Date: Sat, 11 Mar 2006 17:26:22 +0000
From: TJ
Subject: Confessions of a Scatlover

Curiosity about my asshole began when I was in the 5th
grade, about the same time I started to beat off. I remember
the touching and the rubbing. And I remember the view from
the mirror, looking at the puckered opening through my legs
as I bent over. No doubt about it, this was an intriguing
part of my anatomy.

A few years later I began exploring the inside of this
forbidden area with my fingers. And soon after, with
artificial fingers. First it was with small wooden dowels
and then with the heads of screwdrivers, and the heads of
screwdrivers enlarged by the wrapping of black tape. The
adventures were always undertaken in the attic above our
garage, and always when mother was at work.

Somewhere in the course of these solitary endeavors I
recognized that the occasionally encountered brown stuff was
not an annoyance. I think it started when I discovered that
I was excited by the smell of my extracted finger. The
sniffing soon became a part of the ritual, and tasting was
not far behind. Explore, smell, and lick became an intense
experience that facilitated my orgasms.

I was probably in the tenth grade when I realized that
everything worked better if I predictably encountered some
of my shit when I used my finger. So my beat-off sessions
began to revolve around my bowel habits. I learned how to get
my finger really dirty, how to make the smell really
intense, and how to make the lick really worthwhile.

Playing with my loaded ass brought on an urge to dump. I
found exhilaration in holding the load and prolonging the
time till the final release. And the release did not involve
the toilet. The first remembered mess occurred in the heat
of summer, again in the garage attic. I filled my jockey
shorts. Over-filled is more like it. I remember lying there
for half an hour--dirty, smelly and ecstatic. This was also
the first time I realized that cleanup was not an
insignificant problem.

I tried to find time to indulge in my now escalated ass
play, but it wasn't that often I'd find myself safely home
alone in a horny mood with the need to dump. Maybe once a
month. But when it all came together I'd make the most of
it. Each scene would last longer and be more intense than
the last. I would smear it, mix it with my piss, fill my
mouth, smear it some more, and generally end up a total
brown mess. Then I'd carefully get to the shower.

During college years things nearly came to a halt--at least
for the big stuff. A dorm room and a straight roommate
imposed insurmountable barriers. I reverted to the finger-
smell-lick routine and found it less than satisfying. But
these were years when I discovered sex with other human
beings. Suck and fuck were new and captivating experiences
that adequately fulfilled my desires. Not that the other
desire had disappeared, or that I remained entirely celibate
of shit during those years.

During my senior year of college I read an ad in the
Advocate from a guy in my city that wanted to "share some
brown." If there was someone else in the world with similar
fantasies, I was sure I would never meet him. But now I had
hope I was wrong.

I answered the ad by mail and told the guy to call me at
exactly 8 PM on a Monday evening at a campus phone where I
knew that privacy would be ensured. I doubted he would call,
and doubted even more that I would muster the courage to
answer if he did call.

As the time for the call came closer, I found myself
consumed with thoughts of doing shit with someone else. The
anticipation was exhilarating. I was waiting by the phone at
10 minutes before the designated time, convinced that there
would be no ring but in a sweat and mentally rehearsing my
words. It did ring, and exactly at 8 PM.

It wasn't the conversation I had expected. His name was
Brian and he quickly let me know that the "brown" referred
to scat. I told him I had hoped so. Then the subject was
never again mentioned. We talked for half an hour about the
world, the weather, and about ourselves. He was 35 years
old, single, an attorney, and had a home in the city. We
agreed to meet for breakfast the next Saturday morning.

If anticipation of the phone call provoked anxiety, the
breakfast meeting loomed as an impossible adventure. Would
he be ugly? Would I see him and sneak out without even a
greeting? What would I say? Would he even appear? Would I?

When the guy with the blue polo shirt walked into the
restaurant, I felt instant electricity headed to my groin.
He wasn't a hunk, but was far more attractive than I'd
expected. Sandy hair with a hint of curl, blue eyes, a smile
to die for. And he certainly wasn't fat. We shook hands, sat
down to pancakes or whatever it was, and talked more about
the weather, the world and our pasts. As the second pot of
coffee was delivered, he asked: "why did you answer my ad?"
I nervously tried a non-committal response: "oh, I guess I
was interested." But it got the conversation pointed in the
right direction. His "are you a top or a bottom?" came as a
surprise--I knew what he meant, but had never really thought
of it in those terms. "Well, both I guess," I blurted out,
without much consideration of possible consequences. But it
turned out to be the response he was hoping for. He produced
the to-die-for smile and quipped: "we'll get along just
fine."

We decided to meet at his house on Sunday of the following
week--the first day that worked for both of us. He paid. And
as we departed, he said: "load-up good and let's have fun."

Waiting wasn't easy. But it was not the anxiety and the
ambivalence that had dominated the wait for the phone call
and the breakfast meeting. It was anticipation and pure
horniness. There was a bit of worry about performance--the
need to "load-up good"--but I had some experience here and
planned well.

He answered the knock quickly. And there we stood, our lusts
peculiarly intertwined but our need for social graces in the
way. He seemed relaxed--a considerable contrast to me. And
he did look great, wearing jeans and a T. A few beers proved
helpful for the socialization, and for my anxiety. After the
third beer, I asked directions to the bathroom. Bryan
promptly suggested another toilet--his mouth. Thankful that
he made the first move, I dropped my jeans and shorts, aimed
my hardening dick at his mouth and fired away. He took every
last drop. It wasn't much of a wait before I got my chance.
My first taste of another mans piss made my heart race. I
loved it. And it wasn't just a taste--I guzzled till he was
dry.

With our clothes off, we kissed and groped--stopping
occasionally to drink some more beer and to recycle the old.
Brian finally reached for my ass and tucked in a finger. He
found what he wanted, pulled out the browned digit and
brought it to my lips. I felt quivers in my nuts as I
cleansed it with my tongue. It was beautifully bitter and
intoxicating.

I was dying to know if his ass was as full as mine, so I
duplicated the previous ritual. My ass-probing finger was
not disappointed. Nor was his eager tongue. Now both of us
knew this was for real. We were connected--shit buddies,
scat lovers. This was like a sacrament, with us as the
priests.

Brian made the next move, pulling my legs up and diving his
face into my ass. He knew how to rim and knew how to
encourage me. He moaned loudly as his wet tongue darted
around my asshole. His licks became more aggressive as his
passion rose. The tightening grip of his hands on my thighs
assured me he was ready. I gave him what he needed. He
licked and swallowed and nuzzled my shit over his face and
around my ass. I gave him more. He recruited his hands to
contain the growing load, massaging it over my ass and nuts
and rigid dick.

With a brown face and a full mouth, he came up to share his
meal. My tongue was orgasmic as it played with his while we
exchanged my shit. His hands were everywhere, caressing my
face, my hair, and my chest--leaving behind the brown
evidence of his exploration.

The taste of my own shit drove me insane. Now I had to have
some of his. I had a desperate need to lose my virginity for
another mans shit. And Brian knew how to lead me on,
whispering loudly that I was a shit lover, an ass scatter, a
toilet pig.

He stood up over my face and slowly lowered his ass down to
my waiting tongue. I licked and sucked his asshole and told
him I needed his shit, that I would take all of it. I licked
and begged and said I would do anything if he would shit in
my mouth. I was in a state of absolute lust, waiting for the
experience that few others have ever known. Waiting to
demonstrate my total abandonment of inhibition. Waiting to
satisfy my need for loss of personal identity and dignity.
Waiting for total defilement and degradation.

I uncapped the poppers and inhaled deeply--three, four, five
times. The rush hit hard. Then it happened, like an orgasm
from another planet. Beautiful shit--oh, the smell, the
taste, the feel. It came into my waiting mouth faster than I
could accept, savor, and swallow. The shit oozed out of my
mouth and over my face. I pressed it against his ass, then
caressed the mounting shit load with my hands and smeared it
wherever my hands could reach.

Now it was my turn to be in control. I came up with a loaded
mouth and went to his parted lips. Then I hesitated, waiting
for him to come and get the shit I knew he craved. He moaned
"I want my own shit," then went for it with the fury of an
animal. We shared the meal, frenching and creating one mouth-
-one unified tasting organ. My hands found every part of his
smooth body, completing the defilement and uniting the two
of us in the ecstasy of moral oblivion.

Now we were one. No control games. United in our primeval
lust. We kissed, caressed, and fondled. We let our excrement
glue our bodies together. It was the ultimate sharing--the
communion of defilement.