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When I logged on to the sex dating site, as I did every day, browsing the women, I was surprised to see an ugly male face appear. Surely the site had rules about this and made sure people didn’t slip themselves into the wrong category.
I was looking for a woman – a nice, mature, slightly bulky, woman-next-door type. But what I was looking at was a cropped head of black hair, dark, menacing eyes and a couple of days of stubble.
I read what he had to say for himself. He sounded unintelligent and uneducated, which, although disappointing, is not a crime. He could barely string a sentence together. “I. Want. Gay Sex. One. night. Only. Also girls.”
My “relationship” with gay sex is a complex one. I find the thought of it totally seductive. And I have found the reality utterly thrilling and fulfilling on the rare occasions when I have been with the right man.
But it’s the personalities that turn me off. When a guy makes a move on me I can’t help comparing it to myself trying it on with a woman, and somehow that puts me off. And I don’t like the thought of a guy having a real life. If he’s going to give me a good going-over I don’t want to think that in reality he is a butcher or a mechanic or a schoolteacher. I want him to have just appeared, fully formed, naked and determined to have me, then disappearing afterwards, leaving me with just a horny memory.
But as I looked at this unsmiling, unsophisticated man on the site – and he looked like he might be a plumber or a long-distance driver – a funny thing happened: a wave of lust swept through me.
As I said, he looked menacing, but that was probably just because he felt uncomfortable having his photograph taken. All the same, the feeling that came across was of danger. He looked like one of those sad loners who end up doing something terrible, or who may already have done something and is capable of doing it again. In other words he was the kind you should stay away from.
I found myself composing a message.
What kind of gay things do you want to do? I kept it monosyllabic. Then I got on with something else and forgot about it. But an hour or so later I logged on again and found a reply.
Fucking, he said. I will fuck a guy.
Only that? I sent back.
Fuck only, he replied. You come here my flat. I fuck you.
This was sounding promising in a weird way. As long as he wasn’t a psycho, it could be a no-strings episode. There was certainly no danger of reality intruding as regards a relationship. I couldn’t even imagine having a conversation bedava bahis with him. Just a short, sharp, silent fuck.
Sounds good to me, I replied. When?
He sent me his address in south London. I lived in the west. An hour on the Tube.
See you then, I wrote, aiming to end the conversation.
I hate poof, he added. I like men. I don’t touch you, suck you, nothing. You suck me. I fuck you. Finish.
He was either even dumber than I thought or he was foreign. Maybe eastern European.
I knew it was risky and even now I think I must have been stupid to chance it. And yet the thought of such a caveman-like encounter drove all reason and caution from my mind.
Having said that, I did put a pen knife and a small hammer in my little backpack before setting off. And Ieft my wallet at home, taking just enough money for the fare and a few quid extra.
As the train rattled beneath the city I was alternately scared and desperate to get there and get what was coming to me. I observed the foreign men who came and went as I sat there, and I imagined he was one of them. I fantasised about them naked, about their big, nasty cocks. About having them plough my arse and cum inside me. It should be a condom job, but I wanted bareback and the guy sounded like he hadn’t had sex for years.
Finally I was there, at his tube station. In a matter of minutes this dark, brooding guy was going to put his train in my station and drive it up my tunnel. The thought was indescribably exciting.
My heart was beating fast as I rang his bell at the terraced house, which was divided into five flats. He had the one by the door. I heard his door open and then the main door opened and there he was. Clean white t-shirt and jeans. His head was wet and glossy. He had just had a shower. That was a good sign, since he was expecting me to suck his cock.
It was a bedsit – what they call a studio nowadays, although it still means a single room with chairs and a bed, with a microwave and sink in the corner and a share of the bathroom. It was the opposite of that widespread female fantasy where they’re wined and dined and then taken to the handsome man’s luxurious apartment to be seduced and rolled around in silk sheets.
This encounter, my encounter with this guy whose name I didn’t even know, was devoid of all frills. It was a step up from caveman sex only in that there were a few inventions such as a mattress involved. Other than that, it was two men about to do what came naturally, bedava bonus or unnaturally, as some might say. Two males of the same species who needed no female anatomy, because they were going to press into service an orifice that had been given to them for a different purpose, but which was quite similar to a cunt in many ways.
“Vodka?” he asked, holding up a bottle and glass. I looked at it suspiciously and perhaps he read my mind. He poured a slug of it and knocked it back himself, as if to show it wasn’t dangerous. Then he poured again and gave me the same glass. It’s funny how the thought of germs and saliva bothers you, but you’ll kiss and suck and lick that person.
I took the proffered glass and swallowed the drink as he had done. As I put it down on the little stained wooden dining table he took off his shirt. His upper body was firm: not in a bodybuilding way, but with the solidity of manual labour. Maybe he was a builder’s labourer or something like that.
His chest was smooth at the edges but had a clump of black hair in the middle, and sprigs of it emerged from his armpits. He was looking at me intently, weighing me up. Then he unzipped his jeans and slid them down, followed by his red underpants. A long, thick penis hung below a canopy of dark hair and in front of low-hanging balls.
“Take clothes off,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. As I did so I watched his cock and was startled at how quickly it grew and how high it rose, up flat against his belly, giving me a better view of the balls that I was determined to suck as soon as possible.
He was uncircumcised and the way his cock head emerged from its hood was exciting too. It wasn’t beautiful – I don’t think any cock is – but it was fascinating. It contained power, fueled by testosterone and directed by the relative sophistication of a brain.
As I exposed my lily-white, smooth body, feminine in comparison with his, even though I was fairly fit, I was just dying for him to tell me what to do.
“Suck me,” he said, stony-faced.
Clearly I was expected to kneel to do this, which is how I like it anyway. I imagined seeing a film of myself doing this for a man. One day I would have to arrange that, so I could watch it myself and wank to it, and also send it to potential fuckers, to show them how submissive I could be.
I dropped to my knees and took the big, fat member in my mouth. I held his plum-like, masculine balls in my left hand, leaving the right free to hold his shaft and stroke him. I licked his balls and sucked deneme bonusu his scrotum, then sucked him again. I loved the feel of him in my mouth, that place where a penis was never meant to go, but which humans, male and female had discovered was so exciting. Animals don’t do it: the only time you’ll see a dog or a horse having his dick sucked is if there’s a man or woman doing it. We’re the dirtiest, most depraved species, doubly so because we have the intellect to think about what we’re doing and decide not to, because it’s not actually necessary for the continuation of the human race.
But we suck cocks and lick pussies and arseholes because it’s fun, and now that we have bathrooms and running water and soap, we can clear away the barriers that must have deterred the cave-dwellers.
Maybe some of this stuff flowing through my brain communicated with my host, because he suddenly turned and knelt on the bed.
“Put tongue in my ass,” he ordered. In that position he was very much like a dog, in the position humans were designed for, and I loved seeing his cock and balls hanging as nature intended.
I got behind him obediently and licked his anus. He wriggled a bit and exposed himself still more to me and I lapped it up. I loved being at his disposal, being told to perform such breathtaking indignities. As I licked his arse my right hand played casually with his cock until he had finally had enough.
“On your knees,” he said, standing up. “I fuck your ass.”
He took some cheap hand cream from the stool that served as a bedside cabinet and rubbed some of the pale yellow liquid into my crack. He poked a finger in to see how I would react, and I sighed with anticipation.
“Fuck me,” I said quietly.
“Louder,” he replied.
“Fuck me!” I said obligingly.
He moved up behind me and placed the head of his cock at my anus, then shoved it in firmly but carefully. It felt fantastic, not just the physical presence of a stiff cock in my hole, but the complete surrender of my dignity, my respectability. I was being fucked my a big, masculine man and I didn’t even know his name. I had gone to his flat with the sole intention of having this happen to me. To be fucked, buggered, penetrated and, I hoped, ejaculated into by someone who wasn’t and would never be a friend of mine.
I wasn’t even doing it for money or some other personal advantage. It was purely because I occasionally like being fucked by a man. The sheer animal thrill of it; the feeling of having a hard rod in my bowels and the beautiful dull ache as this stiff, sinewy body part was inserted into me and plunged up and down.
“I coming,” he grunted, quickening the pace and then grinding hard, as far up me as he could get, while the semen pumped from him, up inside his cock and out the end, into my arse.
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