Love Hurts

an excerpt



I DON'T KILL QUEERS because they're queer. I don't kill them out of any misconceived notion that in killing their gayness I eliminate my own. I kill them, because it's my calling to send to another plane certain human beings whose time has simply come. Their being queer and my being queer merely make it easier for them to be found and for me to find them.

I mean, look. I enjoy being a queer. Take this butt-fuck I'm receiving, right here and now, in the backroom of San Francisco's latest "in" gay night spot, Danny-Dean's Cowboy Bar. I'm having more than a good time. I'm having a really great rootin'-tootin' good time.

The cock up my ass has a marvelously bulbous head. It has this turn-on way of bumping into and over my prostate to get me really hot. If I'm not as excited as I would be on the receiving end of a special someone's cock-no matter its size or shape-this will do until one of those comes along. There's enough pleasure found among these run-of-the-mill dicks to hold me over. In a way, it's good the unique ones are so few and far between, because the intensity of ecstasy I feel when poked by one of them is...well...I'm not sure it's something even I (good with words as I so obviously am), can adequately express. If you're interested, though, in a more mundane but still enjoyable butt-fuck in progress, I can certainly give you a good enough account of this one.

I'm leaned over, into, and through, one of the larger square "windows" found, along with a wide selection of glory-holes, in one of the several partitioning walls of the backroom. When I turn my head left or right, I see cocks stuck through the wall, like my head, but sucked, accepted up butts, or patiently awaiting one or the other. Not that all of this is perfectly clear, but it's surprising how well one's eyes adapt to the dark after being only a short while in it. And when someone has as much practice at it as I do, well, I can pretty much determine not only the general physical characteristics of the people in the blackness with me, but the sizes and shapes of their if-and-when revealed cocks.

My fucker is dark-haired. Not handsome, not ugly. Not skinny. Not fat. Not tall but not short. His dick, complete with its knobby head and condom, is neither enormous nor particularly petit. All of which I determined before I leaned through the aperture in the wall. Unlike some guys who just take advantage of whatever is available, I'm not quite so democratic. Just because I like getting my butt fucked doesn't mean that I enjoy having it done by just any Tom, Dick, or Harry's dick.

The guy maneuvers his stiff meat inside of me and seems to know what he's doing. He's not one of these hops on, gets off, top men who misconstrues fast orgasm with best orgasm. This stud has finesse probably gleaned from a lot of doing what he's doing.

From behind me, he holds my hips, one hand to each. His fingers curl forward around my body so his fingertips cap the well-defined thrusts of my pelvic bones. His dick not only fucks in and out but side to side. Sometimes, for a bit of additional variation, he goes up on his toes, or into a little squat.

"Tell me what's good for you." He's even interested in the results on the other end of his cock-poking. "Tell me how to make it better."

To which I reply, "Oh, do that again."-"Oh, yes that!"-"Only faster!"All in all, a damned enjoyable experience. One much appreciated in the sometimes long dry spells between my being serviced by the only people who really count.

"Want me to pump your dick?" he asks.

"God, yes." Why the hell not?! I can go through cum-spew after cum-spew, and then head off to the darkness of a park to cream additional gallons with the right phallic key slotted up my butt.

"Jesus, nice dick," he says as soon as his hands grip my penis. He sounds as if he might be better served on the receiving end of what I have to offer.

Definitely, though, he knows how to work my stiff pecker as well as my tight asshole. His two fists, lined up one behind the other, along the shaft of my cock, provide a long and tight tunnel for me to fuck in coordination with the hard pumps of his steely meatiness up my anus.

Having so lucked out, I'm encouraged by what else the evening may have in store. The anticipation makes all of this more intense.

We establish a rhythm. My butt rams back and completely engulfs his incoming prick. His balls squash between us. My prick stabs his grip and then withdraws until only my cockhead juts free.

His boner is up my butt ... mostly out of my butt ... in again, deep ... out until only gnarly prick tip pokes through my sphincter. Another insertion, this one slightly angled (Ahhhh, yes!), finds my prostate and slides hard meat against it, over it, right on by it.

"You close, buddy?" he asks; I like that he asks.

I like him. I enjoy the way he fucks me. I appreciate the way he beats my meat. I wish I could do him the favor of transmigration. But such selection isn't up to me, and it never has been.

So, by way of compensation, I do what I can. I manipulate my asshole to provide this cowboy the ride of his life. I contract my bowel until it's so tight-fitting that it's the eighth wonder of the world when his penis and my anus don't combust within the resulting friction.

Reflexively, his hands clamp my dick and pull me back over his well-primed phallic butt-plug, one final time.

His shudders are telegraphed along the entire length of his cock. His dork goes even more erect as it's forced to funnel sudden gushes of creamy spunk into the condom nipple buried up my ass.

"Oh fuck!" He's bent over, his head through the cutout with mine. His mouth is up close and personal against my right ear. His breath is warm and damp and sexy.

I show my appreciation by matching his thick and creamy gobs with some viscous squirts of my own. It's like I'm taking and giving cream at one and the same time. His ejaculate, of course, is contained by latex. My goo splatters lace-like patterns to the wood partition in front of my belly.

"Thanks, buddy." He's a gentleman to the very end.

 

OH, I DO ENJOY this backroom, most backrooms, the gay bar scene, the parades, restaurants, bathhouses, male prostitutes, Fire Island parties, even the poof choir festivals and the bent Olympics. That I am gay, have always been gay, always will be gay is something with which I have no problem.

If I were straight and lived within the straight world, and got off on a wife and kids, or dated and fucked women, or screwed cunted prostitutes, I'd cull from those. But no need to go places unfamiliar that make me uncomfortable, especially since it's not as if there aren't perfectly enlightened queers as deserving as straights of my special service.

Don't think of these "special" people as victims, either, no matter how much you may be brainwashed by what you read otherwise in the press. I only kill those who want to be killed. Oh, not that they come right out and say, "I want you to take those two switchblades you carry around in those special little waistband pockets of your pants, and I want you to release me, with multiple dagger thrusts, from this corporeal existence." It's a lot more subtle than that. All to do with aura and vibes and ESP and telepathy and precognition and, most importantly, being in the right place at the right time.

Why use switchblades? Why two, not one? Why stab back and up just as a hard cock commences its climax up my tight asshole? Why make selections in different locales but inevitably perform each official grand finale "right of passage" in a park, in the dark, preferably with the back of the soon to be transcended up against a tree? Trial and error, my friend, pure and simple.

I've tried all types of knives but found most of them too hard to hide, except when I'm wearing a heavy coat, and who wants to screw around while bundled up like a mummy, or only in the middle of the winter? Switchblades not only almost double in size with a quick and easy flick of a release mechanism but can be successfully secreted in specially made waistband pockets of already pocket-strewn bomber pants.

Two knives instead of one, because two knives can cause twice as much damage. Or if one knife is deflected by bone, something that happened with near disastrous results-for me-in my days of experimentation with just a single blade, then a back-up is more likely to assure success. The double whammy provides more opportunity for a quick death, or if not that, then at least the best chance of rendering mute from shock the guy on the receiving end of the hard steel.

Stabbing back and up is merely the best way to go when I'm getting fucked from the rear in a standing position. I merely release the blades with a press of my thumbs, my arms akimbo (for a moment probably looking very much like a poor imitation of a quacking duck), and proceed from there.

Having a cock go at my asshole from a missionary position would, I grant you, allow me to stab conveniently downward into my rider's back, but how to keep the presence of the knife or knives a secret up until that moment? Where switchblades, retrieved when my pants are dropped to my ankles, are hidden in front of me.

Of course, it would be easiest for me to fuck someone from behind and dispatch him via knife thrusts around front and into his guts, but I simply too much enjoy getting my own ass humped to change my modus operandi as long as what works keeps working.

I stab during climax because, while I've learned not to be distracted by my orgasms, most guys, during a cum-basting, are so focused on just that, they haven't a clue as to anything else.