I think I'm going to arrange my own rape. Maybe even a gang-rape, if I can pull it off. Dunno, we'll see.

Granted, this would seem to be impossible by definition. "You can't rape the willing." But the word "impossible" has never really impressed me overmuch. I hear they're still saying it's impossible for bumblebees to fly.

The idea is presently only in its formative stage. Much, much polishing to do. But you figure, a simple online ad in some of the local gay hook-up sites might do the trick.

First, catch their attention with an "Invitation to Rape" style opening statement.

Then follow through with the details that I'd want to see included -- condoms for all forms of penetration, etc -- along with the would-be attacker's reason to comply: Namely, zero risk of getting busted for the deed. I could 'splain that, but it'd take a few paragraphs. Thinking I'll save it for the ad itself.

Mmm, also might be a good idea to include a "how to make sure I not only avoid running to the cops, but *also* make sure I *have* to come back again for more, at your leisure" section.

And finally, a contact point. Maybe my email addy. Interested viewers could email me with a photo verifying their cock length, and would receive in response some detailed information on how to successfully stalk me.

After that, it's in their hands.

Obviously, such a thing might lead to my getting killed. Or at least, thoroughly fucked up. But on the other hand, to even contemplate (and I mean very *seriously* contemplate) such an idea is proof positive that I'm *already* thoroughly fucked up. So no harm done. Q.E.D.

Whatcha think? Improvements?

The best sex I've had so far.

Hm. Only 15 minutes in which to write, and then they'll prob'ly kick me off this computer. Public library, and all that. (le sigh)

Furthermore, do I *want* folks to know just how vanilla my "best sex so far" has been? Most of the cats that I've "friended" appear to be into things like razor play and... and zero-gee pickle play, and stuff! For all that I've been to many places, seen strange things and occasionally even done something that I was proud of *out* of bed, do I want these jaded cats to know just how little I've managed between the sheets?

Oh, yeah! Now I remember! (ahem) Fuck it.

Her initials were T.R., and I met her in a Southern city with a thing for art, beauty, decadence, and full-on David Lynch surreality. Believe it or not, I'm not talking about New Orleans. But an awful lot like that, yeah.

She was friends with one of my roommates, just stopping by for a brief visit. She had the most piercing blue eyes beneath dark, dark bangs. I don't remember if it was just her body, or the clothes she was wearing, or what... but she practically screamed "classy" without seeming one bit arrogant about it. Friendly!

And so fucking beautiful. I was hypnotized.

By comparison, I wasn't much to look at. They tell me I'm handsome enough, often comparing me to the professor on Gilligan's Island. But at the time, I had a neat line of stitches in one of my wrists, courtesy of my disdain for the dude I kept seeing in the mirror. I was also drunk, and about to head out on foot to a friend's apartment.

She was leaving, too, and offered me a ride.

I think I didn't make a stuttering fool outta myself. I think also that this was because I felt too completely outclassed to even bother. No hope = no pressure, y'know?

But right there at the end, just before I got out of the car, I asked her out. And she blew my mind by agreeing.

We went out to this big park, after sunset, with a blanket and a no-shit picnic basket full o' easy eats, and a bottle or two of wine. Don't remember how far the date itself followed behind our first meeting, but I *think* it couldn't have been that same night, 'coz I'm pretty sure I was sober and not suffering from a hangover.

You know, there was something so wonderful about it. We didn't see Niagara Falls, or hire some violin players to follow us around or anything. It was just her and me at that darkened park, and I think I *still* felt outclassed, so I *still* didn't bother to trip all over my tongue. We were relaxed. We talked and we connected, and I haven't the foggiest clue what was said, but by the end of it we kissed.

Fireworks. Bliss.

I don't remember the trip back to my humble-but-sorta-neat-o little room, with the mattress on the hardwood floor and the pathetic wanna-stay-a-teenager-forever rock-n-roll posters pinned to the walls. I also don't remember if we smoked any weed that first night.

We did fuck. At length.

You know the school of thought that says there's a serious difference between "making love" and "hard fucking"? Not that night. No, it was decidedly both.

She was obviously quite experienced. She also appeared to be completely uninhibited. By that, I don't mean the desperate wildness of someone who's determined to *overcome* their inhibitions. No, she'd conquered them before she ever met me.

She was the closest I've come to meeting a girl with real dominant tendencies. Early into our foreplay, she didn't *ask* me to go down on her. She gently took me by the shoulders and pushed me down there, between her thighs. And while she used my tongue, she kept her hands on my head, guiding me. It was nothing like serious CONTROL... but she did very clearly communicate her exact desires. Faster... a little higher... right there... don't stop.

She was the first girl to ever come in my face, the only girl for whom I've ever swallowed.

She's the only girl I've met so far who could deep-throat, who *loved* to deep-throat. She worked me until I released inside her, and she swallowed and sucked in a way that suggested it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

I'm reminded at this immediate moment of Andrew Dice Clay's smartassed little comment. "How do you think she *got* that good?" And you know, I didn't care then, and I don't care now. Kudos to her lovers who came before me. Props to them, for the simple virtue of having also enjoyed such total sexual ecstasy.

We never rimmed each other. At that point, I hadn't yet fantasized too much about tonguing some hottie's ass. But in the following years, when the idea did begin to pick up momentum in my head, it was nearly always her that I thought about. Wish I'd gone there. Fairly certain she would have loved it.

There was *one* bit of ass play, but not on our first night together. Our relationship lasted about two months -- we both knew, going into it, that I only had about two months remaining until I had to leave that town. During that period, we did a lot of fucking.

Anyway, yeah, on one such occasion, she told me that she wanted to try something new. Wanted it to be a surprise. "Will you trust me...?" Really hesitant. I agreed. So she went down on me, and took it in all the way, and at some point during that world-class blowjob, she slowly but firmly thrust a moistened finger up my ass.

I remember a few seconds during which it barely moved inside me. I guess she was just letting me get used to the feel of it. The reason I remember those first few seconds is because I also remember how it felt when she began to seriously *work* me from within. Kneading my prostate, as she later informed me. And the whole time, sucking down my cock.

I was paralyzed. It was that moment -- right then, right there -- that earns the subject line of this whole entry. That moment, as far as intensity goes, was the best sex I've had so far. When I came, it HURT. My whole body tingled like it had been asleep and was just waking up. Time seemed to stand on end, and I felt like I was dying and being reborn.

Beginning to regret this little walk down memory lane. It's very unlikely that I'll see her again, and I didn't realize how many memories center around that girl.

Getting off work one slightly foggy night to find her outside, waiting for me. Into her car and away on one of our little explorations of the world around us.

Going to her office on another night. She hated her boss, and had already turned in her two weeks' notice, but she still had the key to the place. We made love at her boss's desk, first with her bent over its glass top, then with her riding me while I reclined on her boss's exquisitely comfortable leather swivel chair.

We decided that that Nine Inch Nails song -- the one about fucking like an animal -- was "our song."

I think the best was the mornings, just waking up with her. Both of us naked, limbs tangled together. Usually there was morning sex, but there was a greater sweetness in those first still moments. Laying there on my humble mattress, just holding her, feeling not-alone. Feeling happy.

You know how weird that was, back then? To feel happy?

When it came time for me to leave town, she cried silently. Face smooth, no great sobs or anything. Just tears flowing out of those clear, gorgeous blue eyes. And we held each other for a long time, and like a prize clown -- like the King of the Idiots -- I held back my own tears until I was alone.

And far, far more stupid: I carried out my plans and left that town. Left her.

Can't say that I've been *steadily* kicking myself ever since. It comes and goes. And always comes again.

I wonder if she'll one day read this and recognize the moments I describe? However unlikely, it's possible.

I love you still, beautiful lady. I hope you never lost your joy.

Gay Crackhead Confessions

I've entertained submissive fantasies since my early teens, but they probably would've stayed in their little box forever if I hadn't messed up and experimented with crack cocaine.

Baby, that let it all out. Forget for a moment the pleasure involved in such a high. What really blasted through me was this wild, uninhibited sense of LUST. And it was mostly of a decidedly gay-submissive variety. Still dunno whether that was just my closet submissiveness asserting itself, or the result of discovering that crack had also robbed me of any hope of a hard-on.

The killer of it was that I was surrounded by other men, generally bad-news amoral scoundrels. They were all black, and a passing glance at their trousers was enough to confirm that most of them enjoyed the fringe benefits of being so. Were one of these dudes to have figured out my momentary vulnerability and capitalized upon it, he might well have crippled me.

And as long as I was up there on that high, I would've enjoyed every minute of it.

One of them came close. He caught on that *something* was on my mind, and timed his questions perfectly. Caught me alone, and made sure I was high as a kite before he asked me anything. And I pretty much stuttered out everything he could want to know about it.

My mouth lost its virginity that night. My bottom was saved by two things: He couldn't keep a hard-on, and he was 'waaaaay more interested in using this development to trick me out of my remaining crack, rather than nailing me.

Since then, the fantasies have gone into overdrive. Suppose it had gone differently? Suppose I'd been nailed, or even gang-banged? And kept high throughout the event, so that I'd have had no choice but to love it?

Suppose someone had brought along a little disposable camera, and gotten some pictures of the event? I probably wouldn't have minded. Again, those inhibitions had left town. From there, it would've taken very little effort to find out where I work. And then?

And then, as long as those pictures didn't ever surface, they'd have had me for sure. I'd have had to *keep* going back and putting out for them. I'd probably be there right now.

High as a kite. Taking a huge dick down my throat, and another one up my ass at the same time.

And loving it.

I'd be a full-blown addict, too, of course. Price of admission, I suppose.