Tag Archives: truth

Hate (3 of 3)

Hate (3 of 3)

A blind leading the blind mentality seems to permeate the world. We don’t want our children to be taught about sex or they might have it. Yet we all have cocks and vaginas and asshole and clits.

Then there’s this thing called the Internet and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which goes where. Before you know it, little honors student and Christian Jessica Jane Lister is pregnant with football quarterback Cody Wall’s baby and they’ve both got genital warts.

We want our schools to teach creationism but not evolution but we don’t want our churches to support science. Hell, the Georgia Legislature is trying to pass a law that citizens have a right to carry guns into their churches, so we can kill the preacher if he says something blasphemous (like Jesus turned water into wine; wrong! Jesus turned water into grape juice).

It stands to reason that a lot of the hate I’ve garnered causing people to protest against Str8Cam Jeff Opens new window of a page on this blog and others steams from a misunderstanding of my most controversial posts about stealthing.

I know a lot of my readers think stealthing is hot, hot, hot. You jerk off to it. It’s the forbidden fruit. All of us have fantasies we all enjoy, just beyond the borders of what we’d really do.

Then again, it might be something we do.

In the barebacking world, there’s bug-chasing and gift-giving along with a Russian roulette of who-the-fuck-cares breeds us.

But I am known for stealthing, for giving the world the top 10 tips for stealthing Opens new window of a page on this blog, for explaining barebacking in meaningful ways that there’s no denying what’s really happening.

I have been deceptive. And that’s not explaining all my motivations.

The Entire Truth

Whenever I watch a magician — even someone like Lance Burton or David Copperfield — it’s become second nature for me to figure out how the trick is done. It’s not really hard to do. I can’t stand to watch “America’s Got Talent” and to see Howie Mandel be amazed at a relatively simple trick and to say, “I don’t know how you did that!”

I can tell you.

When I began the entries on busting condoms, taking condoms off and other forms of sabotage, the outrage was palpable. Most hated it. Many thought I’d broken some sacred contract.

How, I have no idea. Anonymous sex is just that. Why they have this higher-than-mighty sense one must adhere to a code when fucking someone who you don’t even know their first name, I don’t comprehend. Why? And especially why when one knows the other person isn’t put into any harm.

The mighty think that the stealther has some puss-filled cock shooting out disease upon infection and reigning some destruction upon the other.

Nonetheless, until I started writing about it, no one was.

I don’t count myself as some savior. I don’t. But I do see some of what I wrote as an education.

I do explain if you’re stupid enough to want to fuck in places where you’re not going to know your top or bottom, how one might protect oneself. How to bring your own condoms, monitor the use of the condoms and maintain your own safety.

You are accountable for your own safety. No one else.

Welcome to Real Life

It’s so very odd how some consider this bond of sex sacred even though you’re fucking with a stranger. For example, if a journalist is speaking to a source and the source wants to go “off the record” — meaning the content to follow is not to be published or broadcast — the journalist must agree to do so verbally as well. It must be stated so and both parties have to make an agreement.

Pulling out a condom just with the assumption someone will wear it doesn’t work that way.

I’m not saying this stuff just to piss people off. I’m trying to get reality to sink in. This is how the world works. Assuming an asshole top who wants to get off raw or a bottom who wants a load is going to fuck according to some honor code is just plain stupid.

 

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Q&A: Truth Inside the Truth & the Truth When It Should Be a Lie

Q&A: Truth Inside the Truth & the Truth When It Should Be a Lie

Grindr-Hate-MessageHIV is a stigma. Don’t ask me. Ask someone who has it. Ask anyone who’s bold enough to actually put on their Grindr, Manhunt or Scruff profile that their Poz and see what happens. Here’s an example I used earlier of a friend of mine on Grindr who was messages for his profile which honestly revealed he’s Poz Opens new window of a page on this blog.

It’s bullshit.

Lately, I’ve gotten a couple of questions from readers who had issues involving Poz men, one making me think of this particular bias. I thought both were particularly telling and deserved to be told. Forgive me for sharing because I didn’t exactly ask these gentlemen’s permission, but I think I’ve averted anything devastating and I’m obscuring their identities.

Truth Inside the Truth:
Who Should Fuck Me, Poz or Undetectable?

QuestionI had only ever barebacked with boyfriends…. But I’m feeling that total slutty sex itch from deep within my hole and I kind of want to try bareback with a total stranger. Let’s face it: it was fucking hot, man! So, I joined BarebackRT.com Open-New-Window-External.

The first couple of days the only hits I got were from guys in the country and a couple of men in my home state, but several hundred miles away.

Today, I got hit up by two VERY hung tops, both within five miles of my home. One top says, “Undetectable.” The other says, “Positive.”

I really want to give it up again and I really want it to be raw, but  their status just scares me.

I almost hope I had never even looked at their status. I don’t know. I wonder if I would have even cared had I not known.

Which leads me to question whether or not I’m ready… A big part of me says, “Fuck it! Let’s do it!” But the other me says, “No.”

Advice?

(Give your own answer! Scroll to the survey below Scroll Down.)

 

AnswerYou need to ease into this world you’re exploring. So much of what you’re been conditioned is that HIV Poz is bad and you’ll die if you get it. No matter how much you logically know that’s not true, you still have this embedded conditioning — and almost Pavlovian response — that creates and illogical fear of bareback sex.

It just isn’t true.

So let’s just break through this with a little more logic.

Men who are undetectable have technically at one point been exposed to HIV. However, their antiviral cocktails have been so effective that it’s resulted in repressing the virus so far down that a blood test cannot detect it.

Basically, these guys are now neg again.

HIV hasn’t disappeared from the body. However, the main route by which the the virus is transmitted lacks it.

Your chances of getting infected by an undetectable man are more than likely less than a man who claims he’s neg. Here’s why:

Neg men aren’t really that religious and consistent about having themselves checked for HIV and other sexually transmitted infections. Neg men really don’t have a doctor hovering over blood tests to check all their levels and call them when a six-month test is missed.

HIV-neg men aren’t even notified or bothered about their next test by most gay doctors. And that’s the sexually active men who’ve bothered to tell their doctors they bareback.

Fuck, mine doesn’t even know I go raw. He lectures me but just assumes I’m using condoms.

You are so much safer with undetectable on a cocktail. There’s no guarantees. But just fuck it and go for it. You’ll be glad you did. Then in about six weeks, set up an appointment and keep it every three to six months.

Eventually, the guilt fades and your fear response will die down and you’ll just remember the fun.

 

Truth When It Should Be a Lie:
He Said, ‘Fuck Off, I Don’t Fuck Poz Bottoms!’

I get on Scruff and meet this fucking hot thirtysomething. We get to chatting and, bonus of all bonuses, he takes cock raw and tells me it’s his policy for the top not to pull out. I assure him that iBLASTinside (and he doesn’t get it — obviously, not a reader).

He can’t wait for me to fuck him bit I’m sort of booked for the afternoon when he says he only gets fucked twice a year.

“Twice a year?” I question. “You surely get fucked a lot more than that. You’re really hot.”

Well, he explains the Poz thing turns men off. And he’s a bit of a stickler on being honest and up front. He refuses to use a condom so he gets told more often to “fuck off” rather than to “get fucked.”

He doesn’t exactly ask a question, but it ends up I give him a bit of advice.

(Give your own answer! Scroll to the survey below Scroll Down.)

Answer(for advice) As it turns out, you’ve recently tested “undetectable.” This means that if the traditional HIV tests were run at this time, the virus could not be found in your blood — you’d appear essentially “negative” to people. 

At one point, you appeared positive, but if you said, “In my most recent tests, I came out ‘negative,’ you technically would not be lying.” This is especially true since you will be acting as the bottom.

I understand you have a conscious and you feel telling these random hook-ups — and that’s what they are — a random hook-up — that you’re negative and you’ve actually tested positive at one point may be considered a lie. But the risk you present to these slutty barebackers is almost non-existent.

Like I say above, it’s more risky for these guys to have sex with men who believe they’re neg but aren’t being tested all that often.

It is their own bias that drives them to say, “No” to you when chances are, several of the supposed “neg” guys aren’t neg at all. You’re safer to fuck than any of them.

Further, let’s look at it in another direction:

Let’s say your grandfather on your mother’s side was black. You look white. But the guy has one of those racist profiles that say, “Not into black guys. Sorry. Just how I am.” Technically, dude, you are a little black. Now he messages you because you look white. You’re attracted to him. You pass as white.

But the truth is, you are part black.

Do you tell him you’re black?

It’s not going to hurt him not to know. In fact, it might be a lot of fun.

What Do You Think?

Now it’s your turn to chime in. I’ve got three questions based on my advice. I want to see what you all think about my responses:

help2      help      help2      help

Who should the neg guy get fucked by?

View Results

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help2      help      help2      help

If you're poz but undetectable, is it okay to tell a hookup you're actually neg?

View Results

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help2      help      help2      help

If your maternal grandmother was black but you look white and a hook-up says he doesn't like blacks, should you tell that hook-up you're part black?

View Results

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help2      help      help2      help

Check back again here for continued results as more people vote.

help2      help      help2      help

Do you have a question you’d like Mark Bentson (aka iBLASTinside) to answer? Send a message to iBLASTinside@gmail.com mailbox_full or hit him up on his contact page Opens new window of a page on this blog.

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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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What About the Youth of Today and Their Opinions on Bareback? FUCK EM!

What About the Children?

Every time some political football enters the arena — the national debt, gun control, Medicare, climate change, healthcare or whatever the issue happens to be — and one side runs out of arguments, there’s this moment when the pundit tilts his head to one side, gets this misty-eyed reflection and might even choke up a little. And then he or she says something about how this issue will ruin the lives of our children, the next generation, our children’s children or some crap like that.

It’s bullshit. But it’s a reflexive moment where everyone, whether you’ve got children or not, that our instinctual survival-of-the-species part of the monkey-brain kicks in and we collectively think something needs to be done.

Why do you think we all find babies and even the youngest of other species so adorably cute and cuddly? Puppies and kittens? Baby seals?

This is instinct telling us to take care and protect our young.

Now that I’ve explained it, let’s talk a little about the recent attacks on the Bareback Brotherhood Link Opens in a New Window, my fellow bareback bloggers, bareback hookup sites like BarebackRT.com Link Opens in a New Window, our family of pornographers and, more particularly, me.

The Sudden Focus of World AIDS Day

Over the past few years, I’ve come to expect it around December 1, World AIDS Day. Funny how one day prompts some assholes who ignore a class of people living with HIV and AIDS for a whole year but become indignant when they discover bareback sex and groups like the BBBH. One particular person who bugchased Link Opens in a New Window successfully and documented it received some particularly violent threats this year, including details on how they’d like to kill him.

It’s not technically irony (Alanis  Morissette ruined that for all of us), but the condom Nazis Link Opens in a New Window who want to wrap the world in plastic so no one dies of AIDS wants to kill someone for getting AIDS. Just weird.

Once I’d engage these hypocrites who ignore all the other ways our people are dying Opens a new window from this blog, who don’t give a shit that the Gay culture of steroid-muscled youth is built around smoke-filled bars serving alcohol with gun-toting drug dealers selling crystal meth (or “Tina”), ecstasy (or “Molly”), and cocaine.

Where’s your righteous indignation there?

But I don’t. I ignore the attacks nowadays. I delete the anonymous posts to my site wishing I would die or suggesting ways they would kill me. This very website fends off multiple cyber-attacks every second Opens a new window from this blog.

I refused to acknowledge or even link to the clever posts who have all of 200 followers on Twitter Link Opens in a New Window but figure out how to search for my brothers in cum and suggest others block them.

Twitter People to Block If You’re One of Those Self-Righteous, Plastic-Loving Pricks

I’ve been kind enough to compile the list myself. On Twitter alone, I’ve got six barebacker lists with confirmed men all over the world who love to fuck raw:
Blue Bullet One Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Two Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Three Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Four Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Five Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Six Link Opens in a New Window

I’ve listed all the Bareback Brotherhood members in four lists:
Blue Bullet One Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Two Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Three Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet 
Four Link Opens in a New Window

You’ll also want to check out my fellow co-founders of the BBBH to see their lists.
Blue Bullet @ch4suk Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet @gapozathens Link Opens in a New Window

That should cover all the so-called evil (but very enlightened and sexy) people online you need to block.

There’s even barebackers who somehow misinterpret the basics of the Bareback Brotherhood with strange, concocted vendettas out for me.

Hiding Behind ‘the Children’

Like some final bastion of refuge, the truth is arguing that safer sex is the only sex doesn’t work. The fear that came with AIDS/HIV of the 1980s and 1990s simply doesn’t work. HIV/AIDS is now defined by the medical community as a chronic condition Link Opens in a New Window, like “arthritis, asthma, cancer, COPD [and] diabetes.” It’s like living under the constant “orange” threat after 9/11.

The argument goes that we older folks are influencing younger people in their late teens and early twenties to accept bareback sex as normal and natural. Our “influence” is causing these youths to engage in so-called “unsafe” activity.

No, it’s causing them to act natural.

The most unnatural thing is to stick a piece of plastic on your cock in order to have an intimate act.

It’s not influenced by barebackers.

These assholes have the same kind of sense that we’re converting young men into barebackers the same way the homophobic think the Gays are converting youth into homosexuals.

It’s just ludicrous.

Talk to one. He will tell you about the love for the cum in his ass or dumping a load in a bare ass. It’s nothing to do with influence. It’s a natural appeal to do what comes naturally.

I’m Not Changing Anyone’s Mind

I know I’m not. I know I could never have a reasonable conversation with one of these jackoffs. I also know people who’ve been reading my site about stealthing Opens a new window from this blog and bugchasers Opens a new window from this blog and barebacking are misinterpreting the basics.

I can’t change a mind.

But what I do know is I appreciate the attention.

My readers are higher than ever, especially since some female porn slut thinks she’s got the upper hand on me and she can bareback all the guys she wants but men fucking raw is naughty, naughty.

Well, put me on Santa’s naughty list, take the saddle off the reindeer and let’s ride raw.

Fuck the children! I mean the LEGAL children of age, of course. No stocking for me.

 

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Of Fakes and Real People

Of Fakes and Real People

A special post for my little Chicago bitch Opens a new window from this blog.

According to the Chicago Kik friend, who doesn’t exist on Kik anymore, the two larger photos above are of half brothers with whom he fucked. Or so he said.

Upon receiving the photos, within moments I knew the story wasn’t true.

My little secret (which really isn’t a secret) is that one can search on images. The top left image is all over the place. And when I mean all over the place, I mean ALL OVER THE PLACE. It’s one of those shots that becomes prolific and earns wings.

The top right, well, I know who it is and it’s not a half brother and he certainly didn’t fuck him in Chicago.

I’ve placed four more images of the same young man, who happens to be straight and live in Texas.

His name is Reid. Shout out to his Tumblr, TheHeartIsKing.Tumblr.com Link Opens in a New Window.

Reid is smart, including several photos of himself on his page. Anyone doing an image search will quickly discover the truth about who the man in the photo happens to be.

                

As you know, I do not normally show faces. The first image is one of someone who’s available readily on the internet already. The second is someone who puts himself out there because he’s a photographer. I’m actually able to give him credit. He’s got his own Tumblr page Link Opens in a New Window and I’m able to refer you all to it so you can legitimately visit it and jerk off there.

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