Tag Archives: drugs

Tina, That Evil Bitch

Tina, That Evil Bitch

I don’t like meth bottoms.

Sure, they’re insatiable bottoms. Sure, they want my cum. Sure, they beg for it. Sure, they can take a fucking.

They chew. They move too much. They’re just plain a fucking mess.

No matter how much I tell the fuckers I’m not into the Tina queens, they’ll show up.

I’m traveling again and I had a beefy fiftysomething man with some nice nips on BarebackRT. My profile on BBRT clearly states “hell no” on drug use. And for some reason, I think on a Tuesday night with a mature man, I’m safe.

The smacking begins as soon as he’s naked (and he’s stopped sucking).

Maybe he took his teeth out.

I can’t stand the shit.

I pretend to cum quickly and send him home.

Yes, I fake orgasms.

I go to bed unsatisfied.

If I wanted drugs to fuck me over, I’d use them.

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Bareback top visiting New Hampshire

Travel Diary: Bottoms Blah Blah Blah

Flakes are universal, along with fakes and catfish Open-New-Window-External. This I know.

But when it comes to superstar flaking out, New Hampshire takes the fucking cake. In fact, my visit to Concord might take the bakery.

Allow me to explain.

I always post future destinations in my travel plans on my BarebackRT.com profile Open-New-Window-External. I notify readers here Open-New-Window-External that I’m visiting. Of course, all this is tweeted Follow on Twitter and ends up on my Facebook Open-New-Window-External.

To enhance it all further, I post on Craigslist an add that looks something like the following:

TOP blogger visiting looking for bottom writing inspiration – m4m (Concord Area)

I’m a blogger who writes about my sexual experiences on the road with bottoms I encounter… My blog is read by thousands every single day, reproduced on several sites and even some entries end up on a famous porn studio’s website.

Perhaps you might like to be the inspiration for a piece when I slide into town next week?

I don’t identify the bottoms I fuck, just write about the experience…

Hit me up with your info — a pic, stats, etc. I’ll respond with my blog details so you can check it out. We’ll go from there.

The site contains a lot of information beyond my fucks. And if you happen to be a top, we can tag team or maybe you’d like to try sitting on my cock… it’s a perfect 7 inches cut.

Thanks!

P.S. The only major requirement (other than bottoming for me) is that you don’t smoke.

From all this, I do get a lot of inquiries. Most of them are lurkers who never intend to meet. This I get. It’s also an opportunity to find new people to read my blog since not all barebackers have found the Bareback Brotherhood or my blog.

With many there’s the “I just fuck safe,” and then more than half switch their story.  But some don’t. Yet, with my blog, it becomes a jerk-off destination for many.

When I do finally arrive, I e-mail the best back to see if they’re still up for that fuck.

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Arriving in Concord

My arrival in Concord allowed me to long in locally to BarebackRT.com, Grindr, Scruff and Manhunt.net, all of which use a geographic tool to notify one who’s closest. I also posted to Craigslist.

Two men of the many interested e-mailed me back saying they were still up for the fuck, but one 4 p.m. pump-and-dump session became a no-show with regrets arriving several hours later because he was “stuck somewhere.”

Flake.

All of my online activity netted me a lot of interest. A lot. I was fresh meat in a town that didn’t see a lot. Of course, I got the usuals…

People just wanting to collect photos, see my cock or face.

I had one prospect on BarebackRT… he was a fucking hot dude in his late twenties… seemed like a good one. But here’s where we begin one issue that baffled me for Concord.

He had no vehicle.

I needed to come to him and pick him up, bring him back to my hotel to fuck and then take him home.

Now please check out the map.

Concord is not a major city. It’s 1½ hours north of Boston. It’s not a walking city. How can you not have a car and survive, especially when you’re not in college?

This turned into a theme of the night. No car. No transportation. My car is in the shop. My car is in the shop due to the storm. I don’t have a car.

By the way, none of these bottoms ever asked where I was staying to see if I happened to be within walking distance.

I don’t guess Northeastern tops teach bottoms they’re the ones who need to make the effort Opens new window of a page on this blog.

While some of them were hot enough for me to go and fetch them, it turns out I didn’t rent the car but a colleague did. I simply wasn’t an option.

Then came the other morons.

I also get a collection of those who want to postpone. These guys appear in every city, without fail. I wonder if they ever fuck. All conversations go something like this.

THEM: “How long you in town?”

ME: Just tonight (no matter how long I’m in town, I always say I’m here “just tonight”)

THEM: “Damn! It’s getting late tonight.”

ME: It’s just 9:30.

THEM: “I know but I have to get up early. I wish you were here…” fill in the blank with “tomorrow night” or “this weekend”

In other words, they can never come over now or today.

Proximity Alert

My first promising opportunity looked like a threesome, which I won’t get into too much detail on. In his early thirties and a scruffy blond, wanted to know if I wanted to fuck both him and another guy, in his early twenties — both online at the same time. As if on cue, the younger one sends me a message.

The younger one asks if I’ve got poppers, which of course I do.

Then he asks if I’ve got anything “more fun.”

WTF.

“Dude,” I respond back. “You’re well aware I’ve come into town. That means I flew. That means I went through security. At an airport. Are you fucking kidding me? Why would I have any drugs?”

He responds, “Oh yea, I guess you’re right. But I still want to fuck.”

Anyway, the vibe is off and the duo then go even more weird. The young one claims the old one is stalking him. The old one claims they’re “together.”

I don’t want to get into the shit. Kick them both to the curb.

Right Downstairs

One last opportunity happens as a guy indicates he’s in a hotel. I ask which one and it turns out he’s in the same one as I am.

Bingo.

He won’t disclose his room, so I give him mine, knowing my colleague isn’t on that floor. He tells me he needs 10 minutes to shower and get cleaned up.

Those 10 minutes pass. Then another 10. Another 10. Yet another 10. And at 45 minutes, I finally message him.

He apologizes, saying it’s taking him longer than he thought to clean out his ass.

Whatever, I say, just get his ass to my room.

Then he says come to his.

I tell him I don’t have his room number.

He says okay, he’s now putting on his clothes.

At an hour after we started this exchange, he says he’s on his way.

Then I get a text asking me if I’ll suck his dick too.

I’m baffled. I just ask, “What?”

Then he writes, “I need to run by the front desk real quick.”

Fuck that.

This fucker is just playing me.

“Forget it.”

He gets all bent out of shape. Says he won’t go by the front desk. Blah blah blah.

After some back and forth, I say he can some to my room, but he has three minutes to get there.

He says he doesn’t like my attitude.

I tell him to fuck off.

The next morning, he begs me to come to his room to fuck him.

I tell him I’m not disturbing  guests actually staying in the hotel.

Postscript

Perhaps the little fucker actually was staying in the hotel or maybe he was one of the guys I’d e-mailed earlier and said I was in town and knew the hotel from that. I’ll never know. I’m proud I never knocked on anyone’s door. That shit pisses me off. He probably kept delaying things to try and get someone else to come over and knock on my door but, like me, couldn’t find anyone to do it.

My luck is your luck, fucker.

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The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

This entry isn’t sexy at all. You might want to skip it entirely.

I scolded someone today about missing a post regarding the death of my Mother and, when I went back to find it, realized it wasn’t there myself. I apologize to that reader since several places throughout my blog, I do refer to my Mother’s death but the recount of it seems to be missing.

I had debated writing about it when it happened in January of 2010. In fact, the gap of my posts seem almost invisible now looking back, covered up by Q&A posts that seemed popular at the time. Truth is, I probably did post something but along the way to this platform or in some cleaning frenzy, I deleted it as too overly sentimental or not sexy enough.

Yet that incident has significant bearing on two things in my reportour of posts these days: My extraordinary dislike of smoking Opens new window of a page on this blog and my intense disdain of catfish Open-New-Window-External.

By the way, the photo included here is actually a real photo I told of me holding my Mother’s hand one long and painful night and texted it to the catfish.

flower_white          flower_white          flower_white          flower_white

A Second Hospital Visit

My job at the time had me travel throughout December through March. I’d returned home in January after another string of visits and my uncle, who’d just left, suggested I go immediately to see my Mother, as she wasn’t feeling well.

About six years earlier, I’d moved back to Georgia from Washington, D.C., to help care for my elderly parents. My father had passed in 2005, all of us by his side. But he was at home in hospice care. I’d been his primary caretaker during his final two weeks, administering the painkilling medicine that eased his discomfort and helped him ultimately make the transition as easily as possible.

To be honest, his passing was almost one of a miracle, as we’d talked about a month before about his wishes at his funeral. As he breathed his last breath, all of the family around him, hugging him, crying and saying good-bye, the television began playing the one song he’d asked to be played at his funeral.

Compared the the gentle but stoic nature of my Father was the truly steel magnolia Machiavellian matriarch that was my Mother. I loved her dearly. But at 78 years old, she would ignore every doctor’s advice (and my orders) and do as she wished.

From almost 42 years of smoking, her chronic obstructed pulmonary disorder made the most simple tasks brutal. Yet she would insist on housework, fixing dinner, driving herself places, and more, her little portable oxygen tank in tow. And I’d drive her all over the family gatherings, with her often upset when I deviated from the old routes to take quicker, new highways.

I’d been travelling all over the country — three cities this last nine-day tour — and I wanted to sleep and rest because the next week I would be off for two more cities. But instead, I dragged my fat ass over to see Mom.

She’d been sleeping on the sofa across from the hospital bed I’d had in her home for the last six months but she refused to use because there wasn’t a lamp close enough to it.

More petite and frail, her hands and arms dotted with bruising from whenever she’d bump up against anything, she insisted “something was wrong.”

I struck a bargain with her: We’d go to the hospital but when she came home, she’d have to learn to do what I said. After all, I reminded her how she bossed around her Mother (my Grandmother) for 10 years before her passing. I told her she needed me let me get a little bossing in.

Now that I look back, she agreed too quickly.

It was the second time I took her to the hospital but the first time she would be admitted.

Nothing Out of the Ordinary

Mother had bronchitis. When I moved home, I went to the doctors with both of my parents and spent time with their primary care and any specialist, learning as much as I could about their chronic conditions. I also learned what to expect when the time would come.

For Mother, it would be a series of lung infections that would get steadily worse over time until essentially, she could not get enough oxygen and would suffocate.

“The process is beginning,” I told myself.

When I moved home, Mother’s lung capacity was at 23 percent of normal. Even though she’d quit smoking about five years before I came back to Georgia, her lungs would never heal. That’s one of the myths about smokers. If you quit, your lungs don’t get better. Actually, they continue to deteriorate — just at a much slower pace.

Each year, Mother would lose between 1 and 2 percent of capacity. She currently hovered around 17 percent.

She began making a rebound quickly with the antibiotics and everything seemed fine. But one afternoon, she told me something was wrong.

“What is it, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

My Mother’s eyes contained sheer terror in them. I noticed the her oxygen saturation in her blood on the monitor suddenly dropping. I hit the nurse call button.

In the next 30 minutes, we were in the Intensive Care Unit. The doctors wanted to intubate my Mother — that is, put a tube into her lungs to breathe for her. And in her fear, my Mother consented. But I overruled her, pulling out my power of attorney. One of the healthcare directives she’s insisted upon in it was to never be intubated and the doctors agreed, saying if we did, she’d likely never be able to be taken off since her lungs would never be strong enough.

She was put onto a machine that strapped an oxygen mask onto her face so tight, it made bruises all over her face. It would force her to breath.

She cried through the night, hating that machine. I was there the whole time, holding her hand. She asked constantly for it to be taken off. But I asked her to bear with me just a little longer to see if it would help.

But in 24 hours, her condition didn’t improve.

My only companion other than some family and friends who would stop by was a words at the other end of texting. The person was comforting in so many ways. And I was at my most vulnerable, here, next to my dying Mother, feeling the most alone in the world.

The reassurance of his care and love for me seemingly helped. But later, I would discover it was all a lie. He didn’t exist. And I’ll be honest — what that person did, the betrayal just reaches so deep into places where I’m still scarred and hurting that I can’t even begin to explain or even discuss it. It’s actually easier to talk about my Mother.

Relief at Last

With no improvement and really no hope, I spoke to all the doctors the next day to assure that switching to palliative care would be the right choice. I wasn’t prepared for this decision so early. I’d expected to take Mother home and have a few more hospital visits before this event. But that wasn’t to be.

I then spoke to my sister and my aunt to make sure they agreed. Turns out I was the late one to the decision, but I had to be there. It was time for me to talk to Mother.

We turned that horrible machine off and took it away. My Mother was so relieved it wasn’t working on her now and she could breathe at whatever pace she wanted. I went and sat down, alone, next to her, put my hand in hers, feeling the warmth and the knotted knuckles from the arthritis. Her poor body was just so battered and bruised, but through it all I could see that beautiful woman who cared for me through all my years, kissed my boo-boos. She guided me kindly and occasionally spanked me. I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it, feeling that rough skin that still contained a softness. I brushed back her gray hair from her bruised forehead and looked into the dimming brown eyes.

“Mother,” I said in a quiet tone, managing to keep it together.

“Yes,” she said.

“We had a choice and I want to know what you think,” I said. “I know you hate that machine but it’s your only hope of getting any better.”

I paused, as I could see the recognition come across her face.

“We can put you back on it and try to make you ask comfortable as possible,” I continued. “Or we can leave you off of it and you can go see Daddy.”

A single tear streamed down my left cheek.

She didn’t answer immediately. But she did finally speak.

“I think I’d rather go see Daddy. I really miss him.”

My Mother and Father were married 53 years before he passed away. Of course she missed him.

I hugged her.

The Rebound

Over the next few hours, Mom seemed to feel better than ever, visited with so many people. It’s one of those miraculous gifts we get before we die and we get to say goodbye. I have a precious video of her time with my nephew that just would tear anyone apart to watch.

She laughed so much. I was so glad to see that. I hadn’t seen her with that much joy in so long.

It was then I began to realize just how sick she’d been.

And if on schedule, as the final people left and the last prayers were uttered, she slipped into a silent, fitful sleep. With all the paperwork signed, I had the nurses begin to add morphine and other calming drugs to make her sleep more restful.

Just after midnight, she stopped breathing in this world. But she got a lung-full of air somewhere else.

I screamed, not in pain, but at the top of my lungs, “She can finally breathe!”

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Children Are Petri Dishes of Walking Colds, Flu and Worse

Children Are Petri Dishes of Walking Colds, Flu and Worse

I love my nephew. At 3½ years old, he’s among the highlights of my life. I am one of his surrogate fathers as his real father has largely abandoned him for drugs.

One of the few bonuses of my increased time at home is I get to spend a lot more time with this adorable creature, who will grow up absolutely gorgeous and totally straight. Yes, I can tell from an early age. I read men (and boys) quickly and can easily categorize them Opens a new window from this blog.

And despite what you may think, I will never touch my nephew in an inappropriate way and if I find someone who does, I will finally make good on the promise I made to my molester Opens a new window from this blog. Death at my own hands.

If you’ve read my Dark Passenger Opens a new window from this blog series, you will know about my own molestation and the suffering dichotomy that resulted from a gay boy emerging early into sexual manhood. This blog wasn’t intended just to advocate for barebacking. I started it to explore and reconcile the psycho-sexual and emotional damage and figure out where I needed my life to go.

I’ve gotten off on a bit of a tangent because of the medicine I’m taking plus the fact I didn’t get much of a night’s sleep thanks to coughing, congestion and headaches.

My adorable nephew gave me the only thing he could give me all by himself: His cold.

Now with that virus coursing through me and surrounding the general area, I’m forced to take it easy. Last night happened to be Atlanta’s CumUnion Opens a new window from this blog that I’d hoped to finally attend. Again Opens a new window from this blog, it coincided with a full moon on Friday Opens a new window from this blog, which tends to increase horniness. Add to that a lot of men are “visiting” family, so the opportunity to fucking more ass is available.

Believe it or not, while I’m horny and, with drugs, can stand upright and generally feel okay. Believe it or not, even though I have only 99° temperature (not even 99.1°, just 99°), I’m staying home and away from others.

If I can help it, no one else gets this cold.

While some twits seem to think I’m out changing people’s statuses by stealthing Opens a new window from this blog and passing along STDs, I am not. As I wrote recently Opens a new window from this blog, if I stealth, they leave with the same status as they had prior to my fucking them.

In this case, I won’t fuck them and no one will suffer through an ordinary cold. Except me.

The Eleven Commandments of a True Bottom

The Eleven Commandments of a True Bottom
(by a Bottom, for All Bottoms)

 Mark notes: I received this as a comment to my original post about Rage Against the Bossy Bottom Opens a new window from this blog. I’ve since also written Revenge of the Rage Against the Bossy Bottom Opens a new window from this blog with a few more things that bothered me.

I got a note from Ryan, a bottom who follows me on Twitter. After reading my Rage entries, Ryan had some interesting feedback. This was unsolicited and he provided it. 

I’ve posted Ryan’s proposed Eleven Commandments then edited them to make them sound more commanding. Bottoms just don’t know how to make things sound like it’s not a request or nice. That is, unless they’re a bossy bitch.

          

By a Bottom for All Bottoms

With Notes from Mark aka iBLASTinside

Ryan's Hole... the ultimate bottom's holeSorry about these experiences. It’s shameful, to be honest.

There are a lot of “bottoms” out there giving us real bottoms a bad reputation. This in turn makes it harder for genuine bottoms to do what we do best because a blight gets cast over us a group. Consequently, solid tops (and even versatile tops) have to play mind-reader games in order to figure out if the person they’re talking to is really what they claim to be (a bottom).

The guys you’re describing need to be honest with themselves. They aren’t bottoms, they’re versatile bottoms (at best). They’re holding on to way too many mental assumptions that do not belong to total bottoms.

Put another way, they’re thinking (at least in some vestigial sense) with the mindset of a top, and they can’t have it both ways. Bottoms aren’t — by definition — supposed to be bossy. That’s the top’s job. And you are rightly irritated when they step out of their role.

There are certain things one must mean when one claims to be a bottom. I call them my Eleven Commandments of a True Bottom. And since I am a true bottom, if you (a top) disagree with them, my job is to change them.

The Eleven Commandments of a True Bottom

1. If you’re going to bottom, come prepared to bottom.

Naked Man in ShowerBe clean, be committed, be submissive. Do not, however, be lubed.

 Mark notes: I believe a true bottom always strives to be clean. I have one bottom friend who shower shots when he gets up in the morning and when he gets home from work and, if he’s at home, right after every shit, whether or not there’s a plan for a fuck in the near future. He also carries a portable douche with him everywhere he goes. The idea being he never knows when a fuck might show up. He literally has an open-door policy (he used to sleep with his door unlocked so men could come in during the night and fuck him but after a few things went missing, he had to revise that).

Therefore, if I were writing this, it would be… Thou Shalt Always Be Prepared to Bottom

2. Why? Because the top chooses the lube.

It’s your job to bring some. But many discerning tops only want to use spit, so you may have to take him without lube and with more friction. Deal with it.

 Mark notes: I truly appreciate your approach here. Pisses me off when a bottom expects me to bring supplies (and I prefer spit as lube anyway). Further, I recommend the bottom provide all the supplies — lube, poppers, towels, etc. There’s nothing nicer than a bottom who gets me off and when I roll off him, he sucks me clean then he gets up, brings a warm wash cloth and wipes up my cock then dries me off. That is full service. I’d recommend the following selections:

Lube (each clearly marked)

Poppers (to keep fresh, please keep in darkness)

  • English
  • Amsterdam
  • Jungle Juice Platinum
  • A fourth option like Jungle Juice Black Label, Pig Sweat or Taiwan Blue.

Therefore, if I were to write this, it would read… Thou Shalt Provide All Supplies a Top Might Require

3. Assume that if you have a gag reflex and can’t take his cock all the way down your throat, that your ass will just have to make up for what your mouth can’t do.

The bottom is responsible to get the top hardGetting your dick sucked, ass rimmed and/or fingered is at the top’s discretion. Understand if he sucks your dick, it’s because he like to suck dick…it just happens to be your dick. And understand that if he takes the time to rim you, you’re about to get fucked the way he wants to fuck you.

 Mark notes: I rarely rim and even more rarely suck cock. And if I kiss you, well then I really like you. One of the things that I’ve not put on my Bossy Bottom lists is when the cunts ask if I’ll rim or blow them. First, see Commandment Number 1. If that ass isn’t fucking pristine, my mouth isn’t going near it. My nose tells me whether it’s okay to go in for a lick. Then if I taste anything bitter, um, I’m not taking a second lick.

 On the other hand, I am generally clean. I might not be fresh out of the shower. Your job, if I want you to, is to suck me hard. If my ass isn’t clean, I’ll never send a bottom down there. but I’ve had plenty of bottoms volunteer to lick my funky ass. Your choice. Just know I’m not kissing you after that, no matter how much I like you (or how much mouthwash you use later).

If I were to write this, it would say… Thou Shalt Not Demand Any Assistance to Prepare for Being Fucked But Thou Shalt Help a Top Prepare to Fuck

4. If your top wants you to blow a load before he fucks you, get to work jerking it.

The bottom may be asked to blow a load first.Yes, we know it’s going to hurt more when he fucks you after you’ve already nutted. If he’s asking, it’s obviously the point that he knows that and wants your hole super sensitive so that you really earn his cum. Time for you to bite that pillow.

  Mark notes: Now I already figured I wanted to fuck Ryan (author of the bottom half of this piece). Now I know I do. I’ve made bottoms bite the pillow and take me after they’ve popped off because they’re not patient for me to cum first. I stay hard after I cum and I like working my DNA in deeper. But actually jerking off before I start fucking?

I personally think there’s nothing hotter than a bottom who cums on my cock and lets me fuck him with his own cum. 

My version… Thou Shalt Cum When, Where and By What Means the Top Demands

5. Your top has control of a lot, but whether you moan while being fucked isn’t always one of them.

Vocalize pleasure, not pain.Some bottoms can just take more than others and vocalize that proportionally. That said, if he wants you to talk to him, he’ll fuck it out of you. And if all you can say during the first few thrusts is “ouch,” or “slow down,” or “easy,” expect him to put you face-down on the mattress or stick his underwear in your mouth. He has to fuck his way through the pain so you can start to feel the pleasure, so stop running away.

 Mark notes: Thou Shalt Vocalize Pleasure and Not Pain, Unless Your Top Demands Silence

6. Stop it already with putting your hands against his hips or stomach to try to control his depth/speed/roughness.

Bottoming is what you came here for, get to it.

 A Rough FuckMark notes: Now I’m not huge but I am hard and, for some bottoms, that’s a challenge (I don’t know why because it goes in easier than some softy you have to grasp by the base and shove inside). I will normally give a bottom a few moments to adjust to my cock. 

After that, shut up and take it. 

Along with this trying to stop it is when a bottom grabs my hips and tries to get me in deeper.

My commandment version… Thou Shalt Allow the Top to Penetrate as Deep, as Rough and at the Pace He Wishes

7. Don’t worry about jacking yourself off.

The bottom should never pleasure himself unless instructed to do so.Focus on the pain and the pleasure your top is giving you with his cock. If your top wants you to get off, he’ll either tell you to stroke it, or he’ll do it for you. It’s not his job to make you cum, it’s his job to fuck you how he wants to. The better job you do, the more likely he might let you cum while he’s still inside you. Earn it.

 Mark notes: Oh how much it pisses me off to have a bottom playing with his own nipples or jerking his cock or, worse, both. And I’m having to maintain balance for us both. Meanwhile, he accidentally brushes his hand against my balls and notices I like that and then goes back to jerking his own cock? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?

Thou Shalt Not Touch Yourself Unless Ordered to Do So by the Top

8. Don’t try to take charge.

Ryan's Ass... the Bottom's Ultimate Ass...Your top sets the pace. Don’t back up onto the cock unless he tells you to. Your top is not an amusement park ride, you are. He’ll let you know if he wants you to drive.

 Mark notes: This one overlaps a little with Commandment Number 6 so we’re going to change it up a little because I think I know what the bottom means here.

There was this terrific bottom I fucked for a while and his ass just really knocked my socks off. Where he excelled happened to be when he’d be in the crab position above my cock and just ride the cum out of me. Literally. He did it once. I loved it.

I told him to do it again the next time I fucked him. He made a half-ass attempt for like a minute then switched positions and pace on me, even when I told him what I wanted. 

Then there’s been bottoms who grind their cock into the bed when I’m riding them in my favorite position. I tell them to stop moving and let me do all the work. I want to shoot off in their ass. Don’t move. Just hold still and let me use them to get myself off in their ass. But they don’t. They’re thinking moving against my fuck is good, even when I tell them just to hold still.

No.

It’s even better when I let a bottom try to get me off with his ass if he’ll ask if this is better. Go faster? Go deeper? Shut up? Just pay attention to me. You should figure it out.

Thou Shalt Do as the Top Commands at All Times, Pay Attention and Ask If It’s Unclear

9. Don’t be stupid.

 Ryan's Cub ChestUnless you have some prearranged, agreed upon commitment about something, it’s the top’s show. He picks the positions. He picks the bed, floor, shower, etc. And he picks where his load ends up. You can ask, but don’t natter away and make him regret picking you over the other guy that was just as hot.

 Mark notes: My dear bottom finds himself struggling a little with this one, so I’ll first say what I think fits best…

Thou Shalt Anticipate a Top’s Needs

It’s like I wrote about in my last Bossy Bottom Opens a new window from this blog piece. I’m on my way to cumming and the fucking bottom interrupts me. I’d fucked him before and he should have paid attention to know what it is that I’d preferred, how I liked to cum and then allowed me to shoot. Instead he interrupted me. He was stupid. He didn’t anticipate that I needed him just to enjoy the ride instead of worrying about his pleasures.

10. Don’t let your mouth write checks your ass can’t cash, so be careful what you say.

You didn't say you were not into this kind of play, did you?Don’t say “anything goes” unless you mean it. Don’t say “fuck me harder” unless you want to feel his girth for the next week. If you call your top “Daddy”, or “Sir”, or “Papi”, or whatever, be ready for any role play that follows. Don’t bitch about it if you call him “Sir,” only to have him put your ass hole through a Seal training boot camp. Your ass belongs to him until he’s done with it.

 Mark notes: Oh, this one is too fucking true. A great example is an entry I wrote quite a while back in my Dark Passenger series Opens a new window from this blog.  The young man told me he wanted some tit torture, I told him what I would do, he was gung ho for it, he showed up, I did it and he cried like a little bitch.

I see entries online all the time that bottoms will do “anything” except blood and scat. Do you guys realize how fucking wide open that is? You start talking to them and you soon find out it also includes no permanent scarring, no bruises, no hitting, no spanking, piss only with beer or water, time limit of two hours or less, no women, no transgender, no animals, no shaving, no bondage, must use a safe word, no drugs, etc. 

If Thou Asks It, Thy Top May or May Not Grant It

And one other thing. You call me “Daddy” only if I could actually be your “Daddy” — meaning you better be in your twenties. Then I’ll call you “son” or “boy.” And while I’m completely familiar with the Leather Community and the Sir/boy relationships, I do struggle with men my senior begging to be called “boy.”

I’ll give you whatever title I want to give you. Just because you think that word recaptures your youth, it doesn’t.

11. It isn’t about you, it’s about the top. Period.

It's all about pleasing the top and getting his load.Really understanding this eliminates the need for the other ten.

 Mark notes: Amen brother. Preach it.

Thou Shalt Focus All Thyself on The Top

The most successful bottoms have always expressed this. There’s this joy that comes from them — their jizzjoy Link Opens in a New Window — from the cum deposited in their ass. When I cum and I hear a bottom sigh from that, I know I’ve got someone who really enjoys what I do.

The Eleven Commandments of a True Bottom

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