So, for today’s post I’m going to be giving you all another look at my upcoming memoir (WIP), with this particular chapter centering around my desperation for the D. Just so you know, this book isn’t always going to make me look good—I told myself I’d be honest about my actions, good or bad, and I hope you don’t judge the neediness of a young gay in need of an orgasm.
BY THE WAY, if you didn’t know, I have a Patreon where I post exclusive excerpts, artwork, and will start doing vlogs shortly. It can be found here: https://www.patreon.com/Craigbarker
Any support is great appreciated. I need chicken. Thank you.
Any support is great appreciated. I need chicken. Thank you.
I am a whore, a man-slut, a slag, tart, hussy and hoe. I’m someone who enjoys sex; who actively seeks it out and talks openly about it both with eager anticipation and fond remembrance. I see no shame in it, no moral conundrum that means enjoying sex the way I do somehow equates to me being a bad person, and I call myself those terms with a smile on my face.
I’ve been sexually active (as in, full dill pickle in my keyhole) since I was fourteen, and about eighty-five percent of those experiences have been positive ones, however, sometimes, like most people whose Id speaks louder than their Superego, I’ve gone to some great lengths for some…great lengths. Do you get it? Because length equals dick-size? It’s a joke. I’m funny.
Anyway, in these That Time I was desperate for the D chapters, I’m going to retell (in graphic detail) some of my most sordid affairs. I promised myself when starting this memoir that I wouldn’t try to paint myself as a better person than I am or was, but rather I would write events as they actually transpired. (crazy, right?) I think these chapters will test that.
Here we go…
At the young age of I’m not going to disclose because you might feel uncomfortable reading about the sex later on if I do, I already considered myself to be experienced. Most other people my own age talked a big game but rarely followed through when it came down to it. I wasn’t someone who just shouted from the rooftops that I was having and enjoying sex, but someone who would make a plan, meet that person within a few hours, and get right to it.
Sex was an escape for me at an age where my life was still being controlled by external forces. I was bullied in school, I had a curfew, and I had limitations on where I could go. But no one controlled my body (and if they did, the safe word was pineapple).
Needless to say, having good sexual chemistry with any of my partners became paramount to me. At a time when most couples were giddily whispering that they’d slipped a hand down their partner’s trousers, I was stripping off on the first date and making sure they could give me what I wanted (something I still do to this day).
Unfortunately, a guy I’d been steadily building a bond with couldn’t deliver, and it devastated me.
I’m what the gays call a bottom—someone who exclusive takes in the bedroom. Don’t ask me why because I honestly don’t know. I’ve just never been aroused at the thought of putting any part of myself in any part of another person; it’s hardwired into me and something I consider to be a part of my identity, as much as being gay is. And I’ve always known this about myself, meaning I’ve always had an unshakable sense of confidence in my sexuality, and, in the bedroom (or bathroom stall, or alleyway, or woods…you get the idea).
Being so sure of what I liked at a young age meant I often found myself being a lot of guys’ first, and I’d have to verbally instruct them as we went along…but this one guy wasn’t getting it.
We did it in his bed, on his bedroom floor, in the hallway, on the stairs, in his living room and even in his parents’ bed. Each session barely lasted ten minutes, and the foreplay was nonexistent. It was just awful, and maybe it wouldn’t have been if it was my first time with a guy, but I was ready to indulge in thick slices of deep dick pizza, and this guy was a side salad at best.
I left his house after a weekend of mediocre sex feeling conflicted. Sure, he was a decent enough person and we had a few shared interests, but on the other hand he couldn’t satisfy my insatiable appetite for pulled pork in my tender buns (is anyone else hungry?). Regardless, I did something that I hope others can relate to after having bland sexual experiences—I texted a guy that I knew wasn’t good for me.
Randy (a fitting pseudonym) was eighteen, six-foot-three, and I’d noticed the generous bulge in all of his pictures on MySpace (fuck, I’m old). We’d been texting back and forth for a while—way before I met the other guy who I’d spent the weekend with, and I was in Preston, meaning I had to get on a train to go home anyway…
It was an hour to Manchester, or ten minutes to Wigan where Randy resided. I think we both know what I chose.
Yes, it was horrible of me to have spent two nights with one guy, pretending I was more interested than I actually was, then catch a train to another…but it happened. I was young, impulsive and selfish, and throughout the entirety of my teens I always had the self-awareness to know that relationships at that age rarely lasted. I didn’t take them seriously, and perhaps that was cruel to those I strung along, but all I wanted was to enjoy myself. All I wanted was to hold onto every inch of fun I could find, because school was always around the corner, and so were the people that made it hell for me.
I stewed in the shameful silence of the ten-minute journey, a cocktail of fear, nervousness and excitement stirring in my gut. Every time the train stopped, I snapped my head to the window to read the sign. I considered getting off several times, but I had Randy texting me, telling me he’d be the one getting me off instead.
By the time I’d arrived, I’d drowned out the guilt with some leftover alcohol from the weekend and had successfully managed to compartmentalize. Randy was the only guy that mattered now, and everyone that wasn’t in my line of sight ceased to exist…
And what a sight he was.
To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to someone at first glance. And it wasn’t that there was anything remarkable about Randy, he simply looked good—he smelled good, too. He was tall, had a bit of muscle, had a slightly rounded face with dimples and a chin that dipped in the center. I don’t even remember the color of his eyes, but I remember the way I felt when he looked at me with a grin.
He was the kind of guy that you craved attention from, and once he gave it to you…nothing else mattered. No one else mattered.
He greeted me warmly, with a big smile and a tight hug. I was weak in the knees from the moment I smelled his cologne, and I struggled to make small talk, so he took the lead. He told me bits about his life, he said hello to friends we passed along the way and even went the extra step to introduce me, as if I was more than a simple hookup. He made plans with me on the spot, he hinted at needing a date for an upcoming event, and he threw compliment after compliment my way.
Needless to say, I was infatuated with him from the get go, and I thought getting on that train was the best decision I ever made.
I was sorely mistaken.
To be continued (in the book, of course… Pls buy it, Momma needs a new oven)
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