Category Archives: Hookups

Armed Forces.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

We’re in the back of a small car. My body is splayed – stomach pressed into a seatbelt clip, knees crooked into unfamiliar pivots between seat and floor. Some background noise: radio lapping at the dregs of top 100 hits and the occasional car going by in the distance. Each time that happens we both look up. Look out. Finalize that the coast is clear. Then our eyes resume what our bodies couldn’t bother to discontinue, the weight of inertia never letting the risk of being discovered distract our bodies from this rough, ceaseless business.

My head is turned toward the car’s rear – the seat. Eyes scrunched, head hitting the passenger side backdoor with ceaseless rhythm as he fucks me.

“Arch your back.”

Hand on the small of my back pushing it down, but that isn’t right, that isn’t quite how the arch happens. I pretend to fall to the rough demand of his hand while instead curving to its intent, further lowering my chest and face and curving the small, lifting the bubble of my ass out of the shadow and into the bright parking lot light. I look back. He’s looking outside. Coast clear. He turns back, says with a sneer, “Turn the fuck around and get fucked.”

I lower my head. Haven’t closed my eyes yet and all I can feel are his hands gripping my waist and my head carrying out a silent fight with the back door, my brow landing its stern, rhythmic hits.

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A Reader’s Fantasy.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

I love getting e-mails, tweets, comments &c. from you all. I love it because you give me something to think about, and because you remind me that I’m not alone — that this isn’t just some black hole or vacuum that I’m launching my inane, shapeless thoughts into for no reason. That wouldn’t really inspire me to keep going.

Recently, a reader e-mailed me about his desires. His sexual wants, he said, split him into two people. One, the masculine, dominant top who loves to ruin younger twink hole, is his public side.

But the other side was something else. He let me see what was under the surface. Here it is:

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Getting Fucked Again.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

I’d forgotten how good the hurt felt.

He answered in his robe. We barely spoke. His robe dropped to the floor and, instantly, his mouth was on my neck, his hands were on my waist, my body was against his. Soon, I was being pushed onto the bed. Soon, the weight of his body was between my legs, spreading them apart as he kissed me. Soon, his body was grinding into mine, his dick was pushing itself against my hole, opening me up bit by bitter bit with his dick. No lube, no fingers, no tongue, all purpose: Trojan horse at the door of me, threatening battery.

There was a moment when I worried I wasn’t totally into it, wasn’t actually horny anymore. My body rushed over to his place when he said he was free and my mind only later caught up. It happens. But I was there, and he was there, his mouth was on my neck, it felt good, and most importantly, I wasn’t nervous. It was the first time I hadn’t felt nervous about sex in weeks.

The rush of redemption carried me here, and I was ready.

Are you ready? He breathed. Yes I said, barely opening my mouth.

He threw my left over his shoulder. He stopped kissing me and looked into my eyes. Don’t try to get away from me, they said. I didn’t.

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“slut.”

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

Recently, I remembered the password to a very-short-lived earlier incarnation of this blog, written while I was still a college student, over 4 years ago. Some of it is still kind of interesting, actually. This is the first of a few posts from that blog that I’ll be importing here — unedited and unchanged. The following hookup is one that I still remember vividly… Enjoy. -BKF

It was going to be my second craigslist hookup in as many days, but this time, when I saw him standing outside of my dorm on his phone, ringing me because I’d taken a little too long to come let him in, and then when I got a whiff of his attitude, the attitude of a pissed richboy athlete who’d use me to recover from his annoyance, I knew it’d be good. I knew he’d do to me what I needed to be done.

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Cherry.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

Image“When will you have sex again?”

A friend-in-the-know’s knowing question this weekend.

Suffice it to say I didn’t know the answer. The best I could muster was, “When it feels right.” That’s the truth, but it’s also vague. I have to confess it’s an answer that doesn’t really compel me.

Fact is, I’ve been much more interested to learn who I’ll have sex with when I finally have it again.  Continue reading →

Rape Diary.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on
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A friend’s recent warning.

This weekend, on Friday night, a man tried to rape me.

I say ‘tried.’ But that word needs some footnoting.

In fact, he did rape me.

But toward the end, I was able to give myself some reprieve. I angled my body away from his such that he was no longer inside of me, though as far as I could tell from the pleasure he seemed to be taking in what was happening, he still thought he was.

For that reason, there’s a part of me that wants to believe that the rape wasn’t finished. And that there’s some part of what happened that doesn’t have to be considered complete; that I can say he ‘tried’ but in some way failed.

Maybe it’s a stretch.

But I’m trying to give myself that, at least.

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What a Boy Needs…[Part 2]

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

This is the second of a pair. Read part one.

——–

It was intimate. Both times, I realized something about intimacy and my hunger for it. That’s not what I originally wanted to get across in these two posts. The intent was to describe a recent period of great sex. But it occurs to me that the intimacy is the most striking thing. Hence the slight change in this post’s name: not only what a boy wants, but what he needs.

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[Exchanges with The Scot.]

We’d been talking on Scruff since I moved here but meeting up hadn’t yet worked out. Though he lives within a mile of me in Brooklyn, his neighborhood is situated awkwardly; there’s no way to get to it without combining multiple forms of public transit. That and his work schedule tended to kill the spontaneity.

But I was persistent. I loved his body; strong, but not artificial-seeming. Stocky. As well, I loved that he seemed laidback and sweet.

And I loved the way he talked about fucking. It sounded like most bottoms weren’t up for the challenge. I was turned on by the risk that the same could be — but didn’t have to be — true of me. That’s exactly the kind of scene that appeals to me. I’ve gestured toward this before, but it bears repeating: bottoming isn’t something I take lightly, even if it’s what I desire most. It isn’t something I do often or absentmindedly. It’s difficult — emotionally, physically — for me to do with ease, for reasons this blog will address in time.

Aggressive affection is my ideal scene. A top that doesn’t let me back down, squirm or wriggle my way out of it is a good match for me. But he also has to be kind of sweet. He can’t let it feel like rape — not explicitly. He can’t encourage panic, or disinterest. He shouldn’t seem uncaring. But he also can’t let me get away. That’s the main thing: sticking to the plan of sticking it to me.

The Scot was what I was looking for.

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