A View on Kinks

A man’s fluids. How is it that we relish a man’s piss but cannot imagine his scat? It is illogical yet so elementary. Like you I would not condemn any man who chose to enjoy scat though he would have to enjoy that somewhere else, with someone else and would not enjoy anything with me if he did. It actually sounds narrow-minded when I write it but I can assure you it is my brightest “bright line” among bright lines. (Another would be mutilation/modification.)

Piss is so far at the other end of the scale. Whether submission or just enjoyment, I can greatly enjoy a muscle-sub who “drinks from the tap” and really gets me going if he is that into it. I can enjoy “hosing down” a sub in a group. Perhaps the latter is showing my still-virile horse-like piss streams! LOL (The force and volume is more likely the fortuitous combination of drinking gallons of water and the absence of any prostate issues. Whether that accounts for my still-forceful teen-like ejaculations is up for debate.)

Spit is the only one I am not the least into but don’t abhor. I have no explanation for that whatsoever. For function of course I will spit on a hole or on my rod to facilitate entry with less pain for a sub. But to spit on someone is on the annoying side for me. Again, why? What is it about demeaning the person we’re sharing sexually? Not within my grasp.

My scat (but really non-scat) story:

I was still living in Arlington and the gay population and opportunities were vast.  A Craigslist hook-up before my last relationship there.  I was not playing to the muscle scene unless after seeing my emailed photo a guy went that direction.  Otherwise I was “mostly top” and met guys usually for anywhere from barely described to intricately orchestrated fucking.

This night I had left The Eagle with my balls partially drained but also hornier than when I arrived. An hour or so in the back room, a few lackluster holes, a couple of even less stimulating blowjobs.  Somehow after dumping a loads I was frenzied for a good fuck.

I tried a Craigslist ad (“hung musclehead, mostly top, looking for now”) and got several hits. One was a 6’6” “mostly bottom, looking for a good, hard, NSA fuck” German guy who was stunning in every way in his pics. One of the pics was him standing tall and proud with a doorway to show his height, muscles everywhere and nothing needed to show his baseball bat of an uncut cock. Add to that he was staying in one of the nicest hotels in DC.

A few messages, the photos, a photo of my own muscular physique and apparently satisfactory hardon, and we’re set to have some fun. He’s “all bottom but all man, no sissy. Suits me perfectly.

I go to his hotel, and it’s amazing. I’d never been inside. It was elegant as was everyone in it. I get even dirtier for being there to get my dick wet when all these toffs were living it up with their noses in the air around me.

He opens the door and looks better than his phenomenal profile and many pics. Widest shoulders, narrowest waist, towering over me, bulge of death down below inside well-fitted jeans, his bare torso showing guns of death up top and pecs that look solid enough to break walnuts. He was standing there smiling and giving me the thrice over. Turnabout.

Everything was so perfect. Even his voice was deep and had the sexiest German accent. That all should have told me storm warnings were ahead because nothing is ever that perfect with a hookup, whether a back room or a luxury hotel.

He wasted no time after that initial round of sizing up. He stripped off the jeans and boxer briefs he was wearing quicker than I might have wanted him to, but I also couldn’t wait to get a look at his lower muscles and his schlong in person. All were magnificent. His cock was huge, his overhang likewise, and his balls were also. I’d enjoy watching that useless German Wiener schnitzel while I made him yell and scream.

Again, I should have known. If it’s too good to be true —

Fast forward to him sucking me and going to town on my balls and taint. He asks if I like being rimmed, and I told him I did. I also made sure he acknowledged that he was the one going to be fucked. He assured me he was but complimented my ass and said he didn’t often get the opportunity with such a hot man.

Still too good to be true, right?

One thing led to the next and he was laying on his back on the plush carpet. I’m squatting on him getting the tonguing of my life. He’s very verbal. He tells me I taste so fucking good, I’m so tight he can’t wait, etc. But he keeps on slurping my hole. And his accent with all the talk among those slurps was added excitement and had me working to control myself.

Then he’s grasping my hips and pulling me down onto his face and his tongue is halfway to my eyes it seems. He starts yelling for me to bear down. I’m grinding on his face. He’s saying “more” and “harder” and “push” and I’ve got to be crushing him but that tongue and mouth, oh wow!

Finally his frenzied cries of “PUSH HARDER” get to me and I let up for a minute and say that if I push any harder I’ll likely break his nose. He says, “No when I say push I want you to push some out.”  I think he wants me to distend my rosebud and am contemplating (this all happens in a couple of seconds) how to politely say no I’m not a bottom and my hole isn’t that used. But I want to make sure I still fuck this hot specimen. But while that flashes through my mind then he says, “I just want a taste not a full movement — “

Holy fuck!

I was on my feet, grabbing up my clothes and running to the door.  It wasn’t until I was to the hotel elevator that I even began to put my clothes on while I banged the down button harder than I’d intended to bang him! Then when I’m replaying it in my mind with utter horror while I’m walking to the taxi stand I remember him saying before he started begging me not to go: “— but I’d gladly eat your whole log.” I bent over on the street curb and vomited what I’d had to drink at the club earlier, my dinner from before that, what was left over of my lunch and half my guts it felt like.

The taxi driver wouldn’t take me and I walked for a while to another taxi stand and had to argue my way into that cab when he caught a look at me.

There’s more.  This is where it turns really funny.

That happened on a Saturday night (technically early Sunday morning). A bunch of us used to meet at one of several very nice hotels for brunch at about 1 on Sunday once a month. That next day was our Sunday and because I’d vomited the

My guts out on that curb the night before I hadn’t been able to get enough in me since to stop being hungry so I went along for the luxurious buffet.

Of course a bunch of homos, an elegant hotel — what could go wrong, right?  At some point I was goaded into telling the story of my evening, and it was pandemonium and hysteria around our table. By the end of brunch if the conversation had lulled one of the guys would yell, “PUSH!” and it would re-ignite the belly laughs and gasping breaths. We were finally “invited to take our revelry elsewhere.”

I would get random texts from my buds in our group text: “PUSH!” for years. Christmas and birthdays occasionally manifested the reference creatively; “pushing the stuffing” into a turkey lent itself well, aside “careful what you let loose down that chimney chute.” Or just a lull in conversation and then sudden raucous laughter.  It was always “Push!” Making a return.

You can rest assured that in spite of my love of sweat, fetish for feet and appreciation of a puss pig, it’s no scat for this muscle bro.