13 Reasons Why/Tape 2: This Faggot

Some men seek sexual adventure. They love the thrill of the chase, the electricity of two men making eye contact across a crowded room; they relish the prickle across their skin when a man sprawled on a park bench lazily lets his finger drift across the hardened bulge in his jeans. I am one of these men. I enjoy sex. I’m good at it. I make it happen, enjoy it to the fullest, and gird up for the next exploit.

Many men—most men—only dream of sexual adventure. When the real thing presents itself, they retreat, snail-like, and hope that it goes away. This Faggot was one of those men . . . and This Faggot, welcome to your tape.

A month ago, our brief encounter happened. My April allergies were unusually severe, this year. My eyes had been so itchy and red that I couldn’t wear my contacts. My nose ran like a faucet. For about three weeks I stumbled around looking like a bespectacled professor who’d fallen face-first into a barrel of pollen. For most of that time I kept to myself. Spit, piss, and cum are acceptable bodily fluids for an encounter, but most men don’t care to be sneezed and snotted on.

Then came May, and relief—I could step outdoors again, and breathe fresh air, and sit on my front porch with my tablet in my hand and . . . of course, cruise for hole.

I was on the bareback site when a young fellow sent me a message there. Hi, this is out of the blue, Sir, and you don’t know me. But this faggot wanted to testify that you and your blog have changed its life. This faggot has to thank you for that. There are reasons why you are revered in the community of bloggers by faggots like this one, and converting this faggot from celibate into cum dump is just one of them. Also, if it’s not too presumptuous for it to say so, you are extremely, extremely handsome, Sir. Anyway, thank you, and this faggot will understand if it is not your type.

I checked out the kid’s profile. He was in his early thirties. Lightly-muscled body. Save for a patch of sparse fur between his pecs, he was mostly smooth. Fat dick, for a bottom. Lean and round ass. His face, though. When I get a message from a guy who says something along the lines of ‘I’ll understand if I’m not your type,’ I usually expect some kind of extreme—extreme scrawniness, extreme stockiness, or extreme butterface.

This Faggot—as he called himself—was starkly handsome: cheekbones like scalpels, wide green eyes, a sharp chin and the brow of a scholar. He lived in Manhattan, so he was local to me. In his photos he carried a certain air of entitlement—the good young professional looks and grooming of a stock broker, maybe, or a high-earning finance guy. I could’ve been reading into it, though; there’s only so much about a person’s character you can tell when in most of his pics he was kneeling on beds with an arched back, in obvious heat, while a series of black dicks stretched and gaped his holes.

Ivy League graduate gone wrong is totally my type, you know.

Like Wile E. Coyote over the Road Runner, I licked my chops over his photos for a moment. I sent a short reply, thanking him kindly for the copious compliments, then said, If I had anything to do with those amazing photos of yours, I’m happy to have been inspiration.

He wrote back within a minute. Oh Sir, just hearing from you makes this faggot so happy! Short history: this faggot used to be a condom nazi. This faggot even read your blog pretending to disapprove of it, but you just write so beautifully that I broke down. Your beautiful words made this faggot realize that it wasn’t having good sex at all the way it was. Or ANY sex. You made this faggot admit to itself that all the hating it was doing was a cover-up while it pretended to be committed to its boyfriend. All this faggot’s secret sexual fantasies were of being a cum whore who never refuses a load from ANYONE, Sir. So this faggot got itself on PrEP and started taking loads from strangers. This faggot guesses it was secretly trying to make you proud all along, Sir.

Now, I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t eating up his story. Friends, I was gulping it down like a pig at the trough. If there’s any trend you’ll notice in these entries, it’s that when a reader of mine throws down a few compliments and peppers them with some Sirs and Dads and some gestures of submission, this revered blogger’s response isn’t to keep the guy demurely at arm’s length. Fuck no.

If you want really to picture my reaction to that kind of approach, imagine me injecting a horse hypodermic of Viagra directly into my veins while I roar, BRING ME ANOTHER!

When This Faggot asked if there would ever, ever, ever be the slightest chance that a superior top like me might want to hook up with him, I gave the guy my cell phone number so we could take the conversation to text. He was a local, after all. I’ve hooked up with guys from BBRT with less interaction.

SIR, you are so beautiful in all your photos. This faggot has fantasized about you for years, he texted immediately. Jerked at your escapades. Admired your ability to communicate the emotions of your fucking along with the feelings in your body. This faggot only wants to please you and be your pig, if you give it the opportunity, Sir.

A faggot’s role is to please a man, I told him. You’re already pleasing me.

This faggot hopes to be a pig to make you proud, Sir. Right now it is just another basic faggot. It will do what you want it to do and wear what you want it to wear. This faggot prefers to keep its useless faggot cock covered so it does not lose focus on worshiping your beautiful breeder dick, Sir.

I was hard as he texted me. Shit, what top wouldn’t be? This hot little cunt wasn’t just striking the right notes . . . he was whacking them over and over again with an enormous Looney Tunes-sized cartoon mallet. What about that boyfriend of yours? I asked. Is he going to have a problem with a stranger dumping loads up your hole?

This faggot is a cheating faggot, Sir. It is its pleasure to help you release that cum into the world. And Sir, you are not a stranger! You are a man who helped a faggot find enlightenment. A teacher. A mentor. A man I've admired for so long.

Jesus, I texted. That’s humbling to hear. And from such a handsome boy.

Never be humbled, Sir. Your exploits have helped scores of faggots find themselves. That fact should make you swagger even more than that fucking huge and perfect breeding stick between your legs. And honestly, most guys don't even acknowledge this faggot. It did not expect a God like you to even respond to it, let alone show interest. This has already made this faggot’s day.

BRING ME ANOTHER!, roared my ego again.

I’m ashamed to admit that at this point I let the guy phone me. Ordinarily I don’t like talking on the telephone. From childhood it’s always seemed unnatural, listening to disembodied voices at the other end of a magic stick (or these days, at the other end of a square of glass). But this guy wanted to discuss when we could meet. When I warned him in a text that I wouldn’t be doing phone sex in any form, he said he completely understood and didn’t want that from me. He simply wanted to hear my voice and negotiate a fuck date.

This Faggot had a sexy voice, actually. I could tell he was nervous, when I called his number. “Oh god,” (or maybe O God, referring to my status with him), upon answering. “It’s really you. I—I mean, this faggot—didn’t think you would call for real, Sir.”

“Well, I wanted to arrange our first fuck.”

“Before we figure that out, Sir, please let this faggot express how sincerely attractive and hot it finds you. It has jacked off to your photos so many times, and even more times to the words you write so amazingly beautifully in your blog. This faggot messaged fifteen guys this morning before I—it—worked up the nerve to say hello to you, and you are the only one who responded.”

“Aw, shucks, son,” is what my mouth said, but inside my rampaging ego was brandishing the wad of compliments like a thick stack of dollar bills at a strip club and making it RAIN, baby. (On myself. Because I deserve it.)

We talked about the timing of our tryst, and decided that I’d come to his place two days following. I had a meeting that day near Chelsea, where he lived. “This faggot will do everything and anything you tell it, Sir. It will take your cum, your piss, even your snot, because it all comes from you, Sir, and it will all make this faggot stronger, better, complete.”

“Well sure,” I said, not wanting to argue with that caliber of offer. If only I’d gotten it during allergy season, right?

“May it make a request, Sir? Will you wear your special metal BREEDER cock ring? This faggot wants to feel that BREEDER cock ring touch its teeth as it swallows your cock. It wants to lick the word BREEDER. Knowing how many men have seen it before this faggot when they kneel and worship you and take you inside them. It will remind you that you are this faggot’s God and its reason for being.”

I thought it over a moment. I mean, who am I to disagree with that kind of persuasion? “Yeah. I’ll do that,” I said. My voice might have been a little husky with lust.

“This humble faggot wishes you could fuck me today, Sir.”

“I wish I could too. But you’re a pretty boy, son,” I said. “Fucking handsome as hell. If you’re so horny, why don’t you get back on BBRT and find a dick to stretch your hole . . . just to cool you down until day after tomorrow? You want to do that for me?”

“Oh god yes, Sir,” he moaned. “It will do it right now. It will take all the piss and cum it can all DAY for you, Sir. It wants to make you proud!”

“Good boy. And then you’ll tell me about it.”

“Yes SIR. This faggot will tell you about every dick that unloads in its cumdump ass!”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, son.”

“Goodbye, Sir. I love you, Sir.”

The last three words took me aback for a moment. During the trip from my porch to my desk, I thought about them. He hadn’t said the words automatically, the way someone might rattle them off to their talkative old dad at the end of a call. Nor had he alarmed me; he hadn’t made the declaration sound dangerous and stalker-like. It had come out sounding fairly unconscious, and sincere.

Thank you for letting me hear your voice, he texted as I sat back down at my desk.

I hesitated before typing my reply. Were you aware of what you said to me, when you said goodbye on the phone?

Yes, Dad, he replied. It slipped. This faggot hoped you had not heard it. It was excited.

Say the words now.

It said I love you, Sir.

Did you mean it in the moment?

Yes Sir. It meant it.

My boner raged. So you’ll say those words when I’m loading up your little faggot hole on Thursday?

Yes Sir. This faggot will say it and mean it. Thank you, Sir. You deserve to be loved more than anyone.

Yeah, I told myself. I did deserve to be loved.

I was in a good place. I had a commitment for Thursday. I had the guy’s phone. I had his address. He’d gotten my attention, and inflamed my dick, my interest, and my ego to equally grotesque proportions. This was going to be a good experience. I set down to work, hoping my raging erection would subside.

Then. Five minutes later. He texts me again. Your faggot sent messages to a bunch of tops, even ones with ads looking to just load holes. No responses.

Of course you’re not getting responses, I thought to myself. Jesus. It’s been five fucking minutes.

This faggot is sorry daddy. It told you it was not worthy of your attention. You deserve much better, and there are boys out there who always seem to be able to get cum in their holes…and this faggot promised it would do this for you. FUCK, it is such a failure.

I was a little taken aback by this weird, sudden temper tantrum of defeat. I mean, I’ve known, admired, and fucked some pretty successful sluts in my time, and I can’t think of one who would have thrown his hands in the air after ten minutes online (on a weekday morning, no less) and yelled, “SCREW IT, I’M OUTTA HERE.” I tried to sound conciliatory, though, when I texted him, Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. If it’s not going to happen, you can’t force it. It’s okay.

You don’t get it. You could spend you entire day going from hole to hole. Everyone wants a piece of you. I’m just a shit nobody that no one wants to fuck I guess. Plus I failed you. I told you I was a basic faggot.

I was considering the way I should respond to this dark and curious turn when he texted again, mere seconds after the last. Still no takers for my hole. I’ve given up and signed off. I'm sorry. I'm a failure. Nobody wants to use me. To be honest I was going to delete my profile this week. I might as well do it now.

I’m not attracted to failures, I told him. I’m attracted to you. Therefore you aren’t a failure.

I'm so average and you are a part of the top of one percent among gays. You gave me one easy assignment and I couldn't do it in a city like NYC of all places. I think that underscores I should give up on sex for good. And now you know why my boyfriend can't even bother to fuck me or look at me. I’m too average. Below average, even.

At this point, even I was starting to realize that his compliments about me were way too over-the-top to carry any water. Top one percent among gays? Pfff. Top three percent, maybe. Top one percent was just hyperbole. And once again—once again in a succession of many, many encounters with readers who claimed to admire me, claimed to want to meet me—I felt as if I were being punked. This Faggot was suddenly so baffling, so improbable, that I wondered if I’d been set up for inevitable disappointment from the very beginning.

For some god-knows-what reason, however, I decided to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Listen. There are plenty of times I can't find a fuck to save my life . . . and I'm a top. If you knew how difficult it was for me, with my big dick, to get laid sometimes, your opinion of me would do a one-eighty. Failure is not defined by the inability to arrange a hookup at a moment’s notice. Not for me, not for you.

His downward spiral continued, however. By this point, I noticed, he’d dropped the entire ‘this faggot’ schtick. I'm so embarrassed. I feel like if I can't even get regular guys into me how can I get one like you?

At this point, my confusion began turning to irritation. You don’t seem to realize you’ve already got one like me. You’ve GOT me. We’re still meeting day after tomorrow, right?

I sat at my desk, phone in my hand, waiting for a reply. Nothing. After a minute I fired up my browser, and checked the website where we’d met. When I looked in my mailbox, all the messages we’d exchanged had vanished. I searched for his user name there. Nothing.

You deleted your profile, I texted.

I told you I would. And right now I'm laying in bed stroking and reading your blog.

This is the point where I gave up. This faggot could have had me, the real person, in the flesh. Less than forty-eight hours from that moment, he could have enjoyed the fuck of his life. (I’m not so much exaggerating my own prowess, mind you, as marking how sorry his sex life used to be.) Yet there he was, alone, diddling himself in the cold blue light of the computer screen with a version of me that could never touch, taste, or enjoy him back.

My blog is not a real, living thing. He could have had the real me, so easily. It makes me sad you deleted your profile, I tapped out, wondering why I even bothered.

I'm sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.

I looked at my watch. Between the time of our phone call and the time of his last message, a mere quarter hour had elapsed. Over the course of less than ninety minutes, This Faggot had gone from courting me with compliments and promises, to setting up a first date, to promising me outrageous sexual satisfaction, to telling me he loved me, to circling the toilet in a puddle of his own self-despair, to breaking up with me.

I’d jumped all the hoops of a five-year relationship in less than an hour and a half. No wonder I was fucking exhausted.

This Faggot kept his promise. I haven’t heard from him since. On the day we were supposed to meet, I left a polite text saying that the ball was in his court and I’d let him decide what to do . . . but I suspect my number had been long blocked by that point.

Was he depressive? Could be. Was he feeling guilt at fooling around on this boyfriend of his, and decided to pull back? I guess it’s a possibility. Did he simply feel as if he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and that he couldn’t perform up to the the standards of a God who was among the top three percent of gays? (Oh, heck. Let’s make it the top two percent. No need to be over-modest.) Maybe? Or could it simply have been, as I often fear, that he simply didn’t find me attractive enough and needed a way to wriggle out of his commitment?

There’s no justification behind it. No matter what the answer, I’m the one left swinging in the wind when he vanished.

When readers approach me with compliments, and with stories of their own about how my writing has been a catalyst to their own sex lives, it feels to me that finally I’m reaping a little of the seed I’ve sown—pun firmly intended. It feels like I’m getting a little love back.

What leaves me so dispirited after encounters like these—and there have been many—with readers is that they’re so damned draining. When readers turn out to be like This Faggot, jerking the rug right out from under me, it leaves me bruised. Worn out. Sour. Men like This Faggot leave me unwilling to engage with any of my readers—even those who sound and behave like totally reasonable people.
I have been bruised so many times, now.

As a writer, and as a sex blogger who has put so much of his private life on display for everyone to enjoy, I find myself stupidly susceptible when one of my readers appears willing to give back to me—and I’m not simply talking about when they want to repay me with their holes. Even if just a little, and even if just once in a while, This Faggot was right about one thing: I do deserve to be loved.

Afterword

During my hiatus, I’ve received from readers a lot of very sweet emails wishing me well. Most of them have recognized the amount of work I’ve poured into my blog and have expressed their thanks. I’m so grateful for those sentiments.

Many people who’ve written, however, have made the assumption that the reason I have decided to take a break is because of the so-called haters—that is, the men who leave nasty comments on my blog, and those who go out of their way to make sure I understand how contemptible I am to them.
I’ve had plenty of haters over the years. They wear me down, yes. But more than anyone, the men who have sucked the joy out of my writing (and to a certain extent, my life) are those who meant well. They’re men who claimed to admire me, who wanted to meet me—and many of them did—and who then, whether out of clumsiness or fear or whatever, failed to recognize they’d gone too far. A man can only withstand so many successive blows to the ego (even an ego as Jericho-sturdy as mine) before it begins to tumble.

What’s more, every single one of these men read my blog. They’re men who subscribed to my point of view, who enjoyed my writing. Or read my writing, at least. Some of them wanted to be written about. Others never intended me to know they were blog fans.

Maybe one of these men is you.

If it is you? Although there’s a small and petty part of me that wants to flip a finger in your direction, I’m not going to. I’m moving on as I write this series. A friend of mine shared with me something his grandmother used to say that I truly believe: People do the best they can. If they could do better, they would.

My advice, if you think you recognize yourself . . . or even if you don’t: do better.

All of us could stand to do better.