Armed Forces.

We’re in the back of a small car. My body is splayed – stomach pressed into a seatbelt clip, knees crooked into unfamiliar pivots between seat and floor. Some background noise: radio lapping at the dregs of top 100 hits and the occasional car going by in the distance. Each time that happens we both look up. Look out. Finalize that the coast is clear. Then our eyes resume what our bodies couldn’t bother to discontinue, the weight of inertia never letting the risk of being discovered distract our bodies from this rough, ceaseless business.

My head is turned toward the car’s rear – the seat. Eyes scrunched, head hitting the passenger side backdoor with ceaseless rhythm as he fucks me.

“Arch your back.”

Hand on the small of my back pushing it down, but that isn’t right, that isn’t quite how the arch happens. I pretend to fall to the rough demand of his hand while instead curving to its intent, further lowering my chest and face and curving the small, lifting the bubble of my ass out of the shadow and into the bright parking lot light. I look back. He’s looking outside. Coast clear. He turns back, says with a sneer, “Turn the fuck around and get fucked.”

I lower my head. Haven’t closed my eyes yet and all I can feel are his hands gripping my waist and my head carrying out a silent fight with the back door, my brow landing its stern, rhythmic hits.

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The one who mourned.

This is the second of the college years posts, written for a previous version of this blog some years ago. This is one that was still in the draft stage when I found it last August, and I haven’t bothered to complete it, mostly because I no longer remember where it was going… This guy, though, was sweet. I remember him very clearly… -BKF


I sent an e-mail to family & friends regarding the changes in my life, and you were on that list. I thought nothing of it until you wrote me back. ‘Have I missed you?’ you asked, as in: have you missed your chance to see me again before I moved?

No, I said.

But I wondered what else it meant. ‘Have I missed you?’ I don’t know. Have you? — missed me?

I’m not one for sentimental fucks but I, at least, have missed you. Continue reading

A Reader’s Fantasy.

I love getting e-mails, tweets, comments &c. from you all. I love it because you give me something to think about, and because you remind me that I’m not alone — that this isn’t just some black hole or vacuum that I’m launching my inane, shapeless thoughts into for no reason. That wouldn’t really inspire me to keep going.

Recently, a reader e-mailed me about his desires. His sexual wants, he said, split him into two people. One, the masculine, dominant top who loves to ruin younger twink hole, is his public side.

But the other side was something else. He let me see what was under the surface. Here it is:

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We have plenty stories about things, objects, “its” that become real. Toys, for example – the velveteen rabbit, Pinocchio, Buzz & Woody, many more. And plenty stories, too, and people who become Things, from slavery to performance art to whatever else.

The latter has always done something to excite, energize, & intrigue me. Not the slavery part so much as the basic dynamics of being a Thing. Being an object. Being used. Sexually — of course I’m speaking sexually.

This morning I woke up needing to be a Thing. No: I was convinced that I was a Thing. What I needed was for someone to see that in me and make me realize it plainly, uncomplainingly, without discussion or convincing. I need constriction: a body pressed against mine, arms wrapped around me both protecting and restricting me. Ownership: I needed its unadulterated heat.

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