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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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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Unassuming

My venture into the Leather Community required study, but I’m more of an “on the job” participant. I explored some of the basics including tying men up and spanking. At the time, the Washington, D.C., area contained multiple men who allowed me a more academic learning experience where I could indulge any and all interests.

One of these boys indulged me repeatedly. However, his ultimate fantasy turned out to be one I could not grant. He wanted to be a “puppy.”

Just put “puppy play” in quotes into any search engine and you’ll come up with plenty of results. I had a dog at the time and, well, I treated by real canine well. I would say a human companion of the puppy persuasion needs more attention and discipline than what I was willing to give.

Moreover, puppy boy wouldn’t indulge me in my particular desire — barebacking. Even then, the barebacking movement seemed in its infancy. While I got plenty of raw ass — some of which I wrote about in the “Deceptively Fun” series — the darker side of my sexual nature couldn’t be divulged. Even as I experimented with this world, I had not yet reconciled my true urges when it came to fucking.

While I fucked plenty of submissives, I found most focused on their own fetishes and desires. As much as the submissive man would tell me it was about the Dominant, I found compatibility tended to be required.

“What are you into?” may be a standard question, but in the Leather world, the question seemed to be, “What are your limits?”

Limits turned out to be plenty among these so-called submissives. “Scat” and “blood” were understandable. Others not so much. I loved hearing, “No permanent marks.”

And for every ass-wipe that said he had no limits, a few questions later I’d discover what limits truly existed. And there were usually plenty.

For those of you unfamiliar with some of the nomenclature of this realm, I’ll give you the basics.

A “Sir” is a Dominant who will collar a “boy” submissive. One of the most entertaining aspects of this relationship is the sense that a “boy” can be any age. As someone in my mid-30s at the time, I found myself inundated with requests from mid-40s and early-50s men begging to be my “boy.”

As one Sir explained to me once, boys deserve to be respected.

A boy could set limits and the Sir would generally honor those limits. In other words, boys would have rights.

While I did entertain the Sir/boy combination, what I found more intriguing was the ultimate: Master/slave.

Slaves did not get respect. Slaves could not have limits. Slaves served their Master no matter the request.

Over the course of my time, I owned and trained one slave. Moreover, I would train three boys as a Sir and have a wide variety of play experiences, for which I will explore in upcoming entries.

As I reflect on my time in this microcosm of gayness, I’d say that I held back. Even during my Leather experimentation, few men ever saw the fierce punishment I could lash upon their psyche. When you add the underlying violence that occasionally urged my sadistic side, no one went completely into my darkness.

A darkness that still lurks deep within me.