To say that my sexual history has tended to be a bit checkered is something of an understatement. It’s seedier than a Burpee’s catalog, and I’m generally fine with that. Case in point: when before my move I was in the city of Toronto, browsing through one of the multiple sex toy stores there, when one of our party happened upon a glass display case showcasing a lovely set of gleaming narrow surgical-steel implements, with a box of tuning forks in a velvet-lined box to the side. “What could these strange implements be?” asked the party as one. The Greek Chorus of Mutual Naiveté crouched and peered at the glittering objects like a Stone Age tribe encountering their first iPhone. “Are they for the musically inclined?”
“Oh, those,” I said, rolling my eyes slightly. “Sounds.” I gave a brief description of how they’re used, accompanied by a mime show that I'm happy is never going to hit YouTube. Then I explained that once the sound has been inserted into the urethra, the tuning fork could be struck and applied to it in order to produce vibrations at different frequencies. It was an entirely accurate description in my been-there-done-that voice, which I quickly followed up with a hasty, “Not that I know anything about it at all whatsoever,” once I saw the round little Os of their mouths.
No one believed me, of course. They thought I was making it up. So they asked the clerk, a cute Little Nell clone, to clear up the matter of the mysterious implements. She told them exactly the same thing I had. After that, I got a little more respect. Even if it was the kind of respect that meant I had to endure people approaching me and asking me, “What’s this, exactly?” while they carried an atypically-shaped dildo known as “The Clifford.”
Every once in a while, however, I run across something that gives me pause. I'm reminded of another incident I encountered on that same trip.
Now, I have to confess that in my now thirty-five years of sexual activity, I’ve run across quite a few men into verbal abuse. Quite a lot of men, actually. A certain, non-insignificant subset of these have been black guys who crave, shall we say, racial verbal abuse and roleplay. I get it from educated, well-off men; I get it from guys without much in the way of advantages. It’s certainly not universal, but it’s really not uncommon, either.
Dirty talk isn’t usually a problem for me. Telling a guy I’m going to fuck that hungry little bitch ass of his is not a problem. Informing a guy that his black ass is going to get plugged by my big white cock isn’t too much of a stretch. I’m just using color adjectives. The vocabulary some men want, I've incorporated into my playtime vocabulary. I’ve used the rationale that it’s just an aspect of play, always consensual, and that it’s not something that’s going to linger any longer than one of us has an erection. So if, in these cases, I’ve sprinkled my foul-mouthedness with an extremely judicious and sparing use of the n-word, I and my partners desiring that kind of verbal abuse have made our peace with it.
During that Toronto trip, though, I chatted online to a guy who was desperate to meet. He was cute, younger, a bottom, and fairly straightforward about the fact that he wanted me to dirty-talk him when we met. “You can call me anything,” he typed. “The nastier the better.”
Mentally I was beginning to dust off some of my least-used phrases culled from raunchy old porn when he added, “You know what really turns me on? When you call me a piece-of-shit Jew. Just put your boots in my face and tell me I’m a nasty kike that needs to be put down. That’s what I like.” It was at that moment that I made the mental connection between what he was saying and his screen name, which was something along the should've-seen-it-coming lines of ‘filthy_juden1980’.
The whole thing felt like stumbling onto something I wasn’t supposed to see, like my parents having full-out sex next to the Thanksgiving turkey or something. I took a couple of minutes, though, to parse out my reaction. Because what’s the difference, really, between the kind of racial domination guys have asked for in the past, and a Jewish guy begging me to work his hymie-hole? (His phrase, not mine.)
I’m not at all convinced there is one.
I agreed to meet the guy, but for one reason or another, he never followed through. The fantasy might've been one of those things that seemed hot online for him, but which he couldn't do in person, or he might have found more enthusiastic takers.
When I've written before of racially-charged sex, I've had readers make comments about how psychologically twisted the men must be who crave it, or how low-class or even sick anyone must become to indulge. Yet it's not that uncommon a form of play, trust me, and really no more serious than any of the things we do in bed. Because we've been trained from childhood that the words involved are taboo, we have an instinctive tendency to flinch from it—it's not the kind of thing that we refer to, in polite society.
I'm curious. How many of you have either indulged in such play, or been asked to do it? Did you do so willingly and with a clean conscience, or did you feel dirty after? I'd prefer that we treat each other with respect in the comments, because I know it's a divisive issue. But I'm interested in finding out our thoughts on this form of sexual fetish, and how it's worked for you in the past—or in your present.
Showing posts with label fetishes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fetishes. Show all posts
Friday, September 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Brown Socks
Ok they are waiting for you, read the text message. Tell me when you get them.
When I arrived home, mid-afternoon, after a lunch with a former student, they’re waiting for me—an inconspicuous lump in the bottom of my mailbox, hiding among the circulars and the bills. They’re simply a pair of socks, rolled up into each other, into a ball of fabric. When I unfurl the brown nylon, I’m immediately reminded of women’s stockings, sheer and shiny. But the garments aren’t as long as a pair of stockings, and it’s printed with what I suppose is intended to be a masculine pattern around the hem. They’re the kind of socks I imagine an old Mexican man wearing to church, or to a wedding.
Maybe that image is stuck in my head because the kid who drove across town to stuff the socks into my mail box happens to be Latin. Darrio, he told me his name was—a kid in his mid-twenties. His profile photos showed him as almost impossibly narrow-waisted and full-bottomed; his lone face photo was thugged out, tough and mean-looking.
But all he really wanted, he told me, was to serve what he called ‘white man dick.’ I had plenty of that.
I’ve got them, I texted back. I pulled the sleazy fabric over my toes and past my ankles. I didn’t like the look of them. I’d never have chosen the things on my own, much less worn them. But they were his choice, what he wanted me in. They’re on my feet.
how long will u wear them, he asked.
All day, I promised. I’ll wear them tonight when I sleep, and all tomorrow, too.
o fuck, hot!!! he texted back. i want u in ur shoes when we meet, k?
I kept my promise, too. But so no one would see, I pulled a pair of my usual cotton socks atop them.
I saw him in person for the first time the next night, when he emerged from an ancient Oldsmobile convertible and loped his way up my front walk. He wore an oversized hoodie printed with enormous letters, and a pair of baggy sweatpants that could’ve contained not only MC Hammer, but his entire posse of musicians and backup singers. “‘Sup,” he said once he was over the threshold. His dark, glittering eyes flicked over me. His lids were heavy and hooded.
I was wearing a pressed shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a pair of clean jeans, and a dress belt. On my feet were my best leather Oxfords. I could see I’d chosen the appropriate outfit. His eyes devoured me in one long, long look in which he seemed to take in every detail, from the rounded tie of my laces to the polished buckle at my waist, from the ring on my finger to the spectacles on my nose. “You got something for me?” he asked at last, after a visible gulp. I saw his knees bend, as if he intended to lower himself down.
“Upstairs,” I told him. He shed the puffy overcoat he’d been wearing and left it on the floor, then sprinted up to the second floor with me following.
The light in the bedroom was deliberately low. There was just enough illumination for me to see him I sat down, legs and feet spread wide, hips poised at the mattress edge. “Strip,” I commanded, as his hands instinctively jerked toward my feet.
Again he obeyed. He pulled off the hoodie and shucked the sweatpants in a matter of seconds, then shimmied out of a pair of tight designer briefs. His body was as good as the photos—better, even. He was tall and lean, with skin several shades darker than mine. His nipples were dark smears of brown. Curly hair covered his legs and pubic area, and skirted around to his ass. That beautiful ass. The ass that was as perfect and round as his photos had made it seem. He was fortunate to possess one of those perfectly flat stomachs that slanted down to a large, curved, uncut piece of meat. He squeezed it self-consciously to show it off to me, then stared in my eyes.
I nodded, giving him the signal.
In a flash he was back on his knees, bending over my dress shoes and untying them with a delicacy that belied his thuggish exterior. He gasped as he removed the first shoe; his hands lingered over my feet for a moment, then tugged off the second. He lifted my right foot to his face. Then, as I watched, impassive and stone-faced, his eyes closed. His forehead leaned into the flesh on the ball of my foot. He sighed. As his face softened with contentment and need, his dick rose, rock hard.
“Lay back, papi,” he whispered, eyes still shut. I leaned back on my elbows, still wanting to watch him at work. Lovingly, tenderly, he rubbed his face all over my foot. His pillowy lips pressed against the arch; his chin dug into my heel. While he sniffed and rubbed the day-old socks, his hands massaged the sides and tops. His dick bobbed in the open air, stimulated by whatever was passing through his head.
“Is that what you wanted?” I asked him in a low voice.
He nodded. Very gently he returned my foot to the floor, not releasing it until it made contact with the wood. Then he picked up the left foot, moved it to his face, inhaled deeply, and began to go to work.
With the second foot, he licked and sucked the nylon-covered flesh once he’d finished sniffing and massaging it. He took his time, lost in private sexual reverie. After long minutes, he lifted both feet to his face, so that his eyes were covered, and his nose surrounded. I heard him take one deep, lingering breath, as he inhaled the essence of my smell.
I pulled him onto the mattress. His soft lips met mine. He was a decent kisser, though I could tell that wasn’t where his passion lay. I pushed his head down my torso until his tongue flicked out for the head of my dick. “Wet it up,” I told him.
Like a good boy, he obeyed. There were two halves to this bargain. He’d get as long as he wanted with my feet, and his socks. And I’d get his hole.
As I said, it was a beautiful ass. He gasped and trashed slightly as I tongued it, as if instinctively trying to buck me off. Then he gave in, and relaxed. The muscles protecting his most highly-guarded area relaxed, and gradually open as I ate at him with increasing vigor.
By the time I was ready to enter, he was moaning. His hips rolled, back and forth, up and down. I squirted some lube on my dick, then applied the remainder to his ass. My knees straddling his thighs, I pushed in.
He yelled like a boy. I’d barely gotten two inches in when his hole clamped down around my meat, barring further entry. “Take it out, take it out, fuck!” he cried.
My mouth was close to his ear. I let out a long ssshhh. “Hold still,” I told him, to keep him from trying to squeeze me. “Hold still. Get used to it.”
A tear was rolling down his face. At my command, though, Darrio stopped his thrashing. He dug his forehead into my pillow, but he also bit down on his lips. I could hear him whimpering still, like a kicked puppy, but at least he wasn’t making my ears ring.
Guys praise me sometimes for my sensitivity, for being attuned to what my lovers need. That’s all very well, but there are some times, and some guys, when none of that matters. When the only needs to which I’m attuned are my dick’s. This was one of those times. I could tell he didn’t want to be fucked, that he was only doing it for foot time—that he was only doing it because he felt obligated, after I’d worn his sleazy nylon socks. And you know, that was fine with me. He’d given me permission in advance to take his hole. I could’ve let him off the hook.
But I didn’t.
Inch by inch I worked my dick into his hole. He clearly had never had anything that size in there, before. The guy’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched at the pillow and sheets as if they were his life preservers, but he endured. Every new inch brought him more pain, and opened him wider—but he endured.
Then, when I rolled him onto his side with myself buried in him to the hilt, I reached between his legs and encountered his full bulls and an uncut dick that was not only rock-hard, but slick and slimy from the precum flowing liberally from its tip.
He was fucking enjoying it.
He continued to whimper and whine as I fucked, but didn’t protest at first. Then, after a few moments, he said, as if apologizing, “I can’t take this very long, papi. I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept pounding away. “I can’t . . . not for much longer.”
It didn’t matter. The combination of his round, fleshy butt and and his vise-like hole were working magic on my dick. It twitched, and began to demand to burrow deeper, deeper inside. I let it have its way.
He let out a sob half of relief, half of unexpected arousal, when I came. I held him tightly while it happened, letting loose my seed deeper into him than he’d ever taken before. Then he brought himself off with a few quick strokes, shooting his seed all over my pillow. Every crush of his muscles as he shot squeezed me farther out of his hole, until at the very last I’d withdrawn in a messy pool of my own semen, puddling onto the blanket.
Then I let him have my feet again. For a long time—a very long time—we both lay on our backs with our heads pointing in opposite directions, balls to balls. My feet lay atop his face, as he licked and sucked and sniffed and gobbled at their soles, through the nylon fabric. It was relaxing, and arousing in his own way, but I knew he couldn’t handle another fuck. Not for days, at least. The kid had an advanced-studies appetite, but mine is not a survey-level dick. Beginners might admire it, but rarely can they handle it.
Not that it keeps me from trying, when I’ve got permission.
At last I suggested it was time for him to go. Without a word he hopped up from the bed, pulled on his loose-fitting clothing and shoes, and tripped down the stairs. “You want to do this again sometime?” I asked.
“You way too big for me,” he mumbled, not looking me in the eye.
“I’ll wear the socks again.”
He considered that. I knew he would. “Keep ‘em,” he said, with a look of mingled shame and desire fleetingly crossing his handsome, guarded face. “I’ll be back.”
Somehow I knew he’d say that.
When I arrived home, mid-afternoon, after a lunch with a former student, they’re waiting for me—an inconspicuous lump in the bottom of my mailbox, hiding among the circulars and the bills. They’re simply a pair of socks, rolled up into each other, into a ball of fabric. When I unfurl the brown nylon, I’m immediately reminded of women’s stockings, sheer and shiny. But the garments aren’t as long as a pair of stockings, and it’s printed with what I suppose is intended to be a masculine pattern around the hem. They’re the kind of socks I imagine an old Mexican man wearing to church, or to a wedding.
Maybe that image is stuck in my head because the kid who drove across town to stuff the socks into my mail box happens to be Latin. Darrio, he told me his name was—a kid in his mid-twenties. His profile photos showed him as almost impossibly narrow-waisted and full-bottomed; his lone face photo was thugged out, tough and mean-looking.
But all he really wanted, he told me, was to serve what he called ‘white man dick.’ I had plenty of that.
I’ve got them, I texted back. I pulled the sleazy fabric over my toes and past my ankles. I didn’t like the look of them. I’d never have chosen the things on my own, much less worn them. But they were his choice, what he wanted me in. They’re on my feet.
how long will u wear them, he asked.
All day, I promised. I’ll wear them tonight when I sleep, and all tomorrow, too.
o fuck, hot!!! he texted back. i want u in ur shoes when we meet, k?
I kept my promise, too. But so no one would see, I pulled a pair of my usual cotton socks atop them.
I saw him in person for the first time the next night, when he emerged from an ancient Oldsmobile convertible and loped his way up my front walk. He wore an oversized hoodie printed with enormous letters, and a pair of baggy sweatpants that could’ve contained not only MC Hammer, but his entire posse of musicians and backup singers. “‘Sup,” he said once he was over the threshold. His dark, glittering eyes flicked over me. His lids were heavy and hooded.
I was wearing a pressed shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a pair of clean jeans, and a dress belt. On my feet were my best leather Oxfords. I could see I’d chosen the appropriate outfit. His eyes devoured me in one long, long look in which he seemed to take in every detail, from the rounded tie of my laces to the polished buckle at my waist, from the ring on my finger to the spectacles on my nose. “You got something for me?” he asked at last, after a visible gulp. I saw his knees bend, as if he intended to lower himself down.
“Upstairs,” I told him. He shed the puffy overcoat he’d been wearing and left it on the floor, then sprinted up to the second floor with me following.
The light in the bedroom was deliberately low. There was just enough illumination for me to see him I sat down, legs and feet spread wide, hips poised at the mattress edge. “Strip,” I commanded, as his hands instinctively jerked toward my feet.
Again he obeyed. He pulled off the hoodie and shucked the sweatpants in a matter of seconds, then shimmied out of a pair of tight designer briefs. His body was as good as the photos—better, even. He was tall and lean, with skin several shades darker than mine. His nipples were dark smears of brown. Curly hair covered his legs and pubic area, and skirted around to his ass. That beautiful ass. The ass that was as perfect and round as his photos had made it seem. He was fortunate to possess one of those perfectly flat stomachs that slanted down to a large, curved, uncut piece of meat. He squeezed it self-consciously to show it off to me, then stared in my eyes.
I nodded, giving him the signal.
In a flash he was back on his knees, bending over my dress shoes and untying them with a delicacy that belied his thuggish exterior. He gasped as he removed the first shoe; his hands lingered over my feet for a moment, then tugged off the second. He lifted my right foot to his face. Then, as I watched, impassive and stone-faced, his eyes closed. His forehead leaned into the flesh on the ball of my foot. He sighed. As his face softened with contentment and need, his dick rose, rock hard.
“Lay back, papi,” he whispered, eyes still shut. I leaned back on my elbows, still wanting to watch him at work. Lovingly, tenderly, he rubbed his face all over my foot. His pillowy lips pressed against the arch; his chin dug into my heel. While he sniffed and rubbed the day-old socks, his hands massaged the sides and tops. His dick bobbed in the open air, stimulated by whatever was passing through his head.
“Is that what you wanted?” I asked him in a low voice.
He nodded. Very gently he returned my foot to the floor, not releasing it until it made contact with the wood. Then he picked up the left foot, moved it to his face, inhaled deeply, and began to go to work.
With the second foot, he licked and sucked the nylon-covered flesh once he’d finished sniffing and massaging it. He took his time, lost in private sexual reverie. After long minutes, he lifted both feet to his face, so that his eyes were covered, and his nose surrounded. I heard him take one deep, lingering breath, as he inhaled the essence of my smell.
I pulled him onto the mattress. His soft lips met mine. He was a decent kisser, though I could tell that wasn’t where his passion lay. I pushed his head down my torso until his tongue flicked out for the head of my dick. “Wet it up,” I told him.
Like a good boy, he obeyed. There were two halves to this bargain. He’d get as long as he wanted with my feet, and his socks. And I’d get his hole.
As I said, it was a beautiful ass. He gasped and trashed slightly as I tongued it, as if instinctively trying to buck me off. Then he gave in, and relaxed. The muscles protecting his most highly-guarded area relaxed, and gradually open as I ate at him with increasing vigor.
By the time I was ready to enter, he was moaning. His hips rolled, back and forth, up and down. I squirted some lube on my dick, then applied the remainder to his ass. My knees straddling his thighs, I pushed in.
He yelled like a boy. I’d barely gotten two inches in when his hole clamped down around my meat, barring further entry. “Take it out, take it out, fuck!” he cried.
My mouth was close to his ear. I let out a long ssshhh. “Hold still,” I told him, to keep him from trying to squeeze me. “Hold still. Get used to it.”
A tear was rolling down his face. At my command, though, Darrio stopped his thrashing. He dug his forehead into my pillow, but he also bit down on his lips. I could hear him whimpering still, like a kicked puppy, but at least he wasn’t making my ears ring.
Guys praise me sometimes for my sensitivity, for being attuned to what my lovers need. That’s all very well, but there are some times, and some guys, when none of that matters. When the only needs to which I’m attuned are my dick’s. This was one of those times. I could tell he didn’t want to be fucked, that he was only doing it for foot time—that he was only doing it because he felt obligated, after I’d worn his sleazy nylon socks. And you know, that was fine with me. He’d given me permission in advance to take his hole. I could’ve let him off the hook.
But I didn’t.
Inch by inch I worked my dick into his hole. He clearly had never had anything that size in there, before. The guy’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched at the pillow and sheets as if they were his life preservers, but he endured. Every new inch brought him more pain, and opened him wider—but he endured.
Then, when I rolled him onto his side with myself buried in him to the hilt, I reached between his legs and encountered his full bulls and an uncut dick that was not only rock-hard, but slick and slimy from the precum flowing liberally from its tip.
He was fucking enjoying it.
He continued to whimper and whine as I fucked, but didn’t protest at first. Then, after a few moments, he said, as if apologizing, “I can’t take this very long, papi. I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept pounding away. “I can’t . . . not for much longer.”
It didn’t matter. The combination of his round, fleshy butt and and his vise-like hole were working magic on my dick. It twitched, and began to demand to burrow deeper, deeper inside. I let it have its way.
He let out a sob half of relief, half of unexpected arousal, when I came. I held him tightly while it happened, letting loose my seed deeper into him than he’d ever taken before. Then he brought himself off with a few quick strokes, shooting his seed all over my pillow. Every crush of his muscles as he shot squeezed me farther out of his hole, until at the very last I’d withdrawn in a messy pool of my own semen, puddling onto the blanket.
Then I let him have my feet again. For a long time—a very long time—we both lay on our backs with our heads pointing in opposite directions, balls to balls. My feet lay atop his face, as he licked and sucked and sniffed and gobbled at their soles, through the nylon fabric. It was relaxing, and arousing in his own way, but I knew he couldn’t handle another fuck. Not for days, at least. The kid had an advanced-studies appetite, but mine is not a survey-level dick. Beginners might admire it, but rarely can they handle it.
Not that it keeps me from trying, when I’ve got permission.
At last I suggested it was time for him to go. Without a word he hopped up from the bed, pulled on his loose-fitting clothing and shoes, and tripped down the stairs. “You want to do this again sometime?” I asked.
“You way too big for me,” he mumbled, not looking me in the eye.
“I’ll wear the socks again.”
He considered that. I knew he would. “Keep ‘em,” he said, with a look of mingled shame and desire fleetingly crossing his handsome, guarded face. “I’ll be back.”
Somehow I knew he’d say that.
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