Fuckin' Redcoats

In my checkered sexual history, I’ve many times orchestrated the fulfillment of a particular type of sexual fantasy for a particular type of man.

I’ve made black men whimper at their request by whipping out the N-word. I’ve made Middle Eastern men shoot by calling them towelheads. I’ve met Asian guys who reach the peak of their arousal only when I growl down at them that if they weren’t already slanty-eyed little faggots, their eyes would be crooked once I finished fucking their chink asses (which for some didn’t technically make sense, since they were Korean or Japanese).

I laugh to think about it, but I once made a Latin guy—a Los Angeles television executive who was far, far better off than I—highly, highly excited a few years back when he showed up at my house hot to fuck, and I made him strip off his Hugo Boss dress shirt, address me as sir, and weed my back garden for a half-hour while I kicked back on the deck with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

No, really. That was the best day ever. I got laid, he came a bucket, and I didn’t have to weed the garden.
I’m used to the sounds of protest from some men when they hear I engage in this kind of play. Dick pigs who are usually mopping the floors of skanky bar back rooms with their testicles sudden become prim Mrs. Grundys as they clutch their Sunday best pearls and mouth words to the effect that they are shocked, shocked that anyone would have so little pride that they’d degrade themselves that way.

Whatever, cocksuckers. What gets a man off, gets a man off. If in my bedroom or between my toolshed and back garden plot my partners like to flirt with a type of roleplay ordinarily taboo and forbidden to them, so what? It’s not hurting anyone. And my hostas really needed dividing, yo.

I encountered a guy this week, however, who kind of threw me for a loop. I’m looking for a guy who’s all top and dom, he wrote. Is that you?


Yup, I wrote back. Because it was more diplomatic than, Sure, why not?

The guy wanted me, basically, to be a big butch American man who denigrated him based on his nationality. He was from the United Kingdom. Could I do that?, he wondered.

I typed back, I don’t understand a fuckin thing you’re saying with that annoying accent, asshole. Did you step out of a goddamned Merchant-Ivory flick or what?

He signed off immediately after. I assumed he hadn’t gotten the joke. But no. A couple of hours later I got an email saying that my (intended-to-be-flip) remark got him off immediately. He sent a phone camera shot of the proof.

Well, okay then.

It really doesn’t take much to get the guy off. A couple of general, short vulgarities, followed by one practiced insult. And while I’m not at all into cybersex, I find this guy kind of amusing. God DAMN, I’ll type to him, for the money shot. Do American guys really let you suck their big dicks with those nasty-ass English teeth of yours? I wouldn’t let that dental tragedy you call a mouth anywhere near my Grade A dick, you little shitstain poof.

Instant orgasm for him, giggles for me.

Or, All your pasty ass is good for is taking big U.S. dick, you piece of crap Limey. What do you expect from a country where all the men sound like fuckin faggots? That went over well.

Or, Don’t come at me acting like you can backtalk a red-blooded American real man. How the fuck did you people even get the Olympics, when you couldn’t tell your pansy asses from your boots in the Falkland Islands?

Pure comedy gold, frankly, and every time as a reward I get in my email box a photo of the huge loads he’s splattering across his desk at my insults. He’s enjoying himself, though I don’t think he’s getting that I’m treat the situation like a joke. Usually I take requests for domination and degradation seriously—I think it’s an honor when a guy can open up enough to admit he enjoys that type of roleplay.

This guy, though, isn’t in on the farce. Or maybe he is, and my utter amusement at the crap I say to him is part of the thrill?

Either way, it’s working. I’m trying to craft something with a Downton Abbey theme for the next time I encounter him, but after that, I’m not exactly sure in what direction I should go. I’ve discarded the Spice Girls as too outdated, Shakespearean quotes as too literary, and puns on Dickens as too obvious.

And Chaucer is too much of a boner-killer, right? Yeah, I think so too.