Tag Archives: Sex

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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Possession.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

ImageWe have plenty stories about things, objects, “its” that become real. Toys, for example – the velveteen rabbit, Pinocchio, Buzz & Woody, many more. And plenty stories, too, and people who become Things, from slavery to performance art to whatever else.

The latter has always done something to excite, energize, & intrigue me. Not the slavery part so much as the basic dynamics of being a Thing. Being an object. Being used. Sexually — of course I’m speaking sexually.

This morning I woke up needing to be a Thing. No: I was convinced that I was a Thing. What I needed was for someone to see that in me and make me realize it plainly, uncomplainingly, without discussion or convincing. I need constriction: a body pressed against mine, arms wrapped around me both protecting and restricting me. Ownership: I needed its unadulterated heat.

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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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Trigger.

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

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[Vietnam.]

It’s when the bottom falls out from under you and your heart and your stomach are all of sudden in your mouth. You can taste it: shame and terror and guilt all at once, renewed heat in your cheeks. It’s stepping on the bomb but not knowing what’s happened until your arms and legs are already blown off and you’re stumbling around looking for the missing parts, left to wonder why. It’s like that — a violent shock, unpredictable, eventually unmistakeable. And it’s one of the worst parts of being a rape survivor.

A friend once asked me what it was like. Déjà vu of the worst moment of your life? she asked, and I said yes, because déjà vu is a sensation, a thing as familiar as it is hard to describe, and that made sense as an analogy. But that’s only partially a way to describe it.

The first time I experienced a trigger it wasn’t a word. A boy put his mouth on my neck in a certain way, sank his teeth into me in a certain way, placed his hands over mine to pin me in a certain way, and I lost it. It was a year after my first rape. I’d gone through a slutty phrase, a bad attempt at forgetting what’d happened to me, and had been fucked a number of times in that year, had been kissed on the neck a number of times. But there was something about the way he did it that just… I push him off of me, curled into a ball and began sobbing.

A few weekends ago I was hit with a trigger unmistakably associated with being raped recently, a word, but more or less a word of out nowhere, with no direct experiential meaning in my own life.

The word was waterboarding.

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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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On fucking Republicans. Feel free, Bro […]

Posted by BrooklynFaggot on

— to make up your mind.

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Really.

No, no. Really. Take your time.

Meanwhile, I’d probably let you fuck me while we wait for you to choose a clear stance. I say that genuinely. Why else would I be following?

Because I love getting fucked by fratty white bro Republicans — Bi, straight, “straight,” alien, inanimate, whatever — with suspicious views on race and the economy, views I’d never be caught dead agreeing with by day. [And they, I’ve learned, love fucking the hell out of me.] Because I love how disgusting and rough and hateful it feels. I love winning the argument and losing in bed. I love that it soils our political spirits. I’m not talking about log cabiners, who aren’t as enticing. I’m talking about straight-up closet hetero Republican freaks who are, (not) surprisingly, often remarkably good lays. Continue reading →