The Last Time

I’ve been writing lately a lot about my power-bottom experiences in my teens. There are certain things about those days I remember vividly. My pulse still quickens at the memory of how my heart would pound at the sight of a toe tapping beneath a toilet stall, as if it were trying to escape from my ribcage. My dick twitches when I recall the looks of invitation on men’s faces, or their intense stares as they unzipped and proffered their dicks. I remember the deeds themselves, and a surprising number of the men with whom I performed them.

What I don’t remember much, however, is actually receiving pleasure in the act of being fucked. As I've written about before, my unfortunate run-in with sexual assault more or less erased all that from my memory.

It shocks me to think how long it’s been since I successfully had a dick in my ass. It’ll have been nine years, later this year. Now, lest all my bottom fans run frantically around, frightened that the sky is falling and that I’m wanting make a late-life flip from top to bottom, I’d like to assure you that nothing of the sort will be happening. I’m one of those guys who’s wired to fill hole. Fucking as a top occupies my fantasies. It’s what I assume I’ll be doing when I meet a guy—even when the guy is another top stud.

I’ve always been sexually adventurous, however. If an opportunity for fun presents itself, I’ll rarely pass it up. So a part of me is a little sorry I’m not a bit more versatile, if only in case a hot man somewhere wants to flip-fuck with me. (I’m nothing if not accommodating.) And there is the occasional guy whom, when I see him, makes me want to bend over and offer my hole.

The last man who had me was one of those.

It was almost nine years ago on a cruise ship in Alaska—a gay cruise. I’m honestly not convinced that if one’s going to take a gay cruise, it should be to Alaska. Though it’s fun to be in the company of a huge number of party-hardy gay guys in a floating hotel in which the booze flows freely and there’s a party every night, I actually think it might be best to do so when the destination allows the party boys to remove their clothing. Sure, there were a few shirtless men circulating in the sixty-degree weather and the tepid sunshine as the ship pulled out of Vancouver. A few of them kept up the brave front as we sailed further and further north, appearing in nothing but their trunks out on the decks in the nipple-hardening chill the next morning. After we’d navigated into an endless fog bank that lasted for the rest of the trip, however, out came the hoodies and the puffy parkas and the blankets handed out by the ship’s personnel. For the rest of the trip, all the hot-bodied gay men did nothing but shiver beneath layers and layers of wool while huddled beneath heating vents.

When we landed in a fishing town where the salmon were spawning and struggling to get their egg-bloated bodies upstream, the seagulls were casually swooping down, picking them up with their beaks, and dashing them onto the sidewalks and docks below where the tourists were walking. It was like one of the more bizarre Biblical plagues, visited upon hordes of shrieking and scattering gay guys. Some of us haven’t been able to eat salmon since. (Okay, I’m talking about me.)

Anyway. There were several cruising spots on the ship where men would hook up for sex. One of them was the steam room in the spa—but there were so many men crowding in there to escape the pervasive cold that I never found it very appealing. Another was supposed to be the ship’s nude sunbathing deck—an elevated deck at the back of the ship that wasn’t overlooked by anything, and was supposed to be off-limits to kids during the ship’s regular excursions. The area was pretty much off-limits to anyone who wanted to keep warm during the Alaska trip; at night it was totally dark and fairly deserted, save for the shadows of the men lurking and looking for someone to take back to their rooms.

I met Max there the first night of the cruise. It was difficult not to notice him—at six-foot-six, he was taller than even I. In the inky darkness of the Pacific night he was a long and lanky shadow dressed in denim. In the murk I could only make out a few distinguishing characteristics. He had a furry face. That much I could feel when he pulled me roughly to him, pressed his lips against mine, and thrust his tongue down my throat. His head was bald, I discovered when I pressed my cold palms against it. It was cold and windy and loud up there. When he shouted into my ear, “You’re comin’ back to my room,” I knew from the rich accent that he was Australian.

I wasn’t disappointed when I followed him from the deck into the light below. Max was a handsome fucker. He was at least a good twenty years older from me, tall, muscled, and arrayed with an elaborately-groomed set of mutton chops, a long wild-west mustache, and a biker’s pointed beard. A spike jutted out on both sides of his nasal septum. He was hot.

When we passed guys in the hallway, they’d stare at his imposing figure and their eyes would linger with respect and yes, lust. He was actually so hot, in a sexy-daddy way, that I was slightly afraid he would attempt to ditch me in the labyrinth of hallways on the way to his cabin. He didn’t, though. Once we were alone in his room, he shut the door by shoving me against it and giving me another of his tonsil-exploring kisses. His hands clutched my shoulders, as if he was afraid I might try to squirm away. “Damn, boy,” I remember him saying, after we both emerged from the kiss gasping for air. “I am going to enjoy you.”

He stripped. He wasn’t wearing much—a much-distressed denim jacket, a pair of tight, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. The boots took some maneuvering to remove, but the rest came off in a few fluid motions. He stood before me, naked. That’s when I saw he was inked from his neck to his ankles. There was barely a square inch of skin that didn’t have some tracery of the elaborate, body-encompassing blue-green design upon it. It was tribal in influence, and had elements of snake-inspired art. When I stared at him the first time and took in that mobius strip of a tattoo with no beginning and ending that encircled every limb to the wrists, every hollow and crest of his musculature, he looked almost as if he was standing in front of a projected slide of some conceptual line drawing. Only his head, his hands, his dick, and his feet were white and untouched.

My dick had been hard since we’d kissed up on deck. When he ripped off my clothing and shoved me roughly down onto the bed, I was even harder. The first thing he did was to kneel between my legs and chow down on my dick like a madman. It was some of the most aggressive and hottest head I’ve ever received. I buckled and snorted; he grunted and slobbered on me so determinedly that my nuts were slick and wet from his drool. When at last he backed off me, pinching his own eraser-sized nipples as he stared me down, my dick was swollen and red, and as thick as if it had been in a vacuum pump.

“My turn,” he said, in that accent that had charmed my socks off. He spent the next few minutes giving me a vigorous face-fucking. His dick was uncut and as large as my own. He didn’t waste time trying to let me accommodate it in my throat, or get my lips accustomed to the girth. No, he was in there and in all the way, right from the beginning, choking me, or seemingly trying to. Then I found myself on my knees, ass up in the air, and his face buried between my cheeks. He ate me as vigorously and deeply as he’d sucked me, until I was nearly unconscious from pleasure and whimpering more than I was breathing.

Then I felt cool air on my hole as he stood up, followed by the tickle of his warm cock head against my opening. Normally at this point I protest, but he didn’t give me a chance. “You are so damned fuckable,” he said in that Aussie accent, melting me. “You a top or a bottom, mate? Not that it matters. You’re my bottom tonight.”

Then he went in. There was pressure, and a sharp, hot sliver of pain like a splinter passing through flesh. Then, miraculously, there was nothing but pleasure, and my desire to be filled.

When I masturbate and think about bottoming, I think about that night with Max. I think about how he made me want him inside me without my even knowing I wanted it. I think about how he simply took me at the right moment, and made it work. I even think about how he made me ride him at several points. Even when I was bottoming regularly I hated sitting on a guy’s dick and bouncing up and down on it. The fact that Max made me want to do it, and to like it, is remarkable.

Max fucked three loads into me that night, and I was grateful for each. The last of them he did outside, on the balcony of his stateroom. It was frigid outside and I was naked and hate the cold. I had the metal bar of the glass wall cutting into my chest as he bent me over and pounded me against it, and I dislike the touch of icy things. I was being fucked, which normally I don’t like. My head was out and over the water, from high above, and I’m not fond of heights. On either side of his stateroom balcony were men watching us in the dark, observing as the naked, pierced, tattooed giant held me down and drove his dick into me. And I hate being watched. (Oh, who am I kidding? I love being watched.)

Somehow, though, all those little things I normally don’t like combined into one giant ball of love. It was, in a lot of ways, the best single fuck I’ve received. Especially when, afterward, he bundled me up in a blanket and made out with me on his bed, to warm me up again.

I was Max’s little toy for the rest of the Alaskan trip. I ate at his table. We went on excursions together. Max’s buddies were mostly men into leather who referred to me as ‘his little pup,’ as if I was some teenaged twink Max had hired for the night. Some nights I’d fuck Max. Most nights, Max fucked me.

“You’ll remember me,” he predicted when we parted in Vancouver again. Then he gave me one of his grins, ruffled my hair, and marched off with his backpack.

He was right about that. I certainly do.