It was December 2011. I’d just wrapped up my first year at university—young, wide-eyed, and craving something more than lectures and late-night essays. Mum was moving north to the sleepy town of Raukura Bay, and I’d left behind the rented house we shared in the outskirts of Meadowfield. For the first time in my life, I was alone in the city. I moved into a modest room at the Wilton House Hostel on Greys Avenue, right in the heart of Auckland Central.
I already knew I liked men. But liking and doing were two very different things. And I was ready to do. God, I was horny.
I still remember the first time I tasted cock. It happened at Basement—a shadowy sex club tucked away beneath the city streets. I’d found myself in the glory hole booth, heart racing, body on fire. Then it slid through—an Asian cock, thick and veined, the head swollen with anticipation. I’d met him earlier in the locker room; we’d shared a silent agreement. Now, I dropped to my knees and sucked like I was starving, like I’d found what I didn’t know I was looking for. I didn’t stop until he came in my mouth.
I was hooked.
Later that same night, high on adrenaline and cum, I signed up for NZDating. My profile was raw: “19-year-old fat boy virgin. Need cock. ASAP.” No pretence. Just truth.
He replied within the hour. A 30-something man. Strong jawline. Confident smile. A picture of his cock that matched his boldness. “Would love to fuck you real good,” he said.
I gave him the address of a hotel across from my hostel and told him I’d meet him outside so we could size each other up. I still remember how he looked at me. Calm. Commanding. I tilted my head, beckoning him to follow.
Back at Wilton House, I led him up the creaky stairs, down the narrow hallway, and into my room. The door clicked shut behind us, and everything changed.
“Kneel,” he said.
I dropped instantly. Opened my mouth. He stepped forward and fed me his cock. He fucked my face like it was his right—like I was made for it.
Then came the order: “On all fours.”
His fingers were careful, coaxing my tight, untouched hole open. Gentle. Patient. My breaths came shallow. I begged for him. “Please, just fuck me.”
It hurt—God, it hurt—but I didn’t want it to stop. He stayed still, letting me adjust, kissing my neck, whispering things I can't remember but still feel. And then, slowly, he began to move. I begged him to go harder. He did. He moaned into my shoulder. He pounded into me with rising urgency, until he pulled back, grabbed my cock, and stroked it in rhythm with his thrusts.
We came together.
He kissed me once more, stood, pulled up his jeans, and left. No drama. No goodbye. Just the promise that he’d be back next week.
He was the perfect mix—gentle when I needed it, rough when I craved it. The way he kissed my neck before breaking me open—it wasn’t just sex. It was an awakening.
Even now, fourteen years later, I still get hard thinking about it.
Reflection
I don’t regret it. I didn’t feel dirty. I felt alive.
