I Survived the “Fuck! I Got AIDS” Scare of 2011

Bareback sex is awesome. It’s even better when it’s with an attractive partner. Screwing a really hot man is FUCKIN’ balls-slappin-on-your-ass HOT. I mean this guy was so hot all the cocks in the hen house were after him at the bars. Do I dare say he was model pretty? Well, fate must have been looking the other way, drunk off its ass or something, because an angel landed on my lap, smack dab on my boner.

I was caught off guard that he could take it rough up the butt. His legs wrapped about my body in every manageable way to pull me in deeper - his sphincter muscles bonded tight around my engorged, cum-savvy schlong. I’m surprised I didn’t cum 30 seconds into it. He thought I did at one point, 45 minutes in after my exhausted body collapsed on his. But no sir, I managed 70 or so minutes of barebackin’, finally cumming on his chest Peter North style.

Two weeks later, BAMN! I get flu symptoms. One day later, BAMN! It hurts to pee. Same day, BAMN! Drops of red in my semen. Five days later, BAMN! Symptoms still there. And BAMN BAMN BAMN, my eyes are flaming-red and there’s mucus in them as if I’m crying tears of AIDS-infected semen.

I got AIDS. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Turns out, nope. Same with HIV. Nope.

Chlamydia. Nope. Syphilis. Nope. Herpes. Nope. Gonorrhea. Nope.

But flu, yes. Urinary Tract Infection, yes. Pink eye, yes. Sinus infection, yes. Scared shitless, yes yes yes yes.

*****

My ex-wife Dawn wished me a happy Valentine’s Day a few days ago. She even sent me a card which was sweet. Sometimes in my moments of bachelorhood, as I’m surrounded by big dicks and bigger man ass, I forget about the luxury of having a stable trusting partner. Granted, I’m not looking for that now. But during my flu-induced fever, and while curled up in a ball in my bed, paranoid about the possibility I have AIDS, I thought about stability.

In my healthy mind now, I think perhaps there is no such thing as stability. But in the cold of the night, which is often, I know deep down it’s a dream I desperately need to make a reality – stability is where it’s all at although there is no stability, only choices.

At work, our social worker consultant called me a slut in front of office staff. Point well taken. It’s time to calm down, breath, and focus on healthier choices, bareback sex not being one of them.

Fuck, I’m horny. Always. Forever.

Cum-stained Teeth

It is something that can’t be explained, and perhaps it’s the simplicity of it, the beauty, its shamelessness; or perhaps it’s the fervor and its purpose in real time. It’s not a complex sight though it raises dissimilar feelings. But for men, many men, it’s a trophy, a signal of conquest and barbarism, a rustic deploy that is privately accomplished with experience – it is the art of dropping a load in someone else’s mouth. And I love my seeds buried back in the throat, sliming down the esophagus and mixing with stomach acid.

It’s been awhile since – well, since the separation from Dawn, but life still is lovely. The Kentucky snow is here, and if it wasn’t for the truck stop, my balls would be freezing. But the seasons are on the brink of change and so is my stature. I’m not sure what the future holds; in fact, I haven’t been this doubtful of the forward flow of time ever. And I am scared. But come what may, including my hot jizz down your tight gaping throat.

There is great work to be done; falling in love, however, isn't one of them. Unless you're Christine Brinkley. Or standing with penis in hand.

Falling in Love in all the Wrong Places: Or, I want your manhole.

I didn’t intend to avoid elaborating in literary form recent attitudes I’ve modified after new journeys transpired. Neither did I intend to denounce all that is holy and sacred: hot sweaty butt-sex between two men in a Motel 6. Of course, the latter suggests I denounced homosexuality altogether. And in fact, I have. Because of conflicting feelings that resulted from a 6-day road trip to heaven and back (I presume I am in hell – quite literally as Kentucky is having their worst heat wave since the presidential inauguration of 2000), I am not longer partaking in the euphoria of disco music, glow-stick conventions aka raves, lube and nipple clamps, leather and fisting, and all the other perks that go along with the gay lifestyle. I am, now and forever, a lesbian. It’s true – I even have the haircut to prove it.

In all actuality, I didn’t want to let my wife Dawn know of recent events: I fell in (and forthcoming) out of love with another man on my last day of my road trip. That is not to say I am in love with my adoring wife of sixteen years. I just like dick is all. Well, I love it to be more precise. And boy was his dick precise, that is, if I was into receiving. I’m not going to divulge the filthy details – that’s what my sex tape is for. Anyway, truth be told, I am in love with two people – geez, I guess you can call me Mormon now, though I don’t think Mormons practice butt love. Anyway, this simultaneous and plural devotion for two separate people is contradictory to my I-can-only-wrap-my-finger-around-one-man-at-a-time philosophy. Actually, I’m not really wrapping my fingers around anyone. “Inserting” is a more appropriate description.

I raise my whisky shot to life, to love, and the forthcoming plurality of it all. Cheers.

Gay Bars are soooooo Straight

Beyond a doubt, my co-workers have fallen head over hills with gay bars. This disappoints me. Why in God's name haven't they been to one before? What is this, 1993? Everyone who is anyone has been to a gay bar. That's where all the cool kids hang out -- this is me being sarcastic. I don't know who hangs out at gay bars anymore. Well, I do, but just don't tell my wife Dawn.

Anyway, I went to a gay bar last weekend with co-workers and, shockingly, we saw another co-worker there. At first glance, I was stunned, embarrassed, and somewhat inebriated. Just a tad inebriated. Okay, really inebriated. But the point is, wow, I didn't know I had co-workers who went to gay bars. So much time was wasted making small talk at the printer waiting for copies when we should have been talking sodomy. It pains the heart just thinking about all of the wasted time. Down the drain, poof, gone, gone, gone! I learned a lesson, however. As the saying goes, "gay is fleeting." Don't let another opportunity for homosexual bonding go down the drain. Save a gay -- homosexualize him!

If you're reading this, you're gay, too.

“Cum again?”: Sexual Harassment in the Work Place

I’ve been groped and molested repeatedly. I get the foulest text messages and verbal sexual requests. My hands and elbows have seen so much boob action it’s a waste, really. I’ve seen twat, tits, and on several occasions, panties, panties, panties! The only talk that is had is about oral sex, anal sex, and group sex. And just yesterday, I was grinded by the 3^rd grade teacher in the vice-principal’s office. 

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s just...well, this is the horniest bunch I’ve ever been around, and I simply can’t keep up! One teacher, for example, routinely practices threesomes, group sex, and whatever falls in between (we’ve tried to do a threesome with no success). Another teacher LOVES anal sex (receiving). And another teacher met her husband in a ménage à trios!

 In short, I adore co-workers. They are my friends, companions, sex partners. They inspire me to new great heights.

 

On Seeing Twat in a Gay Bar

Okay, I didn’t actually see twat in a gay bar. I saw it in the comfort of my coworker’s home – okay, in her bed. And it was a picture of her twat, not the real deal. I also saw her husband’s cock. Kinda surreal.

 

Anyway, pink twats are beautiful. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen one in person, but the picture reminded me of its magnificence. It’s quite beautiful, twats. Her husband’s cock wasn’t bad either, kinda “beefy.” He’s serving in the military now. Anyway, she touched my pubes, I saw her twat and her husband’s cock. All in all, not a bad night.

 

The gay bar, however, was more bizarre than Michael Jackson’s “unaltered” snout.  Over a year, possibly two years ago, I friend-ed  KC on Nerdspace. After a year of penpalling each other, I deleted my profile, along KC and other “friends” of mine. Anyway, while sitting at the gay bar, some queen came over bitching, “You don’t even remember me, do ya? [finger snap]” Okay, he didn’t snap his fingers but he should have – he was that bitchy. And who managed to spot me in a sea of gay? You guessed it! Fudgepackin’, queer as a three dollar bill, ass-packin’ KC! And god, what a queen; it made me sick to my stomach. He did buy me a shot though – he tried to buy me two, but I resisted. KC remembered me from my profile pics, saw me, and introduced me to every gay in the joint! We talked for a few minutes until I got sick from his queeness. Thank goodness my lady friends rescued me. But the hilarious part about KC was he kept calling me “Zach” the entire night (unbeknownst to me, KC became rather obsessed with Zach, another Nerdspace and real life friend of mine).

 

It was a good night. I partied to last call, looked at twat and cock till 3:30 am, then jerked off until 6. If only every night could be like this. 

Dormacy

The difficult part about blogging is being consistent. And I'm one hell of an inconsistent man. Sure, things have become more interesting since I took up alcoholism. Sure, my behavior is erratic and superfluous. For instance, my wife and I had a threesome with an Asian hooker with a crooked smile. We found her at a rest stop trying to hitch her way to San Fran, so naturally we picked her up and gave her a lift to Williams, Arizona – I can barely afford rent but I have extra cash for a hooker. That’s where the superfluous part comes in. Anyway, sure I am falling into the armpit of humanity by getting into the Jonas Brothers. The way I see it, I’ve hit rock bottom already. Now there’s nowhere to go but up.

I’ve got nothing on my mind but booze and sex. Buddy of mine says to come out to drink and watch the stars, but I said hell no. I’m not queering for him. He was kidding anyways. The itch is growing nonetheless.

I gotta go. Got to jerk off the horniness. But don’t worry. It’ll be back in the morning.

On Wilmington, NC: Days 1-3

Day 3: Halloween/Cheating

9:00 am (EST) I’m fucking horny as hell. Updates forthcoming.

Day 2: Not Cheating

I got permission to fuck whoever I want from the man upstairs. For any breathing man, that’s a dream come true, especially if he is traveling to Republican port cities such as Wilmington. And though the thought of fucking a McCain supporter up the ass has its thrill, it is a cheap thrill nonetheless. Anyway, I posted my first Craigslist advertisement in the M2M section in hopes of landing me a sugar daddy to buy me drinks Halloween night; this was Jada's idea. I have around 5 prospects so far. Some may call my behavior dangerous; I call it “resourcefulness.” Besides, cock-teasing for booze is my Goddamn American right!

Jada and I drove to Oak Island to see a cigarette shaped light house. Then an elderly lady forced us to take a million pictures. We were frightened. I have photographic proof. By the way, North Carolina has FUCKING ALLIGATORS! They’re live, breathing, man-eating ALLIGATORS! That is terribly unnatural! During a scenic drive through a slave-owning plantation, I saw a fucking ALLIGATOR in the marsh! There are two things I fear in life: 8 years of Republican rule and FUCKING ALLIGATORS. But I have to stay cool, calm, and collective. What would Steve Erwin do? (RIP)

Day 1: My Arrival

Man, I got over it! My fear of flying is over. It was six hours of blissful flying, though my subsequent three hour Greyhound Bus trek, from Raleigh to Wilmington, was a fucking bitch. I haven’t seen so many churches and McCain posters in my entire life; it pains the heart just thinking about it. I’ve seen probably, like, three “brown” people so far, too, and not as many sailors as was promised.

It was a beautiful thrill to be reunited with Jada once again, though I feel she is going to throw me into the pool of Wilmington’s ever-growing rape culture. As always, horniness is all around.

Shortly after my arrival, Jada and I met up with two cute Palin supporters: Bethany and Zack. And the perv war commences. We ate dinner in a basement pub, and the circle of sodomy was complete. Wilmington is a place of hope.

On Sucking Cock for a Living

It's just a thought, okay. Nothing set in stone, but goddamnit am I poor. I have two teaching jobs, one full time, the other part time, with another part time tutoring job starting in November. How did I get so poor? While common sense tells me to quit my lavish spending, I retort: What fucking lavish spending?!??!?! Yes, I finally broke down and bought some brand new shoes two weeks ago, something I haven't done in two years. And I also went out and had an ale or two this past weekend (after a four-fucking month sobriety break.) I take bologna sandwiches to work, which I hate doing, and I keep the AC off in the house to save energy. But what the fuck!? I work hard hours and live frugally, but fucking bologna? Yes, yes, I am a humble man, but then again, why not charge $10 a pop behind the truck stop? As they say, do what you know and do best, and I know a thing or two about cock sucking. Gee, Dad would be so proud of me.

No, I'm not going to suck cock for a living. I'm just saying is all. Snatch on the other hand -- that's where the big bucks roll...

Another Question for the Theologians:

If my shoe size keeps getting larger, why is my dick getting smaller?

Sadly, I’ve grown into another shoe size: a 16. No kidding. Don't you stop growing when your, like, eighteen years old? Fuck. Nike’s size fifteens don’t cut it any longer. Accordingly, why does my dick seem to be getting smaller? Perhaps it’s just not put to good use like the good ole’ days (a marriage-like relationship will do that to you); then again, I put it to good use! Or maybe I’m the victim of the cold weather of Arizona and the consequences of shrinkage – uh – yeah, right.

I don’t know. I just don’t know. Anytime now, expect me to buy a penis pump, dick weights, and those expensive enhancement pills. Should I yield any positive results, I’m going to Jackson (or a brothel – that works, too.)