Date: Tue, 4 Aug 2020 21:08:23 +0000 (UTC)
From: jayare303@aol.com
Subject: The First and the Last: a Male Journey

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03 August 2020

First and the Last

Yeah, I know. It has been used. It was the account of the leader of
Germany's Luftwaffe, Adolf Galland, about flying combat missions
in the beginning of the war in Europe, and through at the end of
the horror. He survived a long time after peace returned, and I met
him at a book signing a couple decades ago. He was old, but there
was still a twinkle in his eyes. An interesting twinkle that
resonated to my lower midsection. I told him I liked his book. He
smiled in thanks.

As I walked away, I thought what it would have been like to make
love with him in younger days. Or right then. I had not thought of
it before, but the thought of going down on the old man, an actual
enemy, maybe in the store's rest room, had a definite erotic
component.

So, I was looking at my own firsts and lasts the other day. It was
a long and mostly fun journey. Times and hormonal levels have
changed, but I can remember intimacy as one of the most powerful
things in my life. I had my start on my maturation in a strange
time. Christine Jorgenson had her surgery when I was still in
elementary school, and his/her story electrified me.

We didn't know details then, of castration and enhancement and all
the rest that came as we later learned about reassignment. But to
me, then, the idea of losing my little penis and balls in some
magical fashion and receiving the gift of a working set of feminine
parts was something that excited me in a way I did not yet
understand. I liked the girls in my class, and sometimes wished I
could play with them rather than the rough boys. You have to play
the hand you are dealt, I guess, and I lived a life split between
trying to be one of the rambunctious boys while wishing I was one
of the sweet and prettily dressed girls.

A couple years later- on the eve of middle school, I found a copy
of the old porno novel "Fanny Hill." If I had found something
different the impact might have oriented me more toward the
traditional male role. Instead, I followed Fanny's adventures of
maturation with great interest. The description of sex from her
view was powerful, and the description of the delight of
penetration made me think. I was just starting to masturbate then,
and taking some queues from Fanny, I found a modest sized candle,
and put it in the only place I could. It felt delightful as it
penetrated, and made my little penis spurt remarkably when I pumped
its length inside me and jerked off my little cock.

So, simply by chance, my idea of sex was wrapped around the idea of
being penetrated and passive with the idea that I could actually be
Fanny, and submit to a dashing young rake pulsing with
hard manhood. It is strange to imagine it might have been some
other way, but I thoroughly enjoyed my Delicious fantasy world that
I knew could never be true.

Except it could.

I cannot locate an account I wrote of my last lover, a nice man
named Richard. It was the name of shared by two of the men in my
life. Looking through the anonymized files on my computer, I did
find the story I wrote about the first one, though it wasn't,
exactly. The actual first time I made love with a man, I was in my
mid-twenties. My paramour included a commercial aspect, and he was
dressed in women's clothes. Between the now ancient memories of
youth, the reality of a sordid and demeaning encounter changed my
life. I was humiliated by a man in a bra and panties. I was
demeaned, treated as a throw-away and worthless plaything. It was
in a hotel in a land far away, and in the bar, he was a striking
woman in a tight shimmering short dress and with a slight sneer
that recognized I was his prey. Later, after leaving the bar and
taking a cab to a hotel, he commanded my obedience. After touching
his erection with my lips below the shadow of his artificial but
quite lifelike bosom, it was magical. I begged him/her to enter me,
and as he did so, my legs wrapped around him. I felt his weight and
rigid member force a new space inside me. Deep inside.

The feel of him slowly stroking in and out made me quiver in desire
and discovery. The more and deeper he penetrated, the more the mild
discomfort began to feel wonderful. There was a spot inside me I
had never felt before, a spot that tingled when the tip of his cock
touched it. I shivered in pleasure, begging him for more. He came
inside me, something I would have thought about if I was really
gay, and if he were really a girl.

I wanted to submit to him/her, give myself to the confusing and
forceful dominance. When he had a good seal on me, and a slippery
joining of our bodies into one, he began to fuck in earnest. I went
to an altogether new place, writhing in pleasure as my bowels were
churned on his pleasure stick.

It was magnificent and the best sex I had experienced to that
point, and one that registered something quite new and yet
something I had always desired. Submission to a man. Or a wo-man,
as it happened, submitting willfully to his man parts while
breathing in his feminine cologne. There was something that felt
completely right about being pinioned by him, penetrated by him,
totally dominated by his urgent, authentic need.

The next morning I wanted him again, to experience the amazing
experience once more. My asshole was raw but the pleasure that it
generated confirmed the desire that grew with the size of his dick,
and the shudder I felt as he spewed his seed within me.

I did not decide to be gay then, though the thought of how
complicated it would be was part of it. And how could it be gay if
he was a woman? The confusion stayed with me, having been his
bottom and sucking his proud member left glorious forbidden memory.
That delightful soiling has stayed with me for over four decades.
Still, things were complicated then, even criminal to conduct
myself as a cock-loving sensualist. Instead of following desire, I
married and tried to live the life I always assumed was right.

It didn't last.

The version I wrote about the next time I decided I wanted a man is
accurate, and followed a decade in which I tried to do whatever the
right thing was. I slowly found the memories of being penetrated
and submitting to a man emerging from the crevasses of memory. I
allowed myself to remember, and attempted to figure out how to
advertise for a sexual partner who could take me to that amazing
place in space and time. It was a new sensation, erotic but
harmless. Or so I thought. I got closer and closer to the
memories, actually going to meet some of the men who answered my
innocent but honest ads. As months passed, I found myself daring to
actually meet men for a couple sordid and unfulfilling encounters.
I could quote the story I wrote about it, but that is a work
complete. I found a man who was assertive and confident and had no
problem putting his spectacular manhood deep in my mouth,
dominating me to the core. It was so good and hit my submissive
buttons so thoroughly that we stayed regula lovers for nearly five
years.

I mentioned the amazing shape of his cock, and I wanted it buried
deep inside me. Although we tried a few times, he was just too big
to penetrate me. We settled on kissing and then him placing that
amazing cock on my lips. I would take him deep until he shot his
warm slightly acrid seed over my tongue and down my throat. In the
end, we drifted apart due to his retirement and decision to move to
the beach. I kissed his dick as I looked in his eyes before we
parted.

That relationship- it was one- was part of the process that lead to
an ugly divorce. I had finally failed at something in my life, and
in a strange way it also set me free to cast my eyes about, though
I still was unwilling to let it go and come out of the closet. I
still had business to do and wanted to avoid a public spectacle.
Ego, I suppose, and the paradoxical desire to maintain my dignity
and still find a man to penetrate me and make me his own.

That was a time of exploration, like the workman who let me blow
him in the cab of his truck. He let me clean him up with my tongue,
then zipped up and told me to get out. He drove away without
another word. I watched him go and tasted his seed left in my
mouth. Erotic.

That was the weird part. Newly single, I started to go to the only
gay bar on my side of the river, and I enjoyed the new sensation of
flirting with men in the open. I did a fair amount of cruising
around, low key, but eager to find someone I could offer myself to.
I don't remember at this late date how I encountered Robert. It
might have been through a well-crafted ad on the local gay site,
accompanied by the usual slightly awkward initial meeting and all
the rest of the things that go with offering the most intimate part
of yourself to someone you don't actually know.

I do remember our first kiss, in the living room of his nice condo
in the southeast part of town, and that there was no rush involved.
What he was looking for was a partner in a continuing psexual
adventure, someone to actually love, rather than a hurried
anonymous coupling in the back of a car. I found those times wildly
exciting, even if it just involved me sucking off a guy I didn't
know but who had the need upon him. Submitting to that was
electrifying, but the aftermath of swallowing his spontaneous seed
carried a risk.

With Robert it was different. There was no urgency in fishing out
our genitals, but something much more erotic and captivating. The
possibility that this distinguished man might wake, and take me as
part of his morning. We made a date for our next encounter, not a
weekend hence, but in a couple days, and seasoned with the new
advantage of confidence. We now knew we were both professionals in
our trades, both well-spoken and intelligent, though his eyes held
something more that made me want to please his desire.

He was a little older than I was, white, and retired as a professor
and director of stage arts at the local African-American college.
Many of my furtive encounters had been with men of color, not by
choice but by availability. By then I had been with perhaps a dozen
men, all but two of them tops. Some liked to rub in my
subservience, others were nicer but just as happy to be in control.

The realization that those two other men seeking submission was
interesting. That was awkward, since we seemed to want the same
thing, and I could barely get hard. These were men like me, men who
preferred to be fucked than being the driving force of the
encounter. That was about to change.

Robert was a nice man, a top, I thought from the way he caressed my
back after that first kiss, and I decided I wanted to make love
with him soon. Give myself to him. It had been so long, and Rick
had preferred to feed me his cock through my mouth and down
my gullet rather than the fulfilling delight of piston thrusting
into my whole body, twirling my mind into wonton passion.

That came to pass. Given my most recent experience with a regular
partner, I assumed he would like me to fellate him, which he
enjoyed, but clearly wanted more, and that made me crazy with lust.
He liked to fuck, and he was an assertive top with fat an turgid
manhood. I knew I was now a confirmed bottom, and the feeling of
him stuffed completely within me, thrusting to his climax fully
inside was wonderful. We were together for two years, and we were
out as could be, with me being the boyfriend. I did keep my old
circles separate to avoid unnecessary gossip, but if he was
satisfying both of us with his libido, that was no longer anything
illegal or even discouraged about what had been a sin. His friends
became our friends, and there was nothing as nice as waking up with
him in the soft bed, teasing his morning wood, and then feel him
enter me fully, grinding me into his joy.

Like with Richard, we settled into a regular sexual pattern. I
still liked to suck him, but it was the exception to his taking me
missionary style, and spewing his seed into me, no condom required.
Once, down at the country place, I realized there was no lube.
There were kitchen products available, but I was a horrid tease. I
made him drive us to the Krogers in town to find some KY in order
to satisfy his desire to fuck me, and I enjoyed the side
interchange with the gal working the register at check out. KY, and
nothing else. The extra step in that love session made it that much
more special to have him fill me up.

It was nice to be gay and out, an unusual and liberating sensation.
I enjoyed it, and nothing of any ill consequence came from being
out on the town with my boyfriend, and acting just like a couple. I
think we ended over the marriage question. We were doing fine, but
I did not want that sudden burst of honesty that would come if I
made an announcement, or had to decide who to invite. That did not
seem as natural as bending face first with my dick buried in a
couple pillows on the bed and my ass high as he bred me, squealing
with delight.

Being single again caused more change. I saw women, though not
romantically, because I had a strange feeling of companionship with
them. In fact, sometimes I felt I had more in common with them than
I cared to admit publicly. The whole trans issue was starting to
raise its profile, and I sometimes found myself wishing I could
just be one of the girls I had so much in common with. I kept a low
profile for a while, and then the realization of what I was and
what I wanted was clear.

It was still the time of that other plague, and the
constant realization that what happened between men could end
badly. I tried to prevent my libido and lust from ruling my life,
and taking a bare-back trip to glory also came with peril. I did
what I could to be safe but you know how it is. Sometimes the need
overcame me, and I would gobble cock, or find myself doing
something intimate I knew was risky. And dirty. And humiliating in
the way that made me feel sublime.

That brings me to the other end of the spectrum, the last of it. I
am pretty sure I met Richard the Second at the gay bar- some banter
and flirtation led to an invitation to join me back at my place. It
was not urgent or strange, it was intriguing and highly erotic. I
was just nice, which seemed to be better than needy. He was an
architect, lean and a little taller than me. He followed me back to
my building and we parked in the lot. I walked with him to my door,
which I unlocked and urged him to enter with me behind him. That
was going to be the last time that worked for quite a while, since
what I wanted was for him to be atop me, bending me to his desire.

Once inside, I tried to be a good host. I made drinks and we sat on
the couch and we filled in some of the details that could not have
been heard in the tumult of the bar. I couldn't quite understand
his situation. He had a partner, but seemed to have an open
relationship with him. There were some health issues, not the ones
I feared, or so he said. I understood how awkward that was, and
after a brief discussion of projects, we slipped together in a kiss
that naturally transitioned to touching, and back to the bedroom
and quick disrobing. On the bed we explored each other with our
tongues, and had delicious long 69, face to crotch in delightful
mutual embrace. He had a nice firm cock, white, of course, and as I
tongued it, thought about color and taste. I just loved it, this
manifestation of adoration for the fleshy sword I hoped he would
bury in me. As we squirmed around on the bed, with our tongues
briefly free of genital entanglement, I asked him if he would mind
fucking me.

He was happy to do so, and thankfully it was his natural role of
triumphant manhood. He prepared me with elegance I adored. I lay on
my back watching him, legs bent at the knee and spread wide enough
to accommodate his hand as he squirted some gel on his fingers and
began to slowly work it into my ass. I had no condoms, so I asked
him to pull out when he was close to ejaculating, but also to fuck
me masterfully as long as he wanted. My need for him was vaster
than my aching dick. I wanted to be used by him, taken by him,
spewed on as he assumed the dominance I craved.

He smiled a thin smile that betrayed his understanding of my need
for him. He wiped his fingers on my thigh, and took his position
between my legs, taking his cock with two fingers and lowering to
my waiting bud. It was very erotic, and I had not been taken in
several months, so this was the height of desire. He seated himself
at my asshole and pressed. He popped my sphincter and the sudden
sharp pain made me gasp in anticipation. He continued his thrust
for a couple inches as my fingers grasped his butt, then let me
relax to take him fully in. It took only a moment, and as I slumped
in acceptance, he again began to stroke slowly and gently until his
dangling balls began to slap mine. He was deep in me, and I felt
the contentment of his hard fullness fully contained.

He stayed slow only until he was convinced I was ready for action,
and in short order he was churning me with passion. Resting on his
arms above me, I saw his satisfied smile of dominance and my eager
acceptance and gave me a few more hard strokes before withdrawing
and shooting his load on my face and chest.

I licked up what I could, and tried to get to his cock to clean him
up with my tongue, but he was too sensitive for my questing mouth,
and we wound up tangled in satisfaction. I wanted to clean his
softened shaft with my tongue, but he was still too sensitive. I
was a little disappointed- my lovers of color seemed to like my
cleaning services- but my bowels were shouting out their
satisfaction of a decent fucking. I buried my face in his armpit,
and licked the surface as the smell of his sweat made me a bit
giddy.

We rose and agreed to meet the next weekend, and I decided I would
visit the spa and get a full wax. I wanted to be smooth when he
made me submit to the urgency of his desire. It was wonderful.

That went on for a few dozen more encounters, and a steady routine
I loved. He would arrive and knock, and I would answer the door in
my silky kimono. We would exchange greetings and the events of the
week, and I would get us coffee. His disrobed slowly but carefully
and my kimono slipped to the floor. We had coffee as part of the
warm-up, and the taste of it on his lips and tongue were exciting.
At some point, ardor rising, I would half tumble from the couch to
my knees and lick him to arousal. Then I would stand and lead him
by hand back to the bedroom. We did not do a lot more foreplay
there. I always had condoms since we became regulars and he would
lube me up and elegantly unpackage the slick tube, carefully
rolling it down his cock. Then he efficiently drove himself into
me, and with just a touch of courtesy at the beginning, he would
fuck me silly until I felt his gorge rise from his balls and begin
to shoot deep inside me.

That was the last time. I don't know what happened- something must
have, either national or personal. I just dropped off the email and
closed the gmail account. I did not seek him out. I just felt I was
done with the whole thing. But man, what a great lover he was. And,
at the moment, the last.

I wrote about that encounter at the time and filed it away. Now I
can't find it. Damn. I wish I had the first and the last
encounters as a cocksucker and willing bitch boy. It was the best
sex of my life, and all the strange encounters in between. It was
so satisfying to be on the bottom where I belong and thrive on the
dominance and mastery of a good eager man.

Of course, if there is anyone out there that could use a proven
cocksucker and howling bottom, that could change. There is
something hypnotic about a man above me. A man in charge, who will
rock my world as I beg for him to pound me hard.

Are you interested? I don't mind if you prefer to be sucked or
like to deal out a good solid fuck. I am what I am, and that is to
be whatever you desire. I need to please you. The taste of your
seed makes me come alive. Feeling you spew your warm delicious
semen deep in me is a thing that fills me with submission to your
strength, and to moan your name in thankful joy. Drop a line.
Anyway you want, just so long as I get to swallow and think dirty
while you do me.

-       Any-Mouse