Mar 9, 2014

"We just don't live in a world that celebrates the penetrated male" (Mr. E.) (reblogged)

From the celebrated blog Fifty shady gays (reblogged with the permission of the author):


While recently having a prostate examination, I had decided to make a stupid camp joke. Even though my doctor is a super lovely man, it led to one of those awkward silences that suggested that I had tumbled across an invisible line. I was lying on the examination table on my side and he informed me that he would be inserting a couple of fingers (what we in the UK call a "Kit Kat") and I remember feeling relaxed; so, for some unknown reason I had said:

"You know me, I'm always up for a cheeky finger."


For some reason I had thought that this would be okay, but as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I was reminded of the desolation wrought by a piss poor stand up comedian. It was a terrible moment of silence during which I had a chance to consider what a pain in the arse it is being a bottom in a gay man's world. I used to mainly top, but having since discovered the delights of oriental orgies and decadent fuck pits, I have been exploring the realms of my own brown Narnia. Also, it has become more apparent to me just how arrogant strict "top" men can be and how much they confuse the act of penetration with social interaction.

It's so much hassle being a bottom - we just don't live in a world that celebrates the penetrated male.


You have to watch what you eat, keep yourself clean, keep yourself dosed with potions and creams and now there's even talk of "the pill," which makes us seem even more like slutty girls from the 1960's. On top of that, the aesthetics of cleaning and preening and plucking and shaving; in fact, the expectation of way too many tops is that a bottom only exists to be fucked. Let me spell this out for you - I'm not your bitch, I'm my own man. The only reason you're fucking me is because I want you too.

A few weeks ago, I had been talking to a guy on Grindr and we were exploring the idea of fantasy role plays. He is a wealthy asian guy working in the financial service industry and living in Farringdon. He was specific about his desires and wanted darkness and silence.

He wanted me to come inside his apartment in total darkness, undress, leave my clothes by the door. On no account was I permitted to speak. There is something particularly urban about this kind of fantasy. It's something that I adore about cruising, the faceless blind groping that allows for ultimate surrender. You have to trust a virtual stranger with complete intimacy. It turns me on.




This is all well and good in the conceptual world of fantasy; however, in the harsh reality of mid-winter London, this presents many problems. In fact, all of the romantic allusions to urban alienation are niggled away by the crushingly dull practicalities of being a bottom. It is the seemingly insignificant things that ultimately render any serious scenario quite ludicrous. My full, thick coat was wet with rain, I had a dripping umbrella which puddled water all over the lobby and I dribbled in the elevator up to his huge loft.
I opened the door as quietly as possible and disrobed, leaving my clothes in a sodden pile as neat as possible. And then I was naked in complete darkness in a strange flat, trying to find the bathroom while clutching a travel case which contained all of the hot bottom essentials. On entering the bathroom I shut the door and groped around for the light switch. It's times like these you learn to hate innovation in interior design. What's wrong with a handy switch by the door? Needless to say after around about 20 minutes I began to feel incredibly stupid. As my eyes became slightly more accustomed to the darkness, I eventually made out the familiar shape of a medicine cabinet over the sink which contained a switch for a small shaving lamp.

Even with the light on, I felt like I was an intruder, so I crept around trying to make as little noise as possible. Has anyone ever tried to douche in complete silence? It echoed around the enormous space and sounded like a disastrous plumbing incident. By this point I had spent about 30 minutes getting clean, which had felt like a painful eternity. I headed back into the vast darkness of his loft.




There is something erotically charging about being watched by a stranger. It's a beautiful feeling. I was alone in the dark in unfamiliar surroundings being hunted. Naturally this was his plan. He wanted me to feel uneasy, it gave him an advantage and clearly it was that sense of empowerment which had motivated him into instigating this scenario. He had opted for a power relationship that had given him the upper hand – it would appear that I was to be conquered.

I moved with as much stealth as you can in a strange place in the dark; suffice to say, I bumped into obscure furniture and found myself in a corridor slowly walking through blackness towards blackness. I was aware that my heart was beating heavy. I could here the sounds of drunk people on Saffron hill, but the blinds were closed and no light from the street entered the apartment.

I felt breathe on the back of my shoulder and I recognised the feeling of being scrutinised. I turn around and with my hands I traced the sweat on his pecs and let my hands drop to his cock. It was an average cock and hard. It pulsed upwards with every heartbeat. He didn't move, speak or make a sound, he just stood there, breathing. I started sucking at his nipple with the my tongue, I flicked at the hardened gland and let my hands close around his waist and trace a line up his back until I was kneading his shoulder blades.




The more I played with his nipple the more I noticed his cock rhythmically pump against my lower abs, he was so hard. I moved my head up and brushed my cheek against his open mouth. I licked the side of his neck and tasted his ear. His breathing became heavier, I felt his hand slide down and he grabbed my buttock, he explored my crack and his index finger gently swabbed the lube around the brim of my arsehole. He stood solid in the dark, so much so that I could relinquish some weight into his hands and I opened my legs a little to let him grab me and greedily finger me.

It is one of the most exhilarating sexual encounters I have had for a long time.

I become conscious of the wash bag I had let fall to my feet. Suddenly, all I could think of was the condom and the lube. I bent down and as I did I felt his grip tighten and I winced as his fingernail scratched the lip of my hole. He took my hand and led me into the darkness and I was trusting him in silence.

He led me to the edge of what felt like a huge bed, but I was disorientated. Getting the condom and sachets of lube from my washbag proved easy, but trying to put the condom on him without making a sound was really difficult; in fact, it took several attempts by which point the mood had altered. He made no effort to help. His cock wilted slightly and before I put on the condom, I sucked and pushed his column up to the roof of my mouth and I gulped at him, he quickly inflated.




I climbed onto his bed on all fours. He silently grabbed me and without using his hands to guide him, he softly nudged the brim of my arse. I sensed the familiar metallic smell of nitrate. He inhaled deep, and before I knew it the bottle was open beneath my nose. I breathed deep and slow and bucked backwards, in one motion, I engulfed the full length of his cock. I puckered the lip of my arse and tightened, his length was pushing against the inside of my pelvic floor, he let out a moan. I had him exactly where I wanted him.
We fucked like this for an hour or so, the hits of poppers kept us going and the sweat made our bodies make slapping sounds, once again the fantasy of the situation was completely intoxicating. My senses were tuned into the animal pleasure of the moment, and I tingled with every brush of contact. Always the sensation of his cock inside me, testing the limits of my hole.

The fantasy ended, he withdrew and there was a faint, familiar rotten smell, not too bad, but off-putting. He backs up and speaks, which breaks the mood of the moment.

“You are dirty, you must go now.”

And who said romance was dead.

Of course this is exactly what he wanted from the situation, he wanted to humiliate me, if I had been less self confident, then I might be mortified by the whole thing. He wanted me to feel unwelcomed in his pristine world of sanitised perfection. As it is, I'm a man of the world, I understand that there are some things that you can never cheat - if you fuck an arsehole, sometimes it stinks.




Back on the examination table in a slightly chilled surgery, I stared at a blank wall and contemplated the reason behind my rather ludicrous outburst. I sometimes forget that not everyone can be so confident about their bodies. I wanted to apologise to my doctor, and I turned to look him and I see that he is trying not to laugh.

“Everything is fine back here,” he said, “you're really funny by the way, if I wasn't a happily married man, then dinner with you would no doubt be a real pleasure.”

We don't live in a germ free, perfect, sanitised world. We all have to deal with a little shit. Real men deal with it.

(The artwork throughout is from an anonymous artist discovered by Marc Debauch; Marc found the sheets, abandoned, on the grounds of a cruising area (no kidding))

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