O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.
The guy whose girlfriend lets him fuck guys because “guys don’t count”.
I could feel the slick of it in my pants, the oily excretion in his Ford. He slid his mit from my knee to my thigh and ran his nails along the grain of my jeans. “You know, she doesn’t care—” he stuttered, the excitement prancing in his eyes. I wasn’t just a fuck, I was a play-date. His woman let him do this and I was grateful.
The guy whose boyfriend lets him fuck guys because you do it better.
Darryl was an indie guy whose skinny jeans were just skinny enough. His flannel still clothes my floor, and his man sends him to me twice a week, seeking more. Often, I beg the boyfriend to watch, but he’s too shy. He likes it when I latch the belt around his Man’s neck and pull on it as I go downtown. He loves pain like all hipsters love shit.
The guy whose boyfriend has no idea you exist.
I’m the Other Man, the Paramour, they said. I’m your boyfriend Tuesday through Thursday, and your cock is my jewel. Let’s wedge it between my thighs and let your lust drool down my legs as I fight to savour what’s in store. Let’s not tell him that I win whenever I score. Do you like the warmth of the touch of my tongue? I can handle you, you know.
The guy who wishes you were his boyfriend.
So, Matt called me and was like, “Maybe we can be more than casual”, then I unzipped and started jerking as he went on and on. At least his voice is good. I was uncertain that I wanted to see him again, but yes, every guy seems to want me. I think it has something to do with the fact my ass can guzzle come quicker than my mouth.
The guy who always buys you dinner before fucking you.
It’s funny how he always bought me a meal before we went back to his apartment. You see, I would nosh on his shit then slurp up his come for dessert. He liked to be clawed, too—ten nails down his thighs. And he loved when I rubbed my dick raw up and down his slick back without a single hair. I used to eat his ass when dirty.
The guy who has no experience whatsoever.
Derek told me he loved to chase the dragon, but he had never even gone faggin’, you know? His hole was so tight, and a little hairy, too. We began with a grooming session and I shaved his whole body, which is odd, because I love hair. Once he was smooth, I spat on him and rolled the saliva with my tongue from his neck to his crack. Yeah.
The guy who has more experience than you.
I don’t recall his name, but when he had four fingers in me and massaged my prostate from the inside and out—thumb just perfectly graced—I moaned with my entire face. I had never been good at fingering but he taught me how. When he told me to work one out on him, I ended up going fist-deep, fighting for my world. I pumped like a protest-flag unfurled.
The guy who can’t speak English.
It’s silly when foreigners come to me looking to come, and though linguistics is our limitation, for one guy, it was our excitation—we kissed after some awkward banter, then he threw up a little in my mouth. I drew back, bubbled it on my lips like a baby bird spewing back up to mama, and I took it down, swallowing it like a swallow, or some international bird.
The guy who’s about to be deported.
Never trust Austrian men. Hitler was one, but I bet he was hung like my guy. I hope so, as I’d hate to think a Size Queen ruled over Europe. This guy was the first guy I sucked while driving. He held my head down hard and I gagged down South Street in a beat-up Taurus. At his place he said to be quick, “Immigration’s coming in the morning”.
The guy who buys you a new wardrobe.
He drove a brand-new Mustang and wore Chanel sunglasses, short, spiked, dyed blonde hair—Madonna Blonde—and a thick, bull cock. He was aggressive, but we fucked regularly, and he rewarded my skills with new clothes. After he’d take me shopping, the pants would be dropping. This one never paid me, but the clothes were trendy. He said he’d buy me a car and teach me how to drive.
The guy who wants to fuck in his expensive car.
Karl drove three cars that I knew of, and he insisted we fuck in all of them. The Benz was my favourite—I came all over the gear shift and he licked it up then we snowballed—but he was awfully showy with the Porsche and the Beamer. Ironically, I never knew how to drive, so my appreciation was strictly aesthetic. His body was a vehicle when he sped.
The guy who wants to fuck in his stolen car.
“It’s exciting, right?” he said as he pulled his jeans down to his knees and left the car running. He was running, alright—“I just stole her from the lot behind the Superstore”—and he was an idiot, too. But, do-as-I-do is what I do, so I rode him in the driver’s seat as classic rock blared from some station. He came inside me like a priest offering oblations.
The guy who has to fuck you in his car because that’s what “discreet” means.
His personal didn’t clarify what he meant by “discreet”, but I soon found out. The only private space he knew was the backseat of his Toyota. True, there wasn’t a sound about. The only thing I had been was his quota. His dick was real veiny and twisted slightly to the left—thick, too. I went with it and got fucked raw with my face up against the window.
The guy who isn’t a guy at all.
Julio was a pre-op trans guy whose birth name was Julia. His tits were the size of nectarines and his deep voice turned me on. We met at the bar, and I thought he was a hot Latin guy who had a big dick. At first put off by his cunt, once I was a few fingers inside him, I liked him. He sucked my cock like a star.
The guy who makes you pay for it.
Brad was a dark guy, always cracking sick jokes and bumming me for some tens to buy a pack of smokes. He insisted I was simply providing him with something else to suck on while we talked—and we talked a lot. Really, I was paying him for his ass, which I consummately loved to tongue and come on before I fucked him, using my fuck as cheap lube.
The guy who pays you for it.
The first guy who ever paid me to fuck was paying me for a blow-job and I think he called himself Jackson. He wanted to be sucked but I threw in a freebie when I started to fist him. Luckily his hole was loose. He wanted me to spit on him, and for that I charged him. It costs extra to get aggressive. He paid me in crumpled fives.
The guy who buys you a drink.
Lou had a comb-over and leather pants. He had been eyeing me at the bar since I walked in. I wanted to fuck him just to say I had, but I didn’t have to—he bought me a drink, anyway. We talked, he rubbed my arm, and he left. The drink was a Gin and Tonic—my signature. All I did to get the drink was play it coy.
The guy who knows how to dance.
One of my first black guys to impress me was also a good dancer. He gyrated just enough in my direction and had the cutest eyes so I was hooked. On the floor, he grabbed me and made me feel famous. There was enough body contact to be construed as fucking on the dance floor, but that was his style, and I approved. We ended up felching at dawn.
The guy who wants you to dance for him before fucking you.
Every once in a while, I’d jaunt up to the North End for this thugged-out masterpiece of a man. He was white, but he thought himself black, though, his dick could vouch for that if asked politely, with a wide mouth and wet tongue. He used to request that I’d dance to Gucci Mane before we’d fuck, so I did. I started off awkwardly, but then I got it.
The guy who has an amazing dick but doesn’t know how to use it.
Having encountered many cocks, just one stands out as the best. It belonged to a white guy—not black—and it was thick, so thick I could hardly put it in my mouth let alone my ass and perhaps that was his problem. That, or he just didn’t know how to use it. He never grinded me, never rode me deep, never even jerked it properly. What a waste.
The guy who turns you down.
I’ve only been turned down at the bar. One hipster guy in skinny black jeans and Chucks. He wore a vest and a striped shirt—you know the kind. He had a beard—which I totally dig, so I was drawn to him like a moth to a flickering bulb. He flickered—he stuttered to turn me down, “Not tonight, man” as he stood there, alone, bobbing his head.
The guy who fucks you in a church parking lot.
Paul was like an Apostle and he led me the way—to the parking lot of a Greek Orthodox Church. We parked out back and he started rubbing my crotch. He got really hard from the fact we were being so sacrilegious. I just wanted to taste his come. He jerked off in my mouth with two fingers inside my hole—Church in view and cocks in hand, too.
The guy who has a deformity or several.
One guy had several bumps on the back of his head—real goose eggs—but without any hair. He was modest about them, as one would be, and he wouldn’t let me touch them until we had met a few times. I rubbed my dick on them and I don’t think he could feel it, but the thought of it drove him wild. I moaned “Quasimodo!” when he thrusted.
The guy who blows your mind as you blow your wad.
It must’ve been the best orgasm of my life. We were discussing Leibniz’s “Monadology” as his face was buried deep in my ass. He ate me out in between philosophical diatribes and I totally dug him. He grabbed my cock from my hands and jerked me off while expounding his theories, his cock teasing my wet hole. I shot all over his face and neck as he bent closer.
The guy who scares you.
Another guy whipped out a knife when we met; worried I would rob him or because he wanted to show off. It fucking freaked me out as I worried for the same reasons he did. He just wanted to play rough, it turns out, and he certainly knew how to jump right in. I suggested he cut my shoulder as he rubbed his dick up against my quivering leg.
The guy who pursues you.
Damien followed me around like I had a leash and he was attached. I liked the attention, but I just wasn’t into him. He wore glasses and had curly hair—my turn-offs—and he was a science student. Boring. I like my fucks to have a creative or philosophical spirit, and this he did not. He sent me email after email and even found out my address—too creepy.
The guy who uses you.
This bastard called Jared once used me. He arranged for a B.F.E. and so I had him pay upfront, but when we met, he kept putting off payment. Usually, I’d bail at that point, but I wanted to do it, as I rarely do a B.F.E. After we went to his work’s Christmas party, he tried to bail, and still not pay me. He left, because I was stupid.
The guy you use.
I used Luis for his sweet cock and quickly, business became personal. I even bit the bullet and had him over to my place like thrice. I got such a kick out of his thick, long, uncut Latin cock that I got him to fuck me for free pretty much nightly. I even switched things up and had him give me a B.F.E. Sweet deal. I never paid him.
The guy you think about every time you jerk off.
There’s one guy I think about every time I jerk off. Usually, business is strictly business, but Murray is a different story. He’s so average he’s hot. You know the type, right? Medium-sized cock, messy hair, hairy, flabby bod—bonus points for the bod—and he’s not very tall. That’s my type, deep down, so he’s the archetype I constantly return to in fantasy. All we did was kiss.
The guy who kisses better than you do.
I met my match when this one guy found himself with his hands unfastening my belt and his tongue down my throat. Kissing always costs extra, but this guy was prepared to pay big. I think he literally massaged my tonsils with his tongue. I went wild when he bit my lower lip—my usual trick—so I told him to do a different kind of kiss, bending over.
The guy who insists on fucking you in a garbage room.
This fat Arab took me home to his building but hesitated to press the button for the elevator, saying he had just realized his mother was home. Loser. He still wanted to get off, so we made our way, at his fervent behest, to the garbage room. It reeked and was full of rat traps. He pulled out his chubby and I sucked him off which didn’t take long.
The guy who teaches one of your classes.
So, the wildest fuck I’ve ever had was when I hooked up with one of my profs—inadvertently. His profile online showed a satisfactorily hairy chest and some muscles, but that was all. It said he was from the States, and I never pieced it together until he picked me up in his coupe and asked me why I wasn’t home working on my paper! We talked and fucked.
The guy whose age isn’t quite clear.
The straightest I ever am is when I’m paid to be or when I’m discerning who’s credible and who’s not. This one guy looked so timeless. I mean, I couldn’t tell if he was in his twenties or his forties, he looked so pristine. He claimed he was legal which was enough for me and all he wanted was to kiss and get rimmed, so that’s all we did.
The guy you met online.
I met Max on a site I would come to use rather frequently. He had a profile with shirtless pics and some teaser shots of his cock, and it actually had a bit of substance, so I dug him. I fucked him, but he was a lousy comer. He made the nastiest face whenever he shot his wad. We met at Starbucks each time—he always bought us drinks.
The guy you pursued.
I pursued this one guy when I was really in heat. I wanted to tongue the hole nestled in the centre of his bubble-butt so bad. I sent him a few emails but got a membership at his gym, which was a little creepy, but you know. We ended up having an eight-way in the locker room showers with a plethora of hot men. I got to eat him.