Tag Archives: police

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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To Serve and Protect? You’ve Got to Be Fucking Kidding! I’m Here to Fuck and Breed

To Serve and Protect? You’ve Got to Be Fucking Kidding! I’m Here to Fuck and Breed

[alert style=”green”]From my recent support of Nick Roberts and his blog on barebacking Opens a new window from this blog, some people are a little confused. I got a couple of comments Opens a new window from this blog:

 

Kristofer Juffer writes

“YOU PROTECT YOU – NOT ME PROTECT YOU. It’s your body, your choice.”

If you agree with this, why support actively go against people’s attempts at protecting themselves with stealthing? If a bottom wants to use a condom, and the top puts it on, and the bottom keeps feeling to make sure it’s there, but you’ve popped through the tip and there is nothing short of pulling out and looking at it after each thrust…how should one protect themselves then?

If “It’s your body, your choice,” why promote something that actively goes against that choice?

 

Donald writes

Your comment confused me.  You prefer to have bareback sex and will purposely fool a bottom by having unprotected sex with him even when the bottom gives you a condom and expects you do to the right thing…the bottom is protecting himself but you are stealthing to get your own needs met. Please explain.[/alert]

 

To Protect and Serve

I’ve written about this a few times Opens a new window from this blog but I guess I’ll help some of you through this again.

It is not my job to protect you. I am not the police. I am not here to “protect and serve.” I fuck. I want only to enjoy myself. Sex therapists will tell you you’re accountable for your own orgasm. I’m not here to make sure you have a good time. We’re not in a relationship. You’re seen the abbreviation “NSA”; it means “no strings action.” I want no strings. I want no emotional entanglements.

If you expect anonymous sex with a perfect stranger to be trustworthy, to hook-up with someone you’ve just met and for them to be 100 percent honest about their weight, their age, their name (if one’s given), their penis size and their “disease-free” status, you’re a fucking lunatic.

If you’re going to an adult bookstore or hooking up online and you “trust” someone not to sabotage a condom to stealth, to slip the condom off or expect that the “safe sex only” moniker included as a part of their online profile means they’re really going to protect you, please go ahead and hand them your wallet, your car keys and your bank account numbers. I’m sure they’ll give everything back later.

You somehow think handing a wallet then turning your back on things will protect you.

It’s not my job to protect someone I just met.

I am accountable to only me and I’ve chosen not to “protect” myself. In fact, I will do everything possible to assure that my cumload will go into a raw ass.

It is your job to protect yourself.

“You protect you. Not me protect you.”

I have never agreed to use a condom. I do not want to use one. I have no responsibility to you. I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you and I just want to use your asshole to get off.

I make no agreement to use a condom. If the bottom assumes that handing me a condom means that I’ll put it on and use it responsibly in an adult bookstore or a sex club in a darkroom, he’s got another thing coming.

I’ve been writing this blog for a long, long time. But some of you seem to hate my stealthing and miss the fucking point I make about it. If you have figured it out (and those of you who’ve I met and clued in do not count), then write a comment.

It all boils down to the basics: You don’t want to get your ass bred, do not bend your ass over for a stranger.

Other of you blind with rage, please, just let it consume you. And I’ll keep telling everyone how to stealth Opens a new window from this blog.

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Like a Virgin

My incredibly clear recollections of him and how he started the molestation end somewhere in a blur, as I wrote. I cannot count how many times it happened, but flashes of memories showing this place and that place — a bathroom, the woods, a basement, the shed. I smell the musty mix of his balls and his pipe, but I never really remember his face. I just see his cock, hard and huge, hanging there relaxed and in front of my face as I knelt down to suck it.

The post-ejaculation depression always brought on the verbal abuse of my descent into hell along with the crippling guilt. I can still feel that guilt, deep in my guts, but it’s a pin-prick compared to the all-consuming self-loathing that filled my hours after succumbing to my lust.

What happens next surprised even me and helped set my course toward some form of normalcy.

* * *

I met Vince as a freshman in high school. Tall and lanky like myself with the same bowl haircut, similar struggles with zits. But his extroverted, I-don’t-give-a-fuck personality proved to be the yang to my yin. We ran track together, something I attempted to fit into the normalcy of high school. We both sucked and our consistent position in the back of the pack led us to strike up a friendship.

Of course, beginning to feel close to someone led me to other feeling, especially since he was indeed a real male. He even had some chest hair to prove it.

As school kinds would, our conversations eventually turned to sex — and liking “girls.” He tried very hard to pin me down on who I liked. We would play a 20 questions like game where I thought I could be at least a little honest. The last conversation of this collection would be the one I can recall to this day.

I’d hinted that “she” rides his bus. He began naming girls, to each I’d respond, “No.” Then, at some point, he tried to determined whether “she” disembarked before or after him. Of course, I was in a corner because “she” got off the bus at the same stop as him.

There was a long pause.

“Is it me?” he asked.

“What?” I stammered. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. My stomach lurched forward. I thought I was going to throw up.

“Do you like me?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. My eyes blurred with tears and fear gripped me. I couldn’t find an answer.

“Are you telling me you’re gay?”

That word. Oh that word. That I could answer, “No. I don’t think so.” But then I needed to say something. “Maybe I’m bi, but I don’t know.”

“But you like me?” he persisted.

The word, “Yes” popped out of my mouth before I could swallow it.

From somewhere downstairs, my mom began calling me for dinner. At that moment. Now? Really mom? The calls became more persistent.

“COMING!” I yelled. “Listen, I got to go. My mom is calling me.”

“Cool,” he said. “You know what I’m going to do?”

“No, what?” I said, thinking that he’d actually begin calling what few friends I had to tell them I was a “homo.”

“I’m going to jerk off,” he responded.

I lost my voice again.

“I think it’s really hot you’re into me,” he said. “And I got a stiffy to prove it. Let’s talk later.”

Click.

We did talk later. And often. Vince was actually the first guy with whom I ever had phone sex. I would talk about what the girls would do to him and he would hump his bed on the other end of the line. And he’d try to give me some fantasy about men, but it wasn’t a fulfilling as listening to his voice.

At some point, though, I told Vince about the man next door. I don’t recall how it came up or what really transpired. But for all of my fucked-up sense of who I was and my after-life destination, Vince turned out to be the catalyst to turn it all around.

“Dude, you’ve got to stop it and report him to the police,” Vince said.

“But Vince, people would then find out and everybody would think I was a fag!”

“Yea, you’re right,” he said. “But maybe there’s something else we can do.”

Our discussions regarding what to do about him were few since we focused mostly on our own libidos. Our relationship grew over the phone, but physically meeting and actually touching never happened much, until one summer afternoon when Vince called me and invited me over for a sleepover.

I don’t think my cock ever deflated throughout that day and early evening until we were able to finally retire to the basement.

Despite what the man took from me, I count Vince as my first. And technically, he was.

During the evening and early morning, Vince got off seven times. I shot three. Vince was a machine. His cock — similar in size, girth and hardness to mine — never went soft. Oh, and it pointed at his hairy belly button, just like mine. So I wasn’t deformed.

I sucked Vince off twice and licked his balls while he jerked off. At this point, I’d avoided cumming for fear of the painful results that would happen with such a release. Then, Vince requested the act I was probably most curious about.

“You want to fuck me?” he asked. Vince, being as “straight” as he was, refused to suck me. He would touch my cock, but only for short periods. It weirded him out. But he could endure my mouth and hand. Somehow, in his world, sticking my cock into his ass wasn’t as invasive as his mouth.

We found suntan lotion as lube and I rolled on top of him. He felt the usual pain, but for us, it was a new sensation. I pulled out as soon as I’d entered, from the awkward position of two lanky teenage boys, one lying on top of the other.

The next attempt proved more successful and Vince accepted me. If you’ve ever heard of the old show, “Love American Style,” the sex act was always represented by fireworks. Well, my memory of those few moments is so closely related. I saw fireworks, only that the sky was completely filled with these hot colors and none of the black could be seen. Dizzy and hopeful, my hard cock plunged into his virgin hole. I don’t know if we fucked for one minute or twenty. I lost all track of time and place. The pleasure overwhelmed all my senses. Even shooting my load deep into the bowels of this straight boy left me spent but incredibly dazed. I rolled off, smelling a mixture of cocoa butter, shit and our sweat.

“My turn!” Vince said.

Soon he was on top of me in the same awkward position and shoving his cock into my bare hole.

Where the man failed, Vince succeeded. His cock went in. The explosive joy and pleasure I’d experienced just moments before were replaced by sharp, gut-wrenching pain. I could only see red spikes and I begged for Vince to take it out, let it end.

“Just a minute more!” His breath was hot on my neck and he whispered for me to wait just a little bit longer.

He shot in my ass, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him off me. I wanted it to end.

* * *

That night turned out to be a little much for us both. Vince and I never really reconnected and, when school started back up, he avoided me as much as possible. However, Vince did do more for me than he will ever really know.

Truth is, I wanted to share that with Vince. With the 20-year high school reunion upon us, I watched for Vince to RSVP to the online tool and update his profile. Then one day, I logged on to find Vince missing from the roster completely. I sent the organizer a note.

Her e-mail response was abrupt.

“Oh, we moved him to the ‘in memoriam’ section,” she wrote. “He was killed while serving in the Navy shortly after high school. I think it was a car accident.”

I could never share with Vince how his little tryst with me started me on a path of self-worth, where I could value myself and actually enjoy the sex acts I knew I lusted after. In my universe, Vince would never grow old. He would always be the 15-year-old boy who opened me up to the potential.

 

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