, “It’s very nice.” Thinking of too many variables, positive and negative, to be unreservedly enthusiastic to the idea of Dawg’s living next door; I paused and asked “How would you afford it by yourself? They want quite a bit for it.”
“I have a buddy who’d be sharing it with me… just a friend.” I think he sensed the reticence in my tone, because he quickly added: “If you think it would be all right.”
“Yeah”, I inhaled sharply. “It’s a nice place.”
“Will you give me the number for the landlord?”
“Sure”

Following me into the bedroom, we threw on our clothes and I gave him a tour of the darkened yard, which he found perfect for his two dogs, an older Yorkie and mixed Pitbull/Jack Russell puppy. As the blinds were closed and we could not see into the house, I paced out the rough parameters of the various rooms from the outside, all of which he found suitable for his situation. Flipping open his phone to call a cab, he said he’d discuss it with his buddy and get the number from me later.

Walking back to the front of the house, he glanced at the hulking ‘92 Firebird in my parking spot. He looked at me quizzically for a moment before asking if that wasn’t my car.
“No” I replied, shaking my head and looking up at nothing. “That thing belongs to my ex, but something has happened to it and I’m not at all sure how I’m gonna get it back to Wilton Manors. It revs really high…serves him right, he never put a penny of maintenance into it.”
“Looks nice…”
“It’s a piece of shit, I’m sorry I didn’t leave it at his place when he took off.”
“He took off?”
My face screwed into a grimace. “He was hospitalized for a bad case of meth withdrawal last month and took off to his sister’s in Texas as soon as he could. “
“When’s he coming back?”
“Supposedly in a few days. I’ll figure something out, but I really don’t want to see him again. He may be Tina’s bitch, but I’m not his.”
Dawg chuckled “Tina’s bitch…”
“He’s a fucking liar. I don’t need that shit in my life.”
As the cab pulled up, he asked me again if I thought it would be OK for him to live next door. Giving him a hug, I said I couldn’t imagine why not.

I made my way back into my apartment and plopped down on the desk chair, ready to shut down the clanging guitars blaring from WMP, when I noticed that I hadn’t signed off from Manhunt. A blue box at the bottom of my screen informed me that I had several messages, so I clicked it and read through them, one being a fellow top/pal I chatted with frequently.

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:06 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> I really think that the right powerbottom might get a good > doublefuck
> out
> of
> us
>
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:08 AM, **** wrote:
>
> I know a few
>
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:10 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> Got any profiles?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:13 AM, **** wrote:
>
> have to view my buddy list and see who is still doing what
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:18 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> I just hooked up with Dawgpound. He's a regular of mine
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:23 AM, **** wrote:
>
> Yeah, B*** is adorable AND fun..............
> --------------------------------------------------
On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:26 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> Yeah. He just left. What's his story?
> -------------------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:30 AM, **** wrote:
>
> Probably you don't pty and he slams a quarter..........can't touch his > dick
> and just
> wants to btm.......ok for a bit, but NEXT
>-------------------------------------------------------------

I read and re-read his reply several times, my heart suddenly beating faster as I blinked at the screen. I’d done enough research and knew that “slamming” was injecting, presumably meth. Taking him at his word, and as someone with more experience than I at such things, I shook my head as I typed:

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:36 AM, Buckob wrote:

> Just what I > thought. He's a smart guy, but full of odd excuses and
> issues.
> I hate liars.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:40 AM, **** wrote:
>
> Thought you said he was a regular, so I didn't say anything because I thought
> you knew.
> --------------------------------------------------

I played it cool and we chatted a few more minutes, but the sweat was pouring down my back. Just before shutting down the computer, I clicked on my Buddy List, and saw that Dawg had signed back on line.

I’ll not bother relating in detail how and when I returned G’s car, but it all got accomplished hours before he was due to return home, with the help of a friend who followed me closely in case the shitbox stalled or died on the way (it didn’t). Making a final sweep of his apartment to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, I locked his door and dropped my keys into the super’s box. I’ve never heard from him at all.

But returning home that night, I noticed that I wasn’t feeling right. I was flushed, crampy and slightly feverish. Writing it off as a stress reaction from the ordeal of the car, I took a pill and fell into a black sleep. Morning brought a slight sense of relief, but I still wasn’t myself. By noon I noticed a marked discomfort while urinating and realized that I’d probably picked something up, though from whom, I hadn’t a clue. All I knew was that if I had something, I’d either passed it to or gotten it from Dawg, as he was one of my last contacts. On my lunchbreak, I tried to call him, but voicemail picked right up. Leaving a message to call me, I shook my head philosophically and went back to work, feeling increasingly miserable. Walking to the bus terminal to get home, I flipped open my phone to see I’d received no new calls, So I sent a text, asking Dawg to call me and suggesting we find something to eat together. I wasn’t worried about his reaction to my infection, but all the same didn’t want to leave it as a message.

Arriving home without having received a reply, my condition quickly deteriorated, and with a sigh of resignation, I signed on to Manhunt and sent a note to Dawg, telling him to get checked for VD and asking him to call me, then signed off and laid down. I woke up with a start around midnight, sheets soaked in sweat, the light next to my bed making unfamiliar, menacing shadows on the walls. Making my way to the desk in my kitchen, I plopped down and signed on to Manhunt. Clicking to my Buddy List, I saw that he was on and left Dawg another note. Waiting for ten minutes with no reply, I sent a note to an attractive Latino I’d hooked up with recently named Izzy, asking him to call me. I told him that I had contracted something unpleasant, and that chances were good that he had it, too. After a brief discussion, it was decided that Izzy would drive me to the ER, as I was chilled, soaked and suffering a raging migraine.

Izzy was my angel for about a week, bringing me supplies and checking in on me. The antibiotic prescribed to me at the ER was very effective, with an immediate relief from the burning I felt during urination, but left me weak and nauseated. I worked a reduced schedule: I’d vomit a couple of times before begging off. Izzy would dutifully pick me up if I asked him to, and tried in a million ways to ingratiate himself to me. As I was in such great need, I accepted his efforts without worrying too much about repayment (unusual for me), until a conversation he initiated regarding the “lessons” I’d presumably learned:
“So I guess you’ll be more careful about who you bareback now.”
“What do you mean? We didn’t use protection when I fucked you, and we’d just met, too.”
“Yeah, but I don’t party.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I was curiously defensive, considering that I don’t party either.
“You know…some guys will do anything when they’re tweaked.”
My voice took on an edge of tone. “Anything different from what we did?”
“They’re all trash, Bucko. You know that…Think about G******”
I felt as though I’d been slapped. “He’s not trash, he’s sick.”
“Then why’d you drop him so fast?”
A fresh wave of nausea rolled up my esophagus, partly from the meds, partly from finding myself in a conversation I had no intention of continuing. I lunged for the bathroom, just making the toilet before projectile vomiting.

Izzy came up and stroked my back in a misguided attempt to comfort me (don’t touch me when I’m puking). Worse yet, he continued the conversation in a new vein:
“I just don’t think condoms are always such a bad thing.”
Blowing the bile from my nose, I turned cold.
“They’re fine for those who need them,” I croaked in a hoarse whisper.
“And you don’t?”
“Not now, I’m… [cough]…abstaining.”
“You’re sick as a dog.”
“Look, Izzy, I gotta lay down.”
“Something to think about…”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.” I was scowling.
“Don’t get mad at me, I didn’t get you sick.”
“It could have been anybody, yourself included.”
“It couldn’t have been me. You’re the first guy who’s barebacked me in months.”
“You didn’t object…I made it all very clear when we met. Look, I really got to lie down.” Even lifting my head was too great an effort.

I stopped taking or returning Izzy’s calls, and eventually blocked him from contacting me on Mancunt. The problem with good guys is one is obliged to be good in their company, and I am many things, but rarely good. Give me a non-judgmental bad boy any day.

I could no longer keep up with the antibiotic that was making mincemeat of my digestive tract, and went to my regular doctor for something else, which immediately stopped the nausea. I began feeling more like my old self, signing on Mancunt again, but as I was still taking medications, thought it unwise to troll for ass and attempted to find a JO perv (surprisingly difficult there). Dawg was seemingly always on, but didn’t attempt to contact me, so I did my best to ignore his presence. Then, out of the blue, he sent me a note:

From: dawgpound
Subject: Re: hi there
Date: Fri May 19, 2006 12:24 AM
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:24 AM, dawgpound wrote:
>
> im looking for a tight pair of leather gloves to be worn and
> wrapped
>
> around my neck.....any ideas?
--------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:26 AM, Buckob wrote:
>
> I've got a great idea, but I've also got the clap.
>
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:30 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> maybe im secretly a bugchaser and would love to fuck with you with > the
> clap...
>
> my puppy montgomery is such a thoughtful puppy.....he managed to > open all of
> mail for me and took the liberty of shredding it all over the floor for me.
> sorry, digressed a bit.
> ------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:26 AM, Buckob wrote:
> Man, I miss you...
> ------------------------------------------------

My heart beat quickly as I typed out the notes and eagerly anticipated his responses. But I was stubborn in my refusal to see him. We would not have been content to just jerk each other off, and I wanted to be cleared of everything before starting up again. Dawg promised me he’d gotten fully checked out, but (like Izzy), everything came back negative. We signed off with promises of seeing each other soon.

Feeling better, I decided to make a bowl of pasta with the remainder of a jar of sauce Izzy had brought over earlier that week. As I was stirring the Angel Hair into a pot of boiling water, my phone rang, Dawg’s name appearing on the small screen on the front of my phone.
“Hey…”
“Hey…can I have your landlord’s phone number? My bud and I drove past your house yesterday and we’d like to see the inside.”
“One sec…” I located it and repeated it twice.
“Thanks. When are you gonna be better?”
“Next week…early next week. I’ll call you.”
“Cool. Thanks for the phone number.”
“No problem. You take care…”
“You too. See you next week.”

Humming along to the song playing on WMP, I absently-mindedly tossed the contents of the jar on the Angel Hair and stirred it all together, not noticing until several mouthfuls in that there was a dicey quality to the sauce. I spooned the majority of it into the trash, regretting that I’d bothered. It wasn’t until the next morning that the all-too familiar rush of nausea seized my belly and sent me running from the bed to the bathroom. I added ten days to my recovery with that nasty snack.

I had been sick with one thing or another for the entire month of May. Unable to eat much of anything during the time, I’d lost at least ten pounds, feeling weak and looking drawn and too-thin. I started a regime of heavy carbs, with all the protein I could swallow and soon was back on-line surfing for bottoms nightly. I had many lustrous encounters with many lusty guys, exploring and pushing our mutual limits to their limits (and beyond). I had long since reconciled myself to the fact that most, if not precisely all, of my consorts were smoking or booting meth, occasionally even in my presence. I had found the gnosis I had been seeking, and I let the humiliations and drama of my time with G slide into my past.

My landlord called me one morning and asked about a referral I’d made, meaning Dawg and his bud, as tenants for the house. I was coolish, especially when asked if he was “dependable”. I had no idea how Dawg supported himself, I explained (not ever really buying his “landscaping” story, not when I saw him up and on-line every night till all hours), but know him to be a very sweet guy. I truthfully replied to the question of how we’d met (online), but that I didn’t know him well, and had never met his bud at all.
“His friend is much older,” my landlord offered without my having inquired.
“Like I said, I don’t know what his finances are all about. He doesn’t have a car, but always has money. All I can say is, check out their references. I only know him personally.”
I hung up wondering who this bud was, and what would happen if they really did move in.

Dawg responded to a message I left one evening, saying he’d just scored some G and was feeling very comfortably numb. Matty was on IM with me, and I asked him what the hell “G” was. Matty quickly explained that it is a highly erratic and incredibly potent tranquilizer and body relaxant. It is especially dangerous because one never really knew the strength of the dose one would take and has led to many fatal overdoses. He warned me against trying it, until I explained that it wasn’t I, but Dawg, who had taken it and was now interested in coming over. Warning me to proceed with caution, I reassured Matty that I’d watch for problems, but really wanted to see my Dawggy again after what had been an extended absence.

About 30 minutes later, there was a knock on my door and Dawg stumbled in, dressed in heavy leather despite the oppressive humidity and So-Fla Summer temperatures both outside and in my apartment. His hair had just been cut in a high-and-tight, giving his face an innocent, boyish quality at odds with the full regalia. He carried his usual bag, unzipped to show a Gateway laptop poking out. Why he chose to bring his computer was left unasked, but I met him at the door with a hug and deep smooch, which he lazily returned, eyes vacant.
“You OK?”
“I’m great,” he smiled, “Feeling great. You look fine…all better?”
I reassured him that I felt fine and took his bag, putting it on my table. I asked him about IML, which he’d been anticipating for weeks and from which he’d returned since we’d seen each other. He was non-committal, even as I had images (left unverbalized) of him prone on a hotel bed, stoned or tweaked or whatever, braving myriad comers. Standing upright, he took me in his arms, saying he’d have had a better time had I gone.
Glancing up at my computer he smiled.

Marian (Live)

“Still playing that music, huh?”
The Sisters of Mercy were blaring “Marian”, Andrew Eldritch’s basso profoundo bellowing out of my speakers. My sister always called it Devil Worshipper music.
“Yeah, it bother you?”
“Nah,” his eyes crinkled, “It reminds me of you.”

Reaching into his bag, Dawg removed a pair of unlined black leather gloves, the sort one might wear in cooler weather with an overcoat over a business suit, rather dressy.
“Will you put these on?”
“No sweat.”
I led him into the bedroom, removing the heavy jacket he was wearing. Stretching out on the bed, still in his T-shirt, leather pants and heavy boots, he leaned against a couple of pillows and in a conspiratorial whisper bade me join him. I yanked open my board shorts with a rip of Velcro and sat buck-naked (except for the gloves) on his pelvis, hands reaching under his shirt for his nipples. The gloves felt strange, with a sense of detachment from my own hands. I leaned in and nibbled at an ear before giving him a deep, soulful kiss. Pulling my hands out from under his shirt, I cupped his throat with my right hand, gently at first.

With eyes suddenly bright, Dawg nodded and broke into a big grin, his boyish face radiantly beautiful. I slipped down to his right and rolled him on his side, a full hardon rubbing against the seat of his pants, leaving shiny streaks on the black leather. I groaned softly and pulled at the snap above the zipper with my left hand. Yanking the pants down and exposing his ass, I gave it a couple of hard slaps before meeting my right hand at his neck, around the back. I slowly twisted my hands until my thumbs met under his Adam’s apple and gripped with a light force, pushing down and in.

Dawg responded with a low, enthusiastic groan. His exposed ass rotated slightly as I released the pressure from my hands.
“Like that?” I asked.
He nodded in assent, and I continued.

The next approach to his neck had greater force and purpose, as I became more comfortable with the whole concept. My thumbs pushed hard into his larynx, releasing then pressing down again. Dawg let out a yelp and I abruptly let go, unsure if I was hurting him or not. Our eyes met, and he whispered “Don’t stop.”

My dick responded dramatically, pulsing and drooling puddles of precum between his asscheeks. His imploring, eager tone sent me into delirious fits of excitation. Resuming my grip on his throat, I pressed until he lifted an arm in protest. Loosening enough to allow him to breathe, I used the element of surprise to advantage, he never knowing when, nor to what extent, I’d close my hands around his muscular, straining neck. My response astonished me with its ferocity. I literally had a man’s life in my hands, and that fact held an intense erotic charge for me.

We passed untold time in this game of cosmic chicken, my frotting thrusts in the crack of his ass a steady piston all the while. Lost in our moment, I grew light-headed, dizzy with lust, a contact buzz from Dawg’s drug sending me into a kind of trance. My sense of control was matched only by his willingness to let go and grant me the most sacred of trusts. I stopped noticing the music coming from the kitchen and focused exclusively on our breathing, mine steady, his irregular and coming in opportunistic gulps.

I have no clear recollection of how, or when, we stopped, nor how it was that Dawg came to be completely undressed, sleeping next to me, snoring in a profound slumber. All I remember is getting up to pee, finding the lights on, door unlocked, The Sisters of Mercy were played out, my screensaver bouncing and blinking at the desk. I turned the key in the lock, snapped off the light, emptied my bladder and snuggled back in bed.

Waking with a start, the bright morning light flooded my bedroom, and I found myself all alone. The digital clock at my bedside showed 9:35 as climbed out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. He had taken his bag and left, the door shut but unlocked. While making a pot of tea, the thought occurred to me that no one I’d met online had ever spent the night here, always in such a rush to leave, on to their next bump or boot or cock, whatever. As they had been purloined specifically for sexual pleasure, their hurried exits didn’t feel cold as much as expeditious.

Yet Dawg’s case had developed differently, and aside from B36 (about whom a separate post is required) whom I was seeing with equal, if not greater frequency, there was no one with whom I’d felt such intimacy. Most especially, Dawg’s sharing with me of his asphyxiation fetish seemed to be a reaching out. It necessitated deep trust on both our parts, his trust of me the greater. I could easily have killed him.

It was at about this time that a wrinkle in my experience started taking place on Mancunt. Although never one who favored quickies, I began to edge way beyond the pale of my previous experience, building up and coming down for hours. This, perhaps, was partly due to the meth use of my choice in partners. Their endurance and inhibitions are legendary, and I can attest to the veracity of the legends. Where before an encounter lasting a couple of hours would satisfy, now an entire night was required for full satiety. Six- to eight-hour marathons became the rule, with such practices as extended toy play, double penetration and water sports now the rule rather than the exception. When someone posted a comment here that I hadn’t “a pot to piss in”, I joked with Matty that I had no need for pots with all these drugged Latinos to choose from.

So came one day in June when, to my chagrin, I burned through three different encounters within a twelve-hour period without finding any satisfaction. The first was a Colombian, far plumper than his photos suggested who approached me with a wary paranoia, despite having read my profile and driving over from another town. His unwillingness to relax and get to business led to my sending him out after a frustrating hour of abortive foreplay. The second was a man who lived two streets over, a top-versatile who was unprepared for the cyclone who knocked on his door. After a short pool-side chat, I managed a throat fucking for him but nothing substantial for me. The third encounter held greater promise and prompted me to walk a couple miles to what turned out to be an unlocked door to a darkened apartment, dance music blaring. As I approached his bedroom, I found him face-down on the bed lit by a muted TV screen playing the sort of mainstream porn that hasn’t interested me in years. By the dim, blue light I saw that he had great legs and a bubble-butt (conforming to his profile) but a face ravaged by HIV meds. Horny as hell, I fucked him hard for a while. But his fingernails hurt my tits (when I could get any action for them at all) and the entire scene was hardly my style. I eventually left, neither of us cumming, and trudged home, exhausted.

In a last-ditch effort, I signed back on to Mancunt. Dawg was there, as always, but hadn’t opened any of my notes for days. Realizing the futility of trying again, and feeling dead-tired, I signed off and went to bed. Reaching to shut off the light, I glanced at the clock: after 4:00. Sleep weighed heavily in my eyes as I heard my phone ring.

Were it anyone else, I’d have let voice mail take it, but I flipped open the phone:
“Are you still awake?”
“Yeah…what’s up?”
“I saw that you were signed on a minute ago…want some company?”
“Sure…come on over. I’ll be ready for you,”

Shaking off the sleep that had been descending fast, I took a quick shower and made some tea. Clicking on WMP, I selected a playlist of raw and raucous songs, especially noisy, and turned the volume way up. About twenty minutes later, Dawg opened the door after giving it a tap.

His demeanor was soft this time, soft and sweet. Greeting him at the door with open arms, Dawg hugged me tightly and kissed me deeply,
“I’m glad you called.”
Holding my head in his hands and looking in my eyes, he saying “I’m glad I saw you were up.” Then, with an odd look: “Are you OK?”
“Sure, why?” I smiled.
“You look tired.”
“It’s been a day.” I sighed, brushing my hair forward and back across my head, squinting slightly.

Taking his hand we moved into the bedroom. Dawg as usual was dressed in layers, as if for a walk on an autumn day in Dorchester. Sitting him on the bed, I started with his boots, unlacing them slowly and pulling them off. I couldn’t help but notice that he wore fresh socks, which I removed without comment from either of us, exposing his funny wide, pink feet with short, round toes. He was wearing a black leather vest, long-sleeve shirt, V-necked white T, heavy jeans and (again a surprise) clean underwear. Dawg smelled neutral, of nothing in particular, like he’d washed without soap. This, again, struck me as odd, but I didn’t comment. As I undressed him, he leaned back on the bed, saying nothing and making no move to touch me.

Both naked now, I climbed on the bed and we began a familiar ritual, half caressing, half wrestling, that we frequently engaged in, Dawg using enough force to challenge me but not so much that he ever overpowered me, our mouths locked. We rolled around for several minutes, through several of the songs blaring from my computer speakers without either of us taking the lead, content to feel each other so close. At one point, I lifted his arm and dove into his pit, warm but curiously neutral, chewing and sucking on the reddish hair and secret skin hidden underneath. I could feel his erection against my hips, pulsing but dry, even as my own response was tepid and unsure. My fatigue was showing the hour.

Making my way down his torso, stopping briefly at his navel to outline the Iron Cross tattooed there (a favorite landmark on his body) with my tongue. I inhaled deeply and began blowing him in earnest: no hands, all mouth and throat.
“You really like that, don’t you?”
“Your dick?” I looked up, smiling broadly, “I think it’s perfect.”
Spitting on my right hand a couple of times, I rubbed his small, hairy balls, gently tugging here and there, feeling the effect on his dick as it pulsed in my mouth, before I braved further south and felt around his hole. He lifted both legs with his hands, and I made a tentative digital reconnaissance, but neither smelled nor felt anything (a tangle of matted hairs, for instance) that would indicated that he hadn’t been thorough in his clean-up.

Separating his asscheeks with both hands, I confirmed what I’d sensed. He was clean and pink, the little lines leading into his hole pulled in a clench. He tasted sweet and fresh, so I chowed with vigor and enthusiasm, hands on his ample cheeks pulling him as open as I could, lips, tongue and teeth working to relax and expand. Dawg and I each moaned from our throats in a unison grunt.

Nothing perks me up quite like eating ass, and I was erect and leaking throughout these actions, rubbing streaks of precum against the sheet. Pulling my chest up to his lips, I fed him my left tit while stretching to open the cabinet of my nightstand, pulling our bodies together. Withdrawing a newish tub of Elbow Grease, I unscrewed the top and scooped a dollop onto my fingertips, reaching around to the hole I’d been paying such close attention to. One, then two fingers easily entered to the second knuckle, my thumb pushing an errant glob of the white paste into the fold.

Scooping up more, I reached down to my crotch, but my hardon had lost considerable momentum and was hanging above a deep puddle of precum on the sheet, sensitive but hardly rigid. Pulling on it did little. It felt good, but wasn’t helping to get it back up. I scowled and pulled his hand to my tits, but even that did little beyond irritating me oddly. He looked at me with curiosity, then amusement as he jackknifed and took my slippery, soft cock into his mouth. Minutes passed with no change, until I laid down on the far side of the bed on my back next to him, meeting his gaze in a shy smile.

Dawg laid there only an instant before clambering to his knees in front of me. Lowering himself on top of me between my legs, he kissed me deeply and with an odd force. Balancing on one hand, he reached for the open tub of Elbow Grease and helped himself to enough to grease his still-hard dick. Lifting my legs, he felt awkwardly for his prize, and I suddenly felt a finger push at my anus.

This is not the time to explain why I am a strict top, but suffice it to say that the last time I’d willingly bottomed was when still a teen, twenty-seven years ago. Perhaps it was the extreme fatigue I was feeling, perhaps it was the immense sense of trust that existed between us, but I offered no resistance to his initial efforts, none whatsoever. I remember feeling a curiosity if, after all these years, I might be able to break through the pain of penetration and experience the pleasure I knew existed for so many, if never for me.

Dawg’s inexperience as a top became apparent pretty quickly. Although I had just showered, he made no attempt at analingus at all. In fact, it took a moment or two for him to even find my hole with his fingers. Withdrawing them quickly, he steadied his dick with his right hand and pushed the head in with no preliminaries. I inhaled sharply and grabbed his hips with both hands.
“Wait a second. I’m not used to this.”
His eyes were closed and his expression was pinched, twisted in a way that I’d never seen on his face before. He opened his eyes but there was no mirth in them at all.
“Leave it there for a bit, OK?”
He nodded and came close for a kiss, nibbling at my lips. I responded, and we spent minutes locked in embrace, my legs wrapped around his waist, arms across his strong back.

That was when the vibrations started. They started so small that they felt like the mild sort of twitch one gets in one’s eye, but they escalated into something that combined the erotic quality of spasm with the regularity of a vibration. There seemed to be no one center of sensation. Rather it was as if my entire body was attuned to some frequency I’d never experienced before. I groaned into his open mouth feeling our teeth bounce together before I pulled my lips in to act as a buffer. Eventually the vibrations became so intense that I pulled my head back altogether, my groan increasing in both pitch and volume as I leaned way back into the pillows, arching my back. That was when I began to hear a tapping coming from underneath the bed. This became insistent raps, rhythmic and steady, and in my ecstasy it dawned on me that it was the sound of the post of my metal headboard bouncing on the wooden floor of my bedroom.

Instead of pushing in or withdrawing, Dawg kept exactly where he was, hugging me tightly. His glans was lodged in my anus, his head pressed tightly against my chest. It was I who eventually pulled my ass back and away from him, even as the vibrations continued with the same strength. We neither spoke, just held the other, locked in embrace. As the vibrations slowly ebbed, the music from the kitchen became audible again, an obscure and strange song from Scritti Politti, clanging and banging with an otherworldly, plaintive vocal. It was one of the transcendental moments of my life, burned into my brain forever, complete with soundtrack.

We dozed lightly still locked in tight embrace, neither wishing to break the spell. When, if ever, had I been able to sleep with a man lying on top of me? The fatigue and emotion I felt, equally as profound, fed my slumber, which was light in contrast. I felt hyperaware of every sensation even as I was in a state of rest, eyes closed. Dawg’s heavy, muscular sunburned chest moved in the rhythm of breath, deep and restful. We stayed in the exact same position until dawn’s birdsong and first rays arrived. He moved his hands first, in sweeping circles and grips, then came his head, rolling back and forth across my chest. I tightened my grip crossing his back, moving my hands down to his waist. He lifted his face to mine and whispered how he needed to leave. I just nodded.

Rambling to his feet and reaching for his clothes, he smiled over at me as I laid into the pillows, arms over my head. Pulling on the V-neck T he said:
“I really just wanted to know if you‘re really a top.”
“Now you know…”
We walked down the hall and I turned into the bathroom to pee as he opened his phone to call a cab. I lit a cigarette, offering him one.
“Call me,” I said exhaling smoke.
“Yup.” He waved without looking back as he headed for the gate to my garden.

Join the PozIntern: The International Carnival of Pozitivities

2006-07-29T00:31:00.000+10:00

Dear Mortals,

Recently the Spin Cycle had the signal honour of being the first contributing blog to the premier edition of the International Carnival of Pozitivities. ICP is a blog carnival, an event where one blog hosts a series of articles on a set topic. ICP was founded by Ron Hudson, a good friend of the Spin Cycle and one of our Preferred Perverts.

Now here's the thing. You think writing a blog like the Spin Cycle is easy? Not a bit of it. We go to great lengths to shove our righteous opinions down your ungrateful throats. Wit, grace and style are all on offer here and it's about time you lazy cunts started doing some work.

Oh yeah, it's easy for the members of the Spin Cycle Commentariat to post their pedestrian views on the utterly astounding efforts that your intrepid Bloggers undertake in this place. It's a whole different thing to produce and original piece of work in the way that myself, the Depraved Bucko, Red Ronnie the Socialist Sissy Fag and the Glorious Herman do.

The First ICP has been an enormous success. Ron Hudson has done amazing work and I am greatly honoured to have had one of my articles included in that august company.

So here's what you've gotta do. Visit the website for the International Carnival of Pozitivities and check out the requirements. Create a blog for yourself if you don't already have one and pen an article on AIDS. You don't have to be HIV positive to get your oar in the water on this one, so I don't want to hear any bitching from you spineless shits. You just have to be able to discourse on the subject of HIV. It affects ALL OF US, even the dumb fuck breeder filth who think they've gotten away with it.

Carnivals like ICP are a great opportunity for bloggers to expand their reading audience. Sure, you probably won't end up as successful as the Spin Cycle (10,000+ hits in the last 6 weeks so suck on that Meghan, you stupid slut) but you'll have done something worthwhile.

For a change.

IN SOLIDARITY

MtD

Queerer Than Thou

2006-07-04T17:12:00.000+10:00

Dearly Beloved,

From time to time your Spin Cycle correspondents don nondescript apparel and slip out into the eternal night that is the web to infiltrate the labyrinthine world of internet subcultures.

As most of you would be aware, Bucko the Depraved has of late been sodomising sex crazed latino meth-heads he recruits at ManHunt. An astonishingly selfless act on his part, he was motivated to ruin endless sets of high priced bed linen because of his commitment to providing Spin Cycle readers with quality material. We have been privileged to share in the curious and often arousing world of the immigrant manslut.

That's what kind of people we are.

Indeed Matty the Damned is similarly generous, however my journeys have been to far darker places than the cyber bath house of Manhunt. In this offering I intend to give you a glimpse into the chilling realm of the Gay Christians.

No, gentle reader, I don't mean the Uber Weenies from that standing joke of organised christianity, the Metropolitan Community Church. Nor do I refer to the spineless self loathers from the Rainbow Sash Movement. I'm not even referring to the tortured bum fuckers of the Episcopalian Church of the USA.

Some months back my good friend, De-Atrophier, referred me to the Gay Christian Network (GCN) as part of my research for an upcoming article on Ex-Gays. Immediately GCN stood out to me as something special and deserving of an article all of their own. Founded by one Justin Lee, they take themselves very seriously:

"The Gay Christian Network is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization providing
resources and support to Christians who happen to be gay, lesbian, bisexual,
or trangendered [sic]."

See? Queers are real people too! Even the American IRS recognises them. Take that Benny Hinn!!!

The Rouse: My Participation

Intrigued I applied for GCN with little expectation of success. I mean surely someone styling himself as Matty the Damned would be spotted as a trouble making atheist? Not so! Some days later, I received an email from GCN telling me my application had been approved and I could come in and get down with the other saved perverts.

Oh happy day.

Now Matty the Damned is many things, but he's no internet troll. I joined GCN to watch and learn, not create trouble. I openly applied under my standard internet identity. Anyone who googles "Matty the Damned" will find themselves back here at the Spin Cycle.

I posted no more than five times. An introductory post (I relied on my catholic heritage to fudge through that) and some "poor me, I'm so confused about what god wants" threads to quell any suspicions the eagle-eyed moderators may have had and to gain basic recognition from other members so I could participate in some of the on-line live chat sessions. More about
those later.

A House Divided Against Itself Cannot Stand

GCN is a highly organised and structured place. It has extensive message boards for members and we will take a look at those in a moment. What's more interesting is the way in which GCN members are (informally) divided up into little denominations, much like real christianity. Unsurprisingly we have:

Non denominational -- (The church isn't a building, man it's the people inside!!)

Evangelicals -- (Baptists, Nazarenes, Pentecostals and other fundie whack jobs)

Orthodox christians -- (Catholics, High Church Anglicans, Eastern Orthodox and all the other frock wearing child molesters)

White bread protestants -- (Presbyterians, Lutherans, Low Church Anglicans, Methodists, Congregationalists and the other dusty old Calvinist/Wesleyan try hards)

Messianic Jews -- (Kikes for Christ)

Miscellaneous weirdos -- (Seventh Day Adventist, Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Christian Scientists and refugees from other fringe cults)

As you would expect on a predominantly American forum the balance of power largely rests with the Protestants and Evangelicals. Non denoms get a bit of a look in, but Orthodox christians are few and far between.

Messianic Jews are an interesting bunch. Prattling on in a mixture of English and pseudo-Hebrew they seem to be Jews who accept the divinity of Christ. I suppose when Abba Elohim calls you home, who are you to refuse?

Nevertheless, the standard denominational differences between Jesus freaks is not representative of the real power divide at GCN. To understand that we have to look at The Great Debate.

In reality the gay world is all about sex. No matter how post modern we want to get about queer identity politics, the whole thing boils down to who (or what) you fuck. If having your arse pounded by a conga line of pipe smoking daddies whilst you're shackled to a dungeon wall is your thing, then you're queer my dear.

And GCN is no different. Its reason for being is all about sex. So let us now examine the real factional divide in this strange little internet community, shall we?

Known to GCN'ers as The Great Debate, gay christians polarise into two competing groups, and you guessed it, the debate is all about biblical truth.

Side A Gay Christians: Let's Get Married and Have Cats

Side A gay christians basically reject the traditional christian interpretation of certain "clobber passages" in the bible, those sections of judeo-christian scripture which are held by many to prohibit homosexual sex.Most of us are pretty well familiar with them and I won't list them here.
They include sections of Leviticus, Judges, Romans, 1 Corinthians, Acts and so on.

Nevertheless, don't be fooled. Just because a Side A gay christian thinks that hot man on man action or reciprocated muff diving is ok between consenting adults these people are not sexual subversives.

Side A gay christians almost all universally maintain that sex of any sort is only permissible in "mutually loving" and monogamous relationships that have been ordained by their god. Pornography, casual encounters whilst single, and masturbation are generally a no-no. Similarly many Side A believers, whilst dismissing the clobber passages of the bible are quick to demand a literal interpretation of other sections of scripture.

Side A gay christians are by far the dominant group at GCN. Indeed the Benevolent Dictator for Life, Justin Lee is himself keen on a bit of arse action it would seem.

Side B Gay Christians: We Love You but We Won't Fuck You

Side B gay christians maintain that whilst the homosexual orientation is not inherently sinful, sex between people of the same gender is expressly forbidden by the bible. Gay christians are called by their god to be celibate. The christian god is a real funster.

Your average Side B member is tortured by the temptations of the flesh and bonds together with his or her like minded brethren for prayer and support. Generally drawn from the orthodox and evangelical subgroups, they have their own forum, where they can hold hands (strictly platonic of course), cry on each others shoulder and look forward to paradise at Jesus' eternal dance
party. I suspect email addresses and more are exchanged behind the scenes.

Oh yeah, these people are fun.

The Gay Christian Network: Doing Christ’s Good Work One Queer at a Time

GCN is primarily a web forum. Like other forums, there are a variety of message boards and live chat sessions that members can participate in. The message boards are a pretty standard selection and include:

Introductory threads

Bible topics

Bible readings

Thoughts and reflections

Women’s issues

General chit chat

Positive thoughts (uplifting positive not queer plague positive)

There are also forums specific to members geographic locations (I’m a member of the Australian Forum), a forum for poetry (shudder) and other “creative” outpourings and as I’ve mentioned, a special forum for the Side B sexless freaks.

. . . . you get the idea.

The live chat sessions are an altogether different affair. Strictly moderated, GCN operates a special chat room where members can get together at set times to discuss issues of common interest. There are chats for members from specific countries, two specialist HIV/AIDS chat sessions, a women’s chat, a Side B chat (yup, them again) and so on.

Your intrepid correspondent participated far more in the live chat sessions than in the message boards. Specifically the HIV/AIDS chat and the Australian chat. Both, I can report, were disappointing.

The AIDS chats were pleasant enough. A handful of HIV positive guys in a chat room talking about medications, diagnosis, illnesses and other standard AIDS things. Interestingly the US immigration restrictions on HIV positive people were discussed and a Canadian member called Kenn breathlessly reported that Montreal would host a gathering of HIV positive people from
around the world in August/September 2006.

It’s a small world.

The Australian chat was altogether different. The first one I attended was pretty boring. No mentions of Jesus or the bible. Just talk about the weather, holidays in Tasmania and how one might decorate a room with a harbour view. The second was a little more robust. A Seventh Day Adventist member was very interested in knowing which church I went to, how often I prayed, what my favourite bible passage was and so on. Keen on retaining my low profile, I offered bland responses and managed to dissemble until a moderator diverted him with a talk of an upcoming GCN gathering in Brisbane.

Dissent in the Pews: Let’s Agree to Disagree

The first thing you notice when you join GCN is the creepy oppressive atmosphere of the place. It’s not just any old web forum. There are quite strict rules governing how members must conduct themselves. Allow me to give some examples:

No blasphemy or profanity or links to porn sites -- (This seems prettyunderstandable given it’s a christian site)

All users avatars must be first approved by the Executive Director and cannot be in anyway immodest – (no muscle shots, boys)

Rulings by any of the numerous moderators must not be canvassed publicly –- (A veneer of unity must be maintained at all times, Jerry Falwell could be watching)

No “flirty”, overtly sexual or other inappropriate behaviour –- (Jesus can see you playing footsies)

“Controversial” and political topics can only be posted in the forums set aside for them

That last one is quite important. Whilst most of the GCN message boards can be read by non-members and lurkers, the two most interesting ones are strictly off limits to outsiders. Hence my motivation for joining. I just had to have a peek in the Inner Sanctum.

The Controversial Topics forum is really where it’s all at in gay christendom. Anything that’s even remotely unsettling gets relegated there and it’s only in Controversial Topics (and to a lesser extent Political Discussion) that one can sees the real natures of GCN members red in tooth and claw.

The style of the topics raised in the Controversial forum go something like this:

“I don’t like fat guys, but is it unchristian not to date them?”
“Pornography: modern day prostitution”
“Foul language”
“Immigration: I’m not a racist but those darned Mexicans . . .”
“Female ordination: would YOU let a woman tell you what to do?”
“Does Satan answer prayers?”
“Ex-gays”
“Roe vs Wade: think of the children”
“Politics and the Church”
“Should I try girls?”
“The nature of God”
“Are condoms REALLY effective against STD’s”
“Gays who get HIV did it to themselves”
“Censorship on GCN"

Again, you get the idea.

Special rules govern the Controversial Topics and Political Discussion forums and member are subtly discouraged from participating there. Even when your membership is approved, you have to choose to join them in your profile. The official reason given by the moderators for these forums (and for why they’re hidden) is that heated debate scares away new members.

The poor little lambs.

The foul language thread was an especially good one. Started by an aging evangelical tub-thumper and egregious conservative queer called FloridaSon
it began with:

“I've noticed many of you use expletives on GCN...

The word

d
a
m
n

for example, has been used 192 times.

Come on people - if you can't express yourself without resorting to crude
language, you've got a problem.

I encourage those of you who use profanity to:

1. Clean up your language, at least on GCN.

2. Expand your vocabulary and your verbal horizons.

3. Remember that as Christians, we are called to be examples. Let's set a
higher standard instead of drifting to the lowest common denominator.

Many thanks!

Rick"

Yup. The prissy old fuck actually searched the message board archives for references to the word “damn”. The precious poor thing would keel over dead if he was in my company for more than 30 seconds. In fact his comments were so blue nosed that a large contingent of members objected and the GCN Administrators shut the thread down because of the discontent it generated.

In the same vein, another member (Vombatus) offered this charming view of matters queer sexual:

"Well, I would also point out that the penis is also an organ of excretion, so this argument applies to any phallic expression of sexuality, homosexual or heterosexual, including 'standard' straight sex... it is the intromission of an excretory organ into the gential region of another.

This argument presupposes that all of our bodily structures have a single purpose. So, your mouth is for tasting, not for breathing (that's what the nose is for! um, unless the nose is for smelling) or talking, or eating. It must be pointed out that the erogenous zones (which are part of sexuality as well as the genitalia) include body parts (all with other functions) that go way beyond the genitals: ears, breasts, mouths, etc. It seems rather odd to privelege the pleasures brought about by mutual friction of two specific body parts as being 'unitive', while the mutual pleasure brought by any combination of two (or more!) other body parts is just... um, physiology?"

It's a regular party over at GCN, kiddies.

People who break the GCN rules get a polite private message from a moderator asking them to pray and “consider” editing their offending comments. Although versed as a request it is in fact a thinly veiled order. Failure to comply will result in the moderator censoring the message and suspending or banning the member.

And then everyone prays.

Since I don’t post at all, this has never happened to me but it happens to the more progressive members frequently. Conservatives are rarely chided for their naughtiness. Overall the tone of the GCN forums is intensely conservative. Progressives are bludgeoned into submission by tireless reactionaries who quote scripture, refer to the gross immorality of Bill Clinton and generally rant and rave in typical conservative fashion.

Imagine Rush Limbaugh wearing a cock ring and with a butt plug wedged in place. Oh you can? Silly me.

Issues such as disadvantage, discrimination (except within the ludicrous context of “gay marriage”) poverty are rarely if at all mentioned. Which seems strange given that Jesus never seemed to shut up about the poor.

Go in Peace to Love and Serve the Lord

Being a member of GCN has without doubt been one of the stranger experiences I’ve had on the internet (with the exception of that whole Water Sports for Allah affair). A motley collection of ex-ex-gays, confused jesus freaks, unnecessarily cheerful Americans and creepy choir masters from private boys boarding schools, GCN is an unsettling and distasteful place.

I’ve come to the opinion that Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Fred Nile and all the other christian homophobes are right. There is no place for queers in the church and frankly, if GCN is anything to go by, I can’t see what we’re missing out on.

IN SOLIDARITY

MtD

Image credit: The Evil Atheist Conspiracy