Blast...Back Again

I need to admit the truth. After all, I occasionally run a Confessional here and this is a space for me to be myself. When I heard of the impending death of my molester, I felt something not unfamiliar: Rage. For a moment, time stood still, I heard my heart and the moments of my abuse — the pleasurable and the horrible — all came together. That evening, as I wrote, pouring the adrenalin rush into the typing, I wanted desperately to fuck out the bad feeling. I needed a bottom to abuse back. Someone to pummel. Truth is, when I fuck, it is rare for me to lose control. I control every movement. Very few men have ever experienced me unleashed. No. Unleashed is the wrong word. The word is unhinged. If you are a bottom, you may be thinking about how hot it would be to experience what might be a Rage Fuck from me. Knowing that physically, I am without the physical prowess to bench-press much or chin-up myself. I don't have abs or pecs or guns or anything like that. I am not muscular. You...

Tonight I sit with a weird feeling creeping up my spine. I find myself reduced back to a boy, curled up in guilt, and a little confused. Long-time readers will know my story but I imagine most won't, so I should set the stage with my original Dark Passenger. The man who launched the twisted fuck I would become. In a very real and unusually strange sense, that man indeed is the genesis of myself, out and very comfortable and confident in my skin. While I would like to think I'd eventually maneuvered my way out of the closet, I doubt seriously if I'd ever become as tolerant of others or even admitted to myself or other what a barebacking sleaze I can be. As a youth, I was molested by this man.  Know that from some point until around 18, I had sexual encounters with this man — a neighbor and trusted friend of my parents. So the reason for my odd sensation is the call today to notify me that my molester is in hospice. The call to me is not unusual, I guess, since he and his wif...

We all bleed. And it's all pink on the inside. That explanation came from an asshole I knew at university. His misogynistic ways stuck with me somehow -- surprise, surprise. Still, an impressionable young gay man, a small group of elite intellectuals sat in a circle discussing something about authority. Liberal arts education at its best. My friend, who explored women with the subtlety of a great white shark on a feeding frenzy, spoke of how women -- no matter their race, religion, size, or texture, should put out at the end of a date. The females in the class expressed horror, although, by that point, most had taken a ride on his cock and experienced his tongue on their clits. We'd discussed this in detail. We both had mutual interests. His interest -- curiosity about fucking ass, even men, since he figured it would increase his chances of getting some at the end of the evening. Mine was the mind of a straight man. So we'd dined together and discussed our respective sex li...

Compassion sets us apart. I do possess that emotion. But I found myself in an interesting place with compassion and other emotions as I sorted through myself. Begging to submit to a top is probably nothing new but this young man made it seem like what I expected of him would be child's play. I explained that my experience in the realm tended to be relatively new. He wanted to play along. I'd gone shopping. I'd been to a Leather store and purchased a few items of interest. He'd clearly outlined his interests (and limitations), telling me how much he liked getting fucked and humiliated and sucking and -- this one's important -- tit torture. So I took it upon myself to see if I was cut out for the game. His instructions were simple. Upon arrival, he would strip naked, put on a blindfold (a real leather one), clamp his nipples together with the provided tit clamps (pictured here) and kneel. He was to wait, patiently, until I arrived to give him further instructions. I w...

My venture into the Leather Community required study, but I'm more of an "on the job" participant. I explored some of the basics including tying men up and spanking. At the time, the Washington, D.C., area contained multiple men who allowed me a more academic learning experience where I could indulge any and all interests. One of these boys indulged me repeatedly. However, his ultimate fantasy turned out to be one I could not grant. He wanted to be a "puppy." Just put "puppy play" in quotes into any search engine and you'll come up with plenty of results. I had a dog at the time and, well, I treated by real canine well. I would say a human companion of the puppy persuasion needs more attention and discipline than what I was willing to give. Moreover, puppy boy wouldn't indulge me in my particular desire — barebacking. Even then, the barebacking movement seemed in its infancy. While I got plenty of raw ass — some of which I wrote about in the ...

Like everywhere else, Washington, D.C., and Baltimore both included a bar named "The Eagle" (at least, at the time). So the Leather Community didn't seem foreign. As I emerged from the end of my mourning for an eight-year relationship going kaput, I fucked a lot. And I realized that I loved to bareback. Condoms bored me. When I would meet a hot guy and then slip that tube of plastic around my rock-hard cock, I noticed an immediate change. While performing never seemed to be an issue, the connection between me and the man I impaled also became broken. The muted sensations just failed to allow me to sense the man completely, even from an emotional level. When the bottom allowed it, I'd fuck raw and it seemed if our pleasure intensified at an exponential value, even with a one-time, five-minute fuck. Knowing I still lacked complete emotional control, I assessed the situation around my ex-partner. What had brought us to the point that a split seemed his only desire? I am ...

The emotional stress from my life lately makes most of the normal portions difficult. In fact, I just fucked the hell out of a regular who always seems to milk a load out of me and it, alas, didn't happen. I know recovery comes after such a loss. But to be honest, it's mostly just that I'm fucking tired. I felt some relief when I chatted with a friend who had lost his mother as well and his response made me feel like I wasn't so crazy. But with that comfort came dread. "Did you have trouble with nightmares?" I inquired. No hesitation. He snapped, "Yes." I suddenly felt relief. Maybe I'm not as bonkers as I thought. But eventually, we got around to the really important question. I asked, "How long do they last?" "Oh," he said with a pause, "About a year." I quickly followed up: "So you are telling me that I've got at least another 11 months where I get a good night's sleep maybe once or twice a week?...

Not until December 19, 1985, would I actually utter the words, "I am gay." Interestingly enough, I'd be considered an "adult" at that time, just barely 18. Between 15 and 18 years old, I plunged into the world of sex. My classmates spent their time experimenting with alcohol and weed, neither of which I even attempted at the time. Sex turned out to be my drug of choice. Shoving my cock under stalls in bathrooms provided some satisfaction, but I am an analytical sort and I needed to understand what drove me into these situations. Satan? The Devil did actually turn out to be a leading contender. The Internet didn't exist. Deep within the thick white pages of our phone book, I did find the Gay and Lesbian Center of Atlanta. I would occasionally call and hang up. Eventually, I would speak with the "youth counselor" there. I recall he was the first person to explain the mechanics of gay sex, including what a "blowjob" was. I didn't underst...

Ending the fucked up relationship with my molester caused me to develop an appetite for sex. After all, I was a 15-year-old boy. While my friendship with the straight classmate couldn't endure school starting again, I had discovered the bathrooms at stores that would abate my sexual appetite. Lucky for me, my parents went to "town" on a weekly basis — just like clockwork. Even better, the bathroom at the discount department store (a predecessor to modern-day Target) turned out to be frequented by cocksuckers. So every week, we'd go and I'd wander through the store only to end up at the bathroom in the back. And usually every week, I'd get sucked off under the stall. Weekly, this would happen. The quality of men turned out to be less than attractive. But even me — a thin, pimply-faced, geeky kid — got sucked greedily by men. I'd come to recognize different shoes of the frequenters there (one old man I would never forget and always avoid) and quality of suck...

A doomed feeling swallowed me throughout my late adolescence. The words he'd used about the destination for my afterlife left me hollow and empty. Hell. At the time in the limited world, I knew between church, school, and family, hell turned out to be the worst place for any of us. We strive for salvation and everlasting life. Vince proved to be a catalyst, giving me some hope that what the man said in his last moments following every encounter may be true, but not as devastating as he stated. Despite being a smart kid, my vision lacked depth and distance to fully comprehend what this man did to me beside put me into some strange sexual frenzy that would ultimately end with suicidal thoughts. Then the man did his worst. Another sticky summer day and I'd just come from my room to watch television. My little sister came screaming into the house for my mother. The first words, "Bill tried to touch me," were followed by my mother quickly ushering my sister into another ro...

My incredibly clear recollections of him and how he started the molestation end somewhere in a blur, as I wrote. I cannot count how many times it happened, but flashes of memories showing this place and that place -- a bathroom, the woods, a basement, the shed. I smell the musty mix of his balls and his pipe, but I never really remember his face. I just see his cock, hard and huge, hanging there relaxed and in front of my face as I knelt down to suck it. The post-ejaculation depression always brought on the verbal abuse of my descent into hell along with the crippling guilt. I can still feel that guilt, deep in my guts, but it's a pin-prick compared to the all-consuming self-loathing that filled my hours after succumbing to my lust. What happens next surprised even me and helped set my course toward some form of normalcy. * * *   I met Vince as a freshman in high school. Tall and lanky like myself with the same bowl haircut, similar struggles with zits. But his extroverted, I-don...

Having figured out that sexual please could be derived from myself, especially since my older molester rarely helped me out, I was left with a sense of longing. Again, the Internet didn't exist, and, as far as I could tell, nothing would be there to help. Every bit of documentation I had mustered to find indicated that I was doomed to hell and a life of misery. At the time in the Atlanta area, only two malls existed. Per our normal routine, my family would travel to one of these malls twice per year — before Easter and before Christmas. With "Jingle Bells" playing over the live speaker, I was bored, wandering the aisles of a major department store (at the time). The urge to pee overwhelmed me. During this time, I think my unconscious brought it upon myself to pee often. I even had medical tests in which the doctors informed my mother of "psychological" issues related to my frequent urination. So without truly thinking, I stepped through a long series of hallways...

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In the rural South during the 1970s and 1980s, sex turned out to be one of those things we didn't discuss along with my cousin in jail and my uncle's drinking problem. Without the Internet, a curious mind like mine could only get information from friends — who knew little more than I did — and the encyclopedia. That was about it. My resources about my emerging emotions and proclivities lacked an outlet and, even more troubling, came with erroneous data. The man who molested me turned out to be my only source of information. As I look back, I think he delighted in the torture he caused me. He also seemed to misinform me — on purpose. For example, his explanation of a "blowjob" turned out to be significantly different than the truth. According to him, you would visit a stylist who washed and dried your pubic hair — a blow-dryer being the pivotal tool needed in the "blowjob" experience. A year later, another adult would correct this error and, in fact, molest m...

I grew up out in the middle of nowhere. For those of you a little younger than I, it might be difficult to comprehend a life out in the countryside where five whole channels of television arrived on rabbit ears and most households lacked a computer. The Internet, while invented, needed more than a decade before reaching the masses. Even today as I drive around my old lurking grounds, I wonder how I managed to figure out my way in the world. "Gay" wasn't a word unless it was the name of an older female. "Faggot" might have been uttered on the school playground or under someone's breath. As for "homosexual," I'd either just found it in a dictionary or soon would. When this occurred, it would be a year before I figured out I could cause myself to have this intense pleasure followed by a sticky mess and about three days of overwhelming, debilitating guilt. The summer intensity in the South remains infamous with the incredible humidity that accompan...

When I arrived, he was already naked. He'd called over to as my Mom if I could come over and assist him with some project. I don't recall what he really needed me to do. It was made up anyway. I think it was a hot Southern spring day. I remember birds. Lots of songbirds. Or at least the sounds of spring birds. I hesitated at first. I didn't want to go. Or did I? Maybe I did. Perhaps I want to see his cock. No! I don't. I don't want to put my hands around his firm, thick, huge cock. I don't want to stroke it and put it in my mouth, lick it, and taste him. Even though I'd dreamed about cocks in my mouth. In the pit of my stomach, I felt a little sick. Sick? Maybe butterflies. That sickness dropped lower and began tickling at the base of my balls. My cock began to rise. I walked into the house and he was in his living room, naked and stroking his gigantic cock. And when I say GIGANTIC, I mean it was more massive and dense than the thousands of cocks I have seen...

Snowfall is rare in the South. Very rare. I wouldn't see snow more than a couple of inches deep until my mid-20s when I moved to Washington, D.C. So that winter — probably in early 1979 — would be the next time I was alone with him. For my home, almost two inches of snow covered the ground, creating a white blanket over the landscape. I found it mesmerizing. I can't recall whether the power was out or not, but he and his wife had wandered over to assure we were all fine. I imagine it was his suggestion to go out into the woods behind our house to look. We found tracks for rabbits. He explained what they looked like. My sister and I were fascinated. But she got cold or, perhaps at her big brother's insistence, returned home and left us in the woods. I think he decided to take a piss and suggested I did the same. My cock was immediately hard. I remember the cold air, my gloved hands around my cock. Only my face and cock exposed. I would never pee. But I stood there, looking s...

I debate what should be revealed here. Certainly, by posting the old series, I've exposed a part of my psycho-sexual history that's probably a wet dream to any therapist. Of course, this is a sex blog and not my normal blog. Correction: I don't have a normal blog. However, other outlets for the writing beasts inside have a place to occupy. Back to my considerations of unleashing the other beasts of my past explorations. Those explorations — in particular two such thought-provoking time periods — begin to form the mosaic of my sexual being. That brings me to my past when I too indulged in a bit of the BDSM lifestyle. Actually, it was more than a bit. I spent a little more than a year immersed in it with full force. I explored some elements of myself still disturbing to this day. And I wonder the impact it had. Yes, that photo is me in some rubber gear in a dungeon. As I have mentioned, my appearance is now and always has been unassuming. Back when I lived in D.C., I used to ...