tuckmayo

It’s been four hours since I left her house.

It was fun. Extremely fun. So fucking fun in fact that it felt like I should have paid twenty-eight bucks for an all-day pass of it. I wanted a strip of cheap neon plastic clipped around my tiny, transsexual man-wrist as I feet-beat the pavement in search of more of that FUN.  I could have spent an eternity in that ass. Eating over-priced beef jerky and sipping on a frozen lemonade during my breaks, I would stare at this great set of round town in wonderment. But happiness always has to end at some point, and this time it was a three-fold, mega-helping of cheap delivery that eventually would send me stumbling on my way back homo.

After the first round of my “welcome back to the fuck-club”, we decided to regenerate with some lemon chicken and two quarts of chow mein. And by we I mean me. And by me I mean I ate the HELL out of that delivery. I ingested so much dirt-cheap funky delivery grub that it was almost inhuman. I actually impressed myself with the speed and accuracy that my body dished out on those paper plates of food-poisoning. I’m also fairly certain that I chewed a total of three times, and would like to request that you please stop judging me and my gluttonous behavior.

About three seconds after I had finished testing the boundaries of my stomach, I suddenly felt so nauseated that I was floating on a filthy cloud of holy-shit-im-going-to-fucking-hurl. Writhing in what I can only assume was hell, I NON-CONSENSUALLY spent the remainder of the night trying not to vomit all over my poor date. And to top it all off, after just a few precious moments of me waiting for my stomach to stop screaming, my dates’ own gut jumped into the land of regretsville, and decided that our newfound illnesses should become twins.

Since I hadn’t had sex in almost thirty years (two months)(maybe one month), we decided against our better judgements to push forward with our gey fuckaganza. Simultaneously trying not to hurl and not to cum, we had such a please-don’t-puke-mega-fist-fest that it was worthy of an award. What kind of award I am still unsure of, but an award nonetheless. If I absolutely had to take an educated guess, I think said award would look like a dolphin-shaped dildo glued onto a piece of cardboard. But again, that’s just a guess.

So yeah, it’s been about two months. Two long-as-hell months since I’d fucked anyone. Minus a maybe incident that appeared to be sexual in nature (if getting drilled inappropriately by your ex after you ran into them at a friends holiday party is considered sexual). But I chose to ignore that, as I was staunchly CELIBATE. It had been so goddamn long that I had started to linger in the vegetable aisle every time I went grocery shopping. Friends would have to tear me away as I eye fucked the 2 for $1 cucumber section. People should really try to not underestimate the sensuality of a jumbo-sized cucumber. But I digress. I had made the decision to transform from a total transsexual slutbag to a weakly bearded, hermit-like nun creature, and stuck to it. I’ve been such a slut for so damn long that literally nobody believed me when I said I was celibate. People actually would crack up when I told them of my newfound virginity. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or amused, so I just chose indifference and carried on.

I’ve spent YEARS in the porn industry. Eight hour days of skimming hundreds of hardcore videos and writing descriptions for them. Phrases like “cock swallowing granny” and “spunk guzzling meathound” rolled as easily off my tongue as “hello.” I’ve been a porn blogger, a one-hit director and plowed my way through plenty of queer flicks. I’m such a pervo that recently I very casually went to an arcade-style glory hole for a boys night out. I “watched” on as three of my pals expertly nursed on mystery-cocks thru a raggedy hole in a wall of a video booth. The floors were filthy, the walls that I shouldn’t have been leaning on were SCARY and the air reeked of feces. The not so hot porn that played was over a decade old and kept flickering on and off at random. My favorite part was the very tweaked out senior citizen who kept offering to share his “party” with me. And then some serious fucking soul jams started playing and we all raced into the dimly lit hallway to dance like maniacs with our new arcade friends.

I’m basically trying to say that ever since I quit drinking five years ago, and finally became comfortable in my own skin, I have literally had such an insane personal sexual revolution that it’s almost astonishing. I finally became aware of what I wanted and how things actually felt and who the hell was laying next to me. And never once did I burn out. Not for one second was I bored by sex of any kind. Until now. After a shocking series of events, I had suddenly stopped wanting to fuck. And I felt lost. I felt myself disassociate from my body and slowly float above to watch as life continued on. I had become completely and utterly detached.

My sex drive crept very slowly, and very quietly away from me. It took six months of complete and utter skankery to accomplish this horrifying new truth. After my ex and I broke up, I was completely devastated. I loved them so fucking hard that my heart crumbled into a million tiny tear-shaped shards of sadness when we stopped dating. And besides the fact that I was then walking under a perpetual rain cloud of misery, I had also lost some of the best sex in existence. The way we fucked was so incredibly intense and powerful that I actually felt enlightened. It was a constant give and take of the purest form of an animalistic lust like I had never experienced before. They couldn’t keep their hands off of me, and it was never a question that both our bodies were a filthy-romantic playground for eachother. She wanted me so damn badly that even I could fucking taste it. It was through her that I realized that I was a power switch. And it was through her that I realized that I really need somebody to want to fuck me. Not just to “service” me, like so many dates had done in years past. Not just because it made me happy. But because they NEEDED to. Just as badly as I needed to fuck them. Is it that strange of a desire?

So after we ended things, I decided to distract myself by drowning myself in a sea of sex. Soon I found myself on a different date almost every night of the week. Some fun, others awkward as hell (fuck you OkCupid), and some that made me run screaming in a sweat-soaked panic. Exhausted and spread so thin it was scary, I chugged black coffee late into the night and pushed forward in my quest for sad-times relief. Soon, though, I was frustrated, as I realized that almost all of my new “friends” appeared to be stone bottoms(not to be confused with regular bottom identified folk).

A stone bottom is a rare bird that apparently only a dandyboy like me can attract. Unsure on why in the world anyone would think my horny, goofball ass would be a stone top, I went ahead and filled the role anyway. The reality is, I do indeed LOVE topping the shit out of someone. Treasure the hell out of it really. Nothing makes me more excited than shoving my hands and cock inside someone. And if I really HAD to take a pick, I would probably pick being the strap-wielder without hesitation. Admittedly, just being called daddy(or grandpa, or mr mayo) sends me so fast over the edge that it makes my tiny friend hard in a split fucking second. But I don’t want to fucking pick. I refuse to. I’m not going to jump back into my joyous youthful days of hating my body and not getting my needs met. Fuck that.

My piggy switch hungry boy ass wants variety. I could care less if you identify as a bottom or a top or a switch, as long as you’re down and excited to fuck me too. I love getting drilled as much as the next person, and am not in the least emasculated by this fact. I’m a dude. I have what I like to call a pussy. It likes to get fucked. I am comfortable with this story. And by fucked I don’t mean some sort of gentle fingerbang like I had in seventh grade with that quiet boy whose name I can’t remember. I mean fucked.

It’s so strange that people assume that because I’m a man that digs topping, that all I want is a blowjob with submissive, adoring eyes staring up at me. Wrong.com. I want what every married straight bro wants on craigslist. I want to get violated. And I want to violate YOU. I want to get my chest punched over and over until I see bright red while you call me your dirty boy. I want to smack someones ass and thighs so hard that my handprint is left behind so many days that it makes wearing shortshorts awkward slash exciting. And you can go right ahead and cross my barely there boundaries in so many ways that I need therapy for three highly expensive and useless years. I want a hot as shit fuckfest. Then I want to end it with the world’s sweetest spooning session.

It’s not sustainable for me to service the world and never get off. It actually began to give me issues. Does being trans make me a freak? Do people not like fucking guys with numerous holes? Am I so hideous that someone wouldn’t want to touch me? After several dates showed complete disinterest in fucking me, I became wild eyed in my search for an orgasm. Wandering the streets, I drifted in and out of so many random holes it was almost astonishing/gross/impressive/mentally ill. I remember my favorite OkStupid date that stood out above the rest. It was about one am when I walked her to her door, and I was tired as hell and ready to head home. But when I tried to say faretheewell, she grabbed my hand, wrapped it around her throat and said “I want you to hurt me”. Not one to back down to a non-subtle challenge, I decided to oblige her request and follow her inside. Let me tell you, it got DARK PLACES real fucking fast. I haven’t had that kind of twisted fucked up and dark role playing/abuse in years, and this was a one night stand. Originally I had just intended on getting to know one another over coffee, but then it was like we reenacted a lifetime movie in her room. And her bed, btw, was coated with so many fucking teddy bears that I began to doubt my own moral fiber. Feeling cozy after we had just jumped into the depths of we-are-going-to-hell together, I told her that she could fuck me too, if she wanted. No thanks, she promptly replied. What!?! WHAT?! I hate my life, I whispered quietly to myself.

I finally started to hook up with my foxy friends, because I knew they were switches. Eventually I had managed to completely horrify one of my besties by literally fucking every buddy of ours. I had to placate him by babybirding bites of caramel ice cream until he forgot that I had plowed pretty much the entirety of his two-story dirty queer punk household. It took a lot of ice cream. In another situation I had to ask an out of town date if I could meet her at a coffee shop, because I awkwardly realized she was staying with two people I had already slept with. One has to wonder what the poor dear thought of me, knowing that I had pretty much run naked throughout every single room in the house she was crashing at. I had become a horned up Kimmy Gibler from Full House, and It just felt like way too much. And once I had found this queer switch group of horned up lovelies, I was desiring something more than just an orgasm. And so my sad story gets even sadder.

I had now decided that I wanted a CRUSH. I wanted just a moment of some sort of intimacy. Or maybe even an actual sleepover? So I started asking people out that I thought were cute. But anyone that I was even remotely interested in held the notsoshocking title of emotionally unavailable. I would get random facebook messages from hot queers asking me out for “dates”. Quickly becoming excited at the possibility of a fun new person to get to know, only to realize that they did indeed want me, but for only one thing. I apparently had become San Francisco’s Walking Strapon Service (check your local newspaper for weekly specials). A robot fucker with a key on my left ass cheek, and if you turned this invisi-key, I would fly about servicing the world in exchange for thai food and sometimes a milkshake. And regardless of whether I asked them out or they asked me out, below you will find the variety of options offered up.

I would love to go on dates with you! I should let you know that I am partnered and we are looking to spice things up in our marriage! (cute!)
I would love to go on a date with you! I just got out of a relationship and really need to get PLOWED. (cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I can spend one hour every two weeks, because I am busy getting over my recent breakup and am highly emotionally unavailable. (super cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I’m actually a lesbian, going through a breakup, but have always wanted to try fucking a transguy. (cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I’m dating ten people from fetlife, and would love for you to join my list! p.s. I recently went through a breakup! (fuck you fetlife)(cute!)

Charmed, I’m sure…

What the fuck!?! It was like a choose your own adventure game, except all of the routes were the exact same. That being said, I went ahead and just fucked them anyway. All of them. Every last inappropriate person. And it was the wrong move. I had finally pushed myself too far. I had actually creeped myself out. A hard thing to do when you are a total creeper, which I am. But the lack of emotion, the lack of sweetness and the lack of interest in getting to know me finally shut down my body and mind so badly that I became suddenly disinterested in anything sexual. When a sex-positive pervert no longer wants to fuck, the only thing that can be done is to take drastic and immediate measures. So I did. I went celibate. Cold turkey, I let everyone know that I was no longer available for anything remotely sexual, but that thai food and shakes were always lovely. And I’m so fucking glad. It was the only way to feel like myself again. The thing is, as much of a slutbag as I am, I’m actually incredibly romantic. I can’t live without tenderness. I cannot fuck so much and never have the sweetness of a spoon. I love the spoon. I’m so affectionate that I’ve made the coldest of new friends used to getting kissed square on the mouth. Or in the mouth. I can’t help it, it’s just the way I am. I’m a perverted romantic and nothing will ever change that. It is a possible combo, and I would like this identity to be respected, please and thanks.

After a few weeks of celibacy, my soul climbed right back into my body and I felt more alive than I had in years. A smile plastered itself onto my face for no reason whatsoever. I started taking long walks just to enjoy being alone in a city full of people. And soon after that, my sex drive came back like it had never left. I felt like a young boy that really wanted to lose his virginity asap. In my fantasy of being said young boy, I am carrying a book satchel and wearing knee socks. I kept steadfast in my celibacy though, because I had set a date and I wanted to stick with it. Not because I really gave a shit about being timely, but because I knew it was what I needed. I even went on a date during my prude stint. We wandered around San Francisco on a search for the best baked goods and I mayhaps ingested four pounds of these sugary-laden delights. She was so charming and graceful and had the sweetest face. And even though I didn’t fuck her, it was the best date I’d had in ages.

So now my celibacy is over. And I’m so god damn excited about it. I have an always-hard detachable cock, I’m single and I live in a city full of hot as fuck homos. I almost feel like I have a new lease on life. But I’m only interested in going out with people where the story isn’t already written. I want to get to know people. To see if we actually like each other. I want to crush out on someone sweet and new and fine as hell. I want that flushed excitement and chemistry, whether it’s with a hot one-night stand or someone I really dig. And maybe that means I’ll be having no dates for an eternity. And maybe that means having to go on seven chaotic dates a week again. But for now at least, my romantic and newly slut ass wants the mystery of the unknown, and that’s all I’ll accept.

sidenote-casual encounters can and will still happen in the future, but not until I get my spoon-on.