One Week, One Hour a Day

I was sharing a story with a friend online this week, when it struck me I'd never mentioned it here.

Some of my longer-term readers will remember the fellow I called Cunt, from my Michigan days. We were fuck buddies for a good twelve years. When I first met him he was newly gay—or newly out, relatively late in life—and still pretending to be a top.

Now, over the years I got to see Cunt stick his dick in boys' holes, but that still never made him, in my eyes, a top. It wasn't primarily how he got his jollies. His great joy in life was thrusting his ass up in the air and taking dick without even seeing it, and by the time I started writing this blog, that's exactly what we did together. Our transactions were efficient and economical. Unzip. Unload. Zip. Leave.

There was a period, though, where I played some more complicated mind games with him.

One week, three or four years back, I was talking to Cunt on the computer via instant messenger. Own me, he begged. I want you to fucking own me.

There's nothing more arousing to me than being offered that kind of control, that most essential kind of power. On a practical level, though, owning a man full-time isn't in my best interests. Where do I fit him in my already-full house, exactly? The hall closet's already full of lacrosse racquets and winter coats. If I were going to own a hole, I told him, it'd be yours.

Own me for a week, he begged. Own me for an hour a day. I just want to be owned.

Those were the words that triggered the plan.

After thinking it out in my head, I told Cunt that I was willing to own him for a week, for an hour a day. He was to be cleaned out and ready at seven in the evening, from a particular Monday night until the Sunday following. He was to be on his knees, assuming the position, at the edge of his bed precisely at seven, and was to remain there until eight. And if I chose, I would show up and fuck him.

I can't emphasize enough the notion of my choice. I made very clear to him that I had little intention of showing up nightly, though I could take advantage of all seven nights if I wanted. The point was that regardless of whether I was there or not, he was still supposed to leave the door unlocked, assume the position, and wait for me.

The first week, I showed up on Monday. I parked outside, slipped into his quiet house, found him upstairs at precisely seven on the nose, and fucked him until eight. I skipped Tuesday and Wednesday, deliberately. Thursday I returned to find him hole up and ready. Friday I skipped. Saturday and Sunday, he got more of me.

We didn't exchange a single word the entire time I was there. It was simply one man presenting himself for the other's approval and use. At the end of the week, when it was over, he emailed me with such a paroxysm of appreciation that it seemed cruel not to give it another shot. So a few weeks later, we set it up again. One week, one appointed hour a day.

Several times we enjoyed the exercise, in fact. I enjoyed mixing it up for him. One week I kept him busy by showing up every appointment but one. Another I very deliberately didn't meet any of them at all—though I did show up on the last evening to make sure he was in position, and then without a word I walked right out again.

Once in a while I'd show up with a buddy—a couple of times it was tops I knew, sometimes some guy off the internet I'd never met before—to whom I'd present Cunt as my property, and invite to use as he wished. Once I walked in with a stranger, told Cunt to take care of him, and walked out again.

The details didn't matter to Cunt. He never begged me to bring other men, or chided me for not showing, or thanked me when I did. He just basked in that freedom of being owned, for one hour of every day in a week. He floated on that freedom of knowing he didn't have to make decisions for himself during that short time, of knowing that he would be taken care of, if I so chose.

It was a lot of work for me, calculating to a hair's breadth exactly the degree of sadism involved in skipping either two or three days in a row, or dreaming up ways to keep it fresh. For him, though, it was liberating, and fulfilling in ways that in my bottom years I once could have comprehended, but were increasingly foreign to me. He loved being of use, and loved having the structure our arrangement gave him. When he heard my footsteps entering his bedroom, I could see him respond with a thrill greater than those afforded by our regular encounters.

I miss having a Cunt. I need one here.