Tag Archives: addiction

What Is Rape?

What Is Rape?

I get a fucking lot of accusations in my inbox. Often. Here’s one of the more interesting:

When I was 18, a top I met off phone chat had me come to his place. When I arrived, he was much older than described…

I get inside he immediately grabs my head and slams it against door then rapes me raw. He degraded me racially, calling me nasty Asian slurs.

After he was done, he hid my cell phone and keys and kept me for 15 days.

I was used as sex slave to pay for his meth addiction and infected. A black man felt bad and freed me — the only one out of 65 RAPISTS.

I went to police and he was arrested. But [during my captivity], he sent texts to his cell from mine saying everything was consensual AND IT WASN’T.

He now walks free and I hate him and, because of [the AIDS] virus, I no longer date.

I hate you, Mark, and all other violent predators.

For some of you perverts out there (and you know I love you all), you’re jerking off just thinking about this scenario. But let’s get to this Asian gentleman’s message to me and splice it apart, step by step.

Rape Is Bad

I do not believe this story. Here’s why I don’t:

If this 18-year-old gentleman disappeared for 15 days, his family, friends or others would have noticed. Sure, this violent man might have created some text messages back and forth, but those messages would have occurred after the disappearance. Any cell phone records could show that.

Further, in many states, to knowingly pass along HIV is criminal. HIV maintains a portion of the DNA from the source. A test could determine whether the victim was indeed infected by the older man.

I believe the consent likely came from this young man before the disappearance. He told some friends and family he would be gone a while — probably not 15 days — and after a while, came not to like the scene he’d fantasized about because the reality wasn’t quite and fun as the jerk off images.

I’ve seen that often and any of you with any level of kinks would agree.

Nonetheless, if I suspend my disbelief, let me just say if this is true, this is bad.

Let me also suggest to the writer that — unlike my website, which is about sex — that the guy who kidnapped you and held you captive, did that violent act to you. It wasn’t the sex, but the power play that you didn’t like (and the fact he was older than he initially said).

Safety in Hook-Ups

The dear letter writer made a gigantic boo-boo, for which he fails to take accountability. And I get so fucking tired of hearing this shit from people who read some of my posts.

Every time someone goes to a stranger’s home or hotel room or wherever to fuck, you’re taking a risk. Didn’t mamma teach you not to talk to strangers, much less fuck them (or let them fuck you)?

Gay men … damn, all men … love casual sex. We let our cocks put us into places we shouldn’t be. I’ve been there. And this guy ended up some place he shouldn’t have been.

Do not blame anyone else for that.

I’m not saying he dressed slutty so he should have been raped or anything like that. He didn’t deserve to be held hostage for 15 days — if indeed, that’s what happened.

But he’s not innocent.

He want to blame the car for hitting him head on when he was already driving on the wrong side of the road. He did something dangerous.

Fucker beware

I No Longer Date

Oh. My. God. Being Poz prevents this little fucker from dating.

All of you Poz guys out there need to stop dating, stop fucking and curl up into a ball and just shit yourselves.

Another reason not to believe this story: The idea that life ends with seroconversion. Hell, for some, becoming Poz means life begins. No longer worried about when HIV might arrive, but knowing that it’s now there with you.

(As an aside, I’m impressed the dude also counted all 65 guys who fucked him.)

If indeed this is true, let me speak to you, my Asian letter writer:

You need to speak with a professional and go into counseling for this trauma.

You need to find a way to move on, date and find a way to heal. The amount of pent up hate you’ve gathered up into yourself is preventing you from seeing that life continues. You survived something terrible but not everyone is out to hurt you.

Jumping Off the Hate Cliff

Now he says I am out to hurt him. I’m some sort of predator.

I’m not. Never have been.

If you’re upset about the stealthing thing, I’ve explained it time and time again and don’t really need to do it again.

If you’re upset that I use bottoms, all tops do whether they admit it or not.

I just think you’re upset. And once the proper counseling is in place, you’ll be better off.

I didn’t fuck you. I didn’t abduct you. I didn’t hold you hostage. Don’t hate me.

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What Does It Feel Like to Be Filled With Cum?

Cum Inside: Response from Bareback Sauna Slut Josh Landale

A raw virgin asked, “What does it feel like to be filled with cum?” Opens a new window from this blog

One of the first respondents happened to be Josh Landale Link Opens in a New Window, the famous (or infamous) author of Confessions of a Bareback Sauna Slut blog Link Opens in a New Window.  He posted his response on his blog here Link Opens in a New Window but also allowed it to be reposted here along with a few images. So here goes…

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Getting Filled with Cum is ‘Heaven’

Basically, as a bottom, being filled with spunk is the most amazing feeling ever.

When I am getting fucked, a raw cock buried deep in my hole, I am in heaven.  When that top shoots his load, the feeling is such an emotional high.  Then, when he pulls out, and some cum dribbles down my balls, and the next top steps up and slips into me, it is indescribable.

That feeling of being used as a cum dump by unknown tops, is just out of this world. Being there for other guys to use as their sexual fuck toy; knowing that they are getting their pleasure from using me, is just out of this world. The more guys who unload in my hole, the more guys I want next.

As I said in my interview with Cristian Knox back in January 2011, one makes me want two, makes me want three, four, five, and so on… it is addictive.  Someone once said this is stereotypical addiction behaviour… and I would agree, taking loads from tops, one after the other is like a drug.

There is only one thing better than taking spunk from guys, and that’s taking spunk from guys when you don’t know who they are. Maybe being blindfolded, face down arse up at a party in a hotel room, or being blindfolded at a steamroomsex club.. getting loaded up from totally unknown anonymous guys in these settings is sheer brilliance.

The emotions, the feelings… its only when you’ve experienced it that you can understand it.

Spunk dripping down your legs, pooling on the sling or mattress beneath you, while these guys, these strangers go to town on you.

You don’t know if they’re poz, neg, or whatever.  All you know is that you are there for their utter pleasure.  They need to unload, and you are the one they’re unloading in.

Heaven!

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More answers are coming, but thanks to Josh! Be sure to also follow him on Twitter @JoshLandaleXXX Follow on Twitter

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Hot Guy, or he was... before Tina became his best friend.

Tweak, Tweak… The Mating Call of Tina’s Friend

Thursday I am horny and frustrated. This is a combination that, for me, is not good. I’m in one of those moods where I want to fuck anything that gets in my way. I’m on the look out for a sure thing.

When it finally arrives, it’s someone I recognize. He’s an extremely muscular massage therapist who provides not too bad bodywork. Where he’s located isn’t the most convenient. But he has a great body and this time he just wants to get fucked.

Allow me to be more specific. He had a great body.

The photos he sends are from a year back from when I last saw him. I’ll explain.

Our exchange Opens a new window from this blog on how to get to his place is brief and he says to come right in — not to even knock. I let him know I’m 20 minutes away. And right at 20 minutes, I’m at his door, pushing. It’s locked. I knock.

Shuffling begins inside.

“Wait up guy,” I hear. “Got to let the dogs out.”

In a few seconds, the door opens and it’s not dogs I see.

It’s three men. Just beyond the jocked muscle guy I’m expecting is a beefy bearish guy pulling up his pants, putting on a baseball cap and exiting out the door behind me. The second is a short, dorky, tattooed guy who sort of looks like Ian on Big Brother season 14. And he’s just in a pair of boxers.

I’m confused.

Then muscleman and I are alone as “Ian” is in the bedroom and the bear is gone out the door.

Muscleman has been on a diet. A radical one. He’s lost at least 50 pounds. I whip out my cock, not thinking too much, and slide it inside him. I’d been anticipating fucking him. His ass is slick already with cum. If bear had finished up, maybe muscleman was sucking him clean. Don’t know. Don’t care.

We’re fucking on his massage table and, let’s just say, it’s not working out. I can’t enter him deeply enough. He’s thinner but fuck if his asshole just isn’t positioned correctly.

And something is off about him. Something just isn’t right. This isn’t like the last time. Of course, the fuck occurred after a good rubdown, but I’m not getting something. He’s face down, of course. My suspicious rise.

I climb off about to leave when he’s up and on his knees, his mouth wrapped around my cock. It’s like he knows something is up. And I’ll admit, his sucking is primo. He even goes for my balls.

I finally decide I need to cum. If I go home in this condition, someone will get hurt until I can bust a load.

“Is anyone else coming over?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says between sucks.

I pull off my clothes.

He gets the signal.

“We need a bed,” he says.

And then we walk into the room where “Ian” is laying on half of the bed.

Now I hesitate, but he motions me in. “Ian” barely looks up as muscleman lays on the other half of the bed, ass up. This room is brightly lit, compared to the living room, which was dark.

I shrug. I’m naked, in an apartment, with a hardon and precum leaking out of my cock. I’m wondering if this is the beginning of a three-way.

Um… it turns out… no, it wasn’t.

Although “Ian” has removed his boxers and is laying on the bed naked with a softy, he spends the entire time texting. I crawl on muscleman. And through our fuck, I notice the signs. The fidgeting. And he’s at least a little smart about another thing. Since I’m flat on top of him, wherever my head is, he turns his head away to prevent noticing he’s chewing gum — an attempt not to grind his teeth.

His weight loss and all the symptoms point to Tina.

Fuck.

So my hard dick is up this tight, warm chute that’s preloaded and, despite the weight loss, he’s still got a good body. I wish “Ian” would get off his fucking phone and play with my balls but that’s not going to happen. And I’m frustrated and horny.

I fucking hate tweakers Opens a new window from this blog. Actually, I don’t hate them. I hate the kind of person who results from using too much Crystal Meth. But I still fuck them. I even had this severe crush on a guy a few years ago who had an addiction but he moved to Minneapolis. I fucked him plenty but actually wanted a real date and wanted to get to know him. He refused all my advances. But when he was high, he’d let me fuck him. And I’d let it happen.

I revised that policy with another man I met locally who wanted me to fuck him before going off to rehab. I didn’t. There are some bottoms I want to crave me when they’re wholly cognizant of what’s going on.

But at this moment, the dick is winning. There’s a little conflict in my head, but I know how to shut that up.

I snort some poppers.

The conflict ends and like a laser, my pleasure center kicks in to focus exclusively on my cock and how it feels inside that tight, cummy hole.

“You want my cum?”

“Yes please,” he says. “Please breed my ass.”

That’s all it takes. Soon I’m letting loose a torrent of DNA inside his ass.

After a moment of recover, I’m off and putting on my clothes.

“Ian” doesn’t seem to notice. Muscleman offers me water and invites me back anytime.

I’m being nice, but I won’t come back. This is one mating call I’ll ignore.

the lies men tell

The Lies Men Tell… Smokers (Part 1)

Have you ever watched the television show, “House”? Dr. House on the show offers up a kind of mantra or philosophy: “People lie.”

Occasionally, he adds to it: “All people lie.”

It’s true. Very true. As much as anyone wants to pretend that 100 percent of everything in their lives are true, lies might be the one constant that a human being can find and if you deny that, you’re simply lying to yourself. And that is the most powerful lie of all.

I find, more often than not, many people lie to me. Dishonesty is honestly the one thing I can count on more than anything else.

My favorite lie men like to tell me is the one that’s my own issue — and I admit as much.

It’s smoking.

I simply cannot fuck smokers. I know. Those of you who indulge this somehow think you don’t stink at all. Even without kissing me, I can smell it. It’s on your saliva and breath. No amount of toothpaste, mouthwash or gum can cover it up. It permeates your clothing and comes out of your pores as you sweat. Ask any man who’s tasted your cum. He knows the flavor of nicotine.

We all have that one thing and that’s mine. I’ll lose an erection so fast — if I’m lucky enough to manage to work one up.

I know when men lie about it. I know you’ve done your best to cover up your addiction. I don’t fault you for it. I simply won’t fuck you and send you on your way without calling you the liar you are when I asked about it. I usually do ask. Some men attempt to find out why I’m asking or the response I want.

Like that matters.

I know. I go with my gut. If you tell me you’ve quit recently, I know it’s bullshit.

So if you’re wondering why I’ve blocked you on BarebackRT.com or I didn’t hook up with you that time we met or the reason why we kissed only once then I came fast and left. It’s because I know the truth to this simple fact.

These are life’s speed bumps, things we just can’t get over. And this is mine.

On to Part Two, Photos… then Part Three, Test Results

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Dark Passenger: Addiction, Compulsion or Passion

Can one be a sex addict? Is it something that compared to crack cocaine, where the next fix is all that matters? Is it a compulsion? Something a brain tells one he or she must do? Or is it a choice? Something that some are blessed to enjoy?

Exploring this conundrum continues for me along this journey. My last entry had me at 18 on December 19, 1985 — the day I came out. Funny. For some of us, we can pinpoint that moment that homosexuality bubbled into place and never left. I prefer pinning some of it on that day because it solidifies how I came into being.

Oh, and for your information, my Dark Passengers (please notice it’s plural) only emerged on my journey with no connection to being gay. As I’ve explored, the freeing nature of coming out and being gay allowed me to accept my Dark Passengers rather than force them into the darkness of a closet. I see them. I know them. I embrace them.

A little math and you know I’m more than twice that age now. So I know a thing or two about addictions, compulsions and passions.

I am not an addictive personality. I have one addiction — precisely one that I have indulged and maintained. That happens to be caffeine. I’ve tried other elements in my life and avoided the resulting symbiotic relations.

To be honest, I’ve never felt that sex could be an addiction. People speak of the brain’s chemicals and how they’re altered by sex. Sex is not a man-made substance or some artificial insemination into one’s body. It’s naturally occurring. It happens to feel good because it’s supposed to feel good. I do not get the shakes upon withdrawal. I am not addicted to sex.

That leads me to compulsion. This might be a viable option. Each of us carries our own mental illness. It’s called life.

I have my own issues, including some social phobias, especially trouble with crowds. I’ve adapted my life to allow me to function within normal parameters so most people have no idea that inside, I am suffering when at a sports event or concert or crowded mall. I voluntarily take medication to minimize the affect that these circumstances bring on me. But even if I were to experience a panic attack, you would not see me fall to my knees or cry or run or even react in any way.

As I’ve expressed, I am a quiet person. Those moments would result in a social cocooning that allows me to cope. If you were to approach me, you’d find me short and defensive — mostly unlikable. I get that a lot. I am fine with it.

In the workplace, most do not even know how deeply entrenched my introversion expresses itself. Few know since I can give presentations before thousands and never flinch — even come off as gregarious and charming.

So in my examination, I have trouble concluding that I have some mental breakdown within the need to fuck ass.

My sexual prowess links only to one place at which I can firmly state is likely its home: Passion.

Not passion like a passionate kiss. I’ll borrow from Wikipedia: “Passion is an intense emotion compelling feeling, enthusiasm, or desire for something. The term is also often applied to a lively or eager interest in or admiration for a proposal, cause, or activity or love.”

Something beyond love but not love at all. I have a passion for all things technology, for fresh and impressive sushi, for a well-made martini, for roller coasters of all sorts and for sex.

My Dark Passengers ride with me on the parabolic hills and inversions of my passions. These ghostly riders tap into every circuit of my being and make me drunk with unfailing precision. A moment of perfection occurs within my life when I exist only at a flavor explosion in my mouth or the explosive orgasm in an ass.

You have met the boy. The child, abused and molested, involuntarily and completely by choice. The dichotomy of who I am. My next entries will not be so chronologically organized. While I am on a track, I do not know which of my Daemons will emerge.

 

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