Guest post by @HoMoFo
“Fudge Packer!”, “Ass Bandit!”, “Knob Jockey!” Aside from being the names of my childhood goldfish, they’re all accusations leveled at me by complete strangers. From the scaffold of the building site, inappropriate East End children, and the increasing hordes of “lads” drunkenly clinging onto each other up and down SoHo on a Saturday night, looking far gayer than me walking in a street, on my own. And it’s a weird assumption to make about someone, a complete stranger, that because you think you can gauge my sexual proclivity, you automatically assume I take it up the shitter. “Who, dear? Me, dear? No, dear!” It’s simply not true. The statements purport to some kind of over indulgence in the act, an uncontrollable frenzy, and while, in the past, I’ve had the occasional dabble up the doodah, frenzied it has not been. In many ways, I would still consider myself an Ass Virgin.
I’ve lived my life up to now believing that being a gay man does not go fist in blossom with a desire for anal sex. Being a gay man is an attraction to my same gender, a predilection for the masculine over the feminine. And while I appreciate that some (most?) gay men do look at other men, and their first reaction is a primal urge to get them on their backs and start fucking, it isn’t the thing that defines us. I know some gay men that don’t even like penises very much. To make our lives even more complicated, we’re seemingly required to further classify ourselves as being “tops” (givers), “bottoms” (receivers) or “versatile” (both). I’d quite like a “Not Applicable” flung into the ring, so to speak. Because as much as I love men, and, boy, do I love men (ooh, but not boys), when I find one I’m attracted to, I don’t suddenly wonder what his sphincter looks like. I have never been over come with urge to imagine myself buried deep in him. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him, to be held. I imagine him naked immediately, of course I do, my warm breath on his neck, biting his nipples, and I can even picture the first thrill of unzipping him and releasing his manhood, tasting him.
Apparently, it’s a conversation we’re meant to have. One of those passion killing moments that reduces sex to a series of actions. A tick sheet of do’s and don’ts, will’s and won’ts that can be the decider between a night of unashamed passion, or a dodgy sausage and the night bus home.
While I’m kind of adverse to that particular chat, too (call me romantic!), there’s also nothing worse than the surprise attack. Those heat of the moment situations when you suddenly (naively) realise you’re on your front, or the eureka moment of “Ohhh.. THAT’s why my knees are by my ears”.
Of course it has happened before. A couple of surprise attacks. The first was a complete disaster, and a shame because the man in question was beautiful. I got very swept along by the moment, and the result was very, very messy… We never saw each other again, despite my almost obsessive insistence that we should.
The second time was with a Turkish wrestler called Ahmet, who let me muscle worship him for an hour and then got me very drunk on raki. I am ashamed and appalled to disclose that I remember him entering me. And then I fell asleep.
On other occasions, it has just felt uncomfortable and futile.
My times as a ‘top’ have been no better. Without any form of boasting, I have come to realise I am quite well endowed. When the time arrives, and my partner’s insistence becomes too great, I always find myself saddled with incredibly restrictive prophylactics. So much so that I sometimes couldn’t care less the pleasure I am giving when it feels like my cock is being skinned alive by some weird flesh-eating fly-trap. And so, I came to the conclusion, ‘you know what? I’m ok with it. It’s not for me’ I thought ‘I can carry on being a pansy, a woofter, a cocksucker’. And I thought that was, for want of a better phrase, the end of it.
After much initial flirting and the appalling ‘Carry On Up My Khyber’ style innuendo I inflict on everyone, we started to actually discuss some quite personal stuff. Some of those chats lasted for hours, all through the night on many occasions, and by the time we actually hooked up it felt like I’d known him for years.
I happened last week to be in Brighton on business. It was late when he came to my hotel. He’d been with friends, and I was already a little tipsy from a work function. It wasn’t long before we became intimate. We undressed each other and bounced around in the fantastic suite my Company were paying for, and reintroduced ourselves, going over the things that had connected us. I told him about this blog I was writing, and we laughed at my history, relayed to you above.
There came a time when the talking was over, and I held him firmly and passionately. His hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me on top of him. He moved down my body, gently caressing the small of my back and made a sudden, violent grab for my arse. His big hands began kneading my buttocks, massaging the muscle firmly, opening and closing. I felt giddy, euphoric. I felt I could surrender completely to him. I was breathing heavily, perspiring, my back dripped with sweat. I felt like I was on fire. It was a good 2 or 3 minutes before I realised he had his fingers inside me. Part of me panicked, and he felt me tense. He laughed and kissed me gently, stroked me, and I started to relax once more, to give in to him. I remained hard throughout, and could feel him probing deep, his fingers massaging my prostate, such an intense feeling. All the way through he asked me if I was OK, every step accompanied by concern and compassion. He was sliding in and out of me with such ease. He asked me to turn over, to kneel. Suddenly I felt a cold yet tingling sensation and I realised he was applying lubrication. I thought I would resist, that my reticence would make me impenetrable, but the reverse happened, and I seemed to open up more. I could feel his cock enter me, but here were no sharp pains, my body didn’t reject him, it welcomed him, and for the first time in my gay life, I was totally and expertly fucked.
He stayed until morning, and we talked some more. I couldn’t get past the intensity, my whole body felt alive. I felt elated, but saddened that it had taken me so many years to experience it. He asked me what I thought had been different, and I realised the “gung-hole” attitude the other men, myself included, had taken to the act before. He had been so careful where others had ploughed on with no concern. Like trying to furrow a field with an Exocet. It’s a delicate area for a novice, and it needs surveying and preparing accordingly.
I’m probably half way through my life, but now it feels like part of it is beginning. I shall wear the name calling, now, as a badge of pride. Fudge Packer? Yep. Ass Bandit? Guilty! Knob Jockey? Saddle me up and ride me!!In time, and there will be time, I may be at the stage where it will be like flinging a sausage up Regent Street, but at the moment please manhandle with care.