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The Playroom

MarcFor the last several months, I’ve been chatting on line with Marc in Palm Springs. He’s been interested in my writing. We’re exchanged stories of men we’re having sex with, but we haven’t talked about it. He’s close to my age, so we share fond memories of San Francisco.

After knowing him several months I looked at his profile and saw a photograph from Playgirl Magazine. I was 40 when I saw it and assumed he was straight.  We were faced with an unknown disease, and I idolized him as impossibly healthy and beautiful.  Seeing that picture twenty years later brought back feelings of wonder and a time when we needed a beautiful world.

I grew up feeling awkward and unlikeable. It never occurred to me that someone so untouchable would become my friend.  Yet at 66 he writes me every day.  Fate plays with us; sometimes I’m the lucky one.

toys and gags and things

Prologue: I’ve had a good run that includes enough leather (mine and two partners’) to open a store, vacuum pumps for most body parts, and dildos from large to OMG huge, slings, cock rings, ball stretchers, and tit clamps.  A line of floggers a yard long.

I started getting fucked on my back with legs pushed over my head and progressed to standing, hands and knees, with one leg on the side of the bed, to upside down (interesting). I’ve been an SM bottom and top. I tried water sports twice and catheters once. Gone from narrow to wide sounds in a matter of months.  I’m an excellent fisting top and bottom. In short, I’ve done it all, save hard drugs and knife play.

Today:  With the partner everyone would love to have, it’s back to basics. Back to me at twenty-eight experiencing the thrill of being consumed by passion as naked we took each other to ultimate heaven. Now, a man in a harness is not a turn on; he’s a reminder of old times but also the boyfriend who relied on leather to get hard (I exaggerate). Ten rings stretching balls no longer titillate, and when I remember something similar but less extreme, they are nothing at all, because the the rings deadened sensation. You can flog my back and balls, but now I’ll ask you to stop after a few minutes. OK, I’ll admit, I still go weak if you pinch my tits, and an experienced fist is still  the Universe’s finest gift, and profiles are now just read to see if the man has a whit of intelligence and ever better irony.

stretching a virgin

First: the best way to stretch a virgin hole is to start with a virgin who believes his hole can be stretched. If he’s not totally into it, it’s no fun for anyone. If you really want to get fisted start by becoming friends with your dildos. Once you’re comfortable enjoying your own hole find an experienced versatile fister, preferably one with medium or small hands to play with. It will take several sessions, but keep practicing. With one exception I’ve never opened someone for the first time on the first date. By going slow you’ll build trust in your top, and he’ll know your hole well enough to know when to push. He’ll also know when to pull back. In all your play let your top know what’s going on for you, both what’s working and what’s not. Fist fucking is not a contest.
If taking a fist is your sole objective on a date you’ll frustrate yourself. Absorb the energy of men you play with and what turns them on. Get comfortable with their touch, their smell and their attitude. Paying attention to how other bottoms respond is also a great way to learn how to enjoy a fist. If you are certain you want to take a fist let it happen when it happens. Be kind to your butt. It’s your friend not a bad boy that needs discipline. Also, be kind to the man topping you. Your mind has to trust both him and your body before it lets your muscles relax. That takes time and includes not just how well you know a top at a party or bar but something about the rest of his life like his friends or his history growing up. You want to become friends because then the ride is always more fun for both of you.
Advice to tops: If you’re playing with a virgin be sweet. Start with massage and kissing to relax him. Make the whole thing fun. The last thing a Newbee needs is someone telling him what to do because he’ll immediately feel inadequate if you do. There are no rules and no single way of fisting; it’s mostly chemistry. Chemistry develops through small talk, even pictures from your last trip or stories of strange relatives. Laugh at your silly mistakes. Make the bottom feel very special and not just another piece of weekend meat. You are playing with not just a man’s hole; you’re playing with his self confidence. You’re also probably playing with eighteen things you’ll never know about him.

Each of us sees ourselves as a sexual being differently, and no one fits a mold, so each of us comes to fisting with a unique profile. It’s important to honor that in a virgin. Once he’s comfortable with you, let him tell you what he wants either verbally or through his body language. Trust me; his body knows what it wants.

Never force it. We call fisting “ffun” because it’s all about having fun. Begin opening the bottom by teasing his butt muscles. Then with a steady hand allow him to slowly swallow your fist. If you’ve never fisted anyone, don’t even think about it with a virgin! All of the incredible tops I’ve had the pleasure of having inside me also know how to take a fist. Partners and husbands on the other hand can do whatever your relationship permits; if you trust each other you can both have fun exploring as giver and receiver.

In the end: Fisting is no sport for amateurs. Stretching a virgin hole requires a genuinely interested bottom and an experienced versatile top.


two men

TWO MEN, Northhamptonshire, 1921

Chuck Forester

If it weren’t for the horses, Jonathon would have stayed in the field and kept harvesting the wheat that was ripe and would not last long.  But the horses were dry and slowing down.  He couldn’t work them the two hours it would take to finish his field. He’d have return as the sun was setting.

Farming was hard work, farming, but with all the men returning from the war in Europe, there weren’t enough factory jobs to go around.  He had worked in London for two years during the war because his slight limp kept him out of the trenches.  “A condition unbefitting an officer of His Majesty’s Militia,” was printed on his papers after only a month in training camp.

Jonathon decided to follow the streambed back to Four Corners where we could take the path back to his cottage.  The streambed was cooler, the horses could drink, and the pace would be slow.  He left the wagon in the field.

Jonathon was knee-deep, the water rushing against his pants, when he heard music.   As he rounded a bend he could see a punt that had been pulled underneath a laurel tree by a gentleman wearing a shirt with no collar open to the waist.  A white jacket and a bright striped tie lay on the gunwales.  The man was half-reclined singing a Scottish tune.

Jonathon tipped his hat in deference to the gentleman and kept moving, expecting no greeting.

“Hello there young fellow. My name is Cyrus, and I am getting away from a very boring party of people wearing far too many clothes for a day like this.

Jonathon nodded and smiled at the man, still keeping his distance.  “It is a very hot day, sir.”

“Would some lemonade cool you down?  The kitchen packed me a basket of food and drink.  Then I added a bit of rum to the lemonade.  Would you share some with me?”

“I would like some, indeed, sir”

“Please do not call me sir.  You must call me Cyrus.”

“All right then, I will have some lemonade, Cyrus.  And I will not mind that you added rum to it.”

Cyrus pulled the basket from beneath the seat and stepped to flat bit of land above the bank.  He spread a cloth on the ground and pulled a bottle of lemonade from the basket. “Tie your horses and sit down,” he said.

Jonathon tied the horses to a low-hanging bough and rinsed his hands in the creek.  He took a handful of water and splashed it on his face as he pulled back his long, blond hair. Sunlight sparkled on the water in his beard.  He jumped the bank to stand over Cyrus as he opened the bottle.  Cyrus took a deep draught and held the bottle up to Jonathon.

“I have no glasses.  Drink.  Hope you don’t mind.”  Instinctively Jonathon looked at Cyrus’s mouth as if to see if there might be a problem drinking from the same long neck of the bottle.  But he was caught by Cyrus’s lips that were wet and full as Cyrus licked the bits of lemonade from his moustache.  He quickly looked away. “I do not mind at all.”

“Have as much as you want.  I still have rum if you run dry.”

“It is only proper to share,” said Jonathon as he lowered the bottle to Cyrus.  He noticed Cyrus looking at him the way the man had looked at him in the tube station one night and then took him back to his flat where they had had sex.  The man had him leave immediately after the sex.  That look now made Jonathon nervous, and he did not return it.

Cyrus looked up and smiled.  “Come on, sit down with me.”  Jonathon wanted nothing more than to sit with this man as he watched Cyrus’s strong hand pat the cloth next to him.  He looked back as if to check the horses, but he looked away because he was afraid.  Finally, he sat at a distance from Cyrus.   Cyrus’ hands reminded him of the strong hands of the Smithie his boss in London. They repaired axles on Army’s wagons that hauled troops and cargo to the coast.   One night after working late they had gone to the pub and drank mead to celebrate some festival Jonathon couldn’t remember and got quite drunk.  The two stumbled back to the Smithie’s workshop where an argument ensued.   The Smithie pushed Jonathon, and he pushed back. Jonathon and the Smithie grabbed each other and fell to the floor.  In their clumsy attempts to get the best of one another, they fell face to face.  They kissed suddenly and brutally.  Without any words they probed the other’s mouth.  They kept at it, rolling around, neither able nor willing to stop.

Jonathon was woozy but as ecstasy rose he stopped fighting back when the Smithie’s shirt was torn open exposing his chest covered with dark, curly hair.  Jonathon lay on a large work table at the side of the shop, pretending to be drunker than he was.  Without notice Jonathon’s arms were tied together and pulled above his head where the Smithie secured the rope to a ring on the table.  Jonathon tried to kick himself free but as he twisted he feared he would roll off the table and be worse off than he was.  When the Smithie covered his mouth again with his bearded mouth Jonathon went limp.  His feet were tied to the table.  And when he was splayed out, the Smithie mounted the table and lay on top of him, kissing him and caressing his face.

Jonathon did not remember everything that followed because he went into a trance.  He remembered having his shirt opened and severe pain on his nipples then something unlike anything he had known.  The man had slapped his chest hard, then gently rubbed his hand over the red-blond hair, then slapped again.  His nipples felt very thick as if standing at attention. The Smithie also slapped Jonathon in the crotch, lightly at first, then surprisingly hard.  He did it only three or four times, but Jonathon could see a hunger in his eyes that suggested he wanted to do more and harder.  When Jonathon nodded very slowly, the Smithie repeated the poundings. Jonathon also remembered, less clearly, being taken down from the table and held in the Smithie’s arms.

Shortly thereafter Jonathon moved back to the farm. He seldom thought about the Smithie because it was too good a thought to have when there was nothing he could do about it.  He had pushed the memory aside, although at times wondered what it might be like if he were the Smithie.

“You still with me?  Cyrus asked.  He had removed his shoes and opened the top of his pants and was lying back.

Jonathon responded, “I was somewhere else, excuse me.  I’m sorry.”

“And what are your dreams like, if I might ask.”

“They are nothing.  Just foolishness.”

Cyrus said, “There is not enough foolishness in the world.  I believe we should all be foolish and break laws.  The war is over.  If we don’t have to be so frugal with our tins and kerosene, so why be frugal with our imaginations?”

Jonathon answered, “I’m sure you are right.  But I am foolish, I’m afraid.”  He shifted to sit closer to Cyrus.  “Do you mind if I take off my boots and dry my feet?”

“Please.  I would take them off for you but I respect your privacy and confess to no training as a lackey.”

“You could take them off and you would still be a gentleman.”

Cyrus crouched over Jonathon’s legs and slowly unbuckled his boots.  He pulled them away at the top and shifted them back and forth before putting his wrist under the heel and pulling with his hands.  Jonathon watched the muscles tense as he pulled.  He watched the blood course in the thick veins on Cyrus’s arm.

“There,” Cyrus exclaimed, “Your feet are naked.  Do you like being naked?”

Jonathon caught himself before he spoke.  He wanted very much to be naked with this man, but he held his tongue.  “In the bath I suppose.  No reason to be naked otherwise, I should imagine.”

“Unless you are swimming.”

“I do not know how to swim.”  Jonathon smiled sheepishly.

“Then you must bathe in the stream.”

“If it is only bathing I will.”  Jonathon stood and removed his shirt.  He pulled the braces over his shoulders and let them fall to the side.  After brushing bits of chaff from his chest he stood in soft, worn cotton underpants that reached to his knees when his leggings fell to the ground.  Cyrus stood and let his pants fall, exposing starched shorts.  He asked, “Before you bathe, may I hold you?”

The two men embraced for some time.  Both could feel the strength of the other’s body, the heat.  They pulled their shirts over their heads and moved their chests together and stood joined skin to skin. When he was unable to hold back any longer Jonathon turned to put his face in front of Cyrus.  He looked into his eyes that looked back.  He moistened his lips with his tongue and while still looking into Cyrus’s eyes slowly he pressed his lips to Cyrus’.  Without effort he found his tongue slipping into Cyrus’ mouth.   By the time they fell to the ground, both men had kissed the entirely of the other’s body, taking turns and following one another.  First licking the neck, then caressing the chest with long, slow pulls of the tongue.  By the time they had reached each other’s cocks both were rigid within their confinements.  Crystals of liquid lay in their shorts just over their piss slits.  Constrained, their balls churned with excitement.  Jonathon’s skin felt as though a gentle electric current was running over it, and every part of his body was alive. They pivoted so that both could have at the other’s cock while his was slowly being swallowed.  In gentle rhythms they rocked back and forth, rolling over and over so that one was on top, then the other.

“I want to be inside the rest of you.”  Cyrus said as he pushed a shank of hair out of his face and smiled at Jonathon.  “Can I?  I will be gentle. ”

Jonathon lay down on his stomach, and Cyrus pulled his shorts down and off.  He made a pillow of them for Jonathon then covered his leaking cock with copious spit.

Cyrus had a thick cock that hurt as he entered.  But Cyrus moved slowly; and when he felt Jonathon relax, he began to pump his cock a little, then harder.  As Jonathon moaned Cyrus reached beneath him and slowly gripped his nipples.  He pulled them down as he arched his pelvis forward.  Again and again he fucked Jonathon’s ass with a slow easy rhythm as he held his nipples with his fingers. They lay back after a long time of being welded together and searched the clouds for the figures of gods.  “The god must be watching if they let us do this,” Cyrus said as he shielded his eyes with his hand.  They drank more lemonade and ate bits of a pear and some cheese. They walked down to the stream and splashed water on themselves and returned to their place on the creek bank.

Without notice, without words, Jonathon grabbed Cyrus by the shoulders and lowered him to the ground.  He slapped Cyrus’s chest gently, and when Cyrus moaned in response, he hit him again much harder.  He hit him several times, and each time Cyrus groaned and writhed. Jonathon lifted his hands above his head and clasped them.  Cyrus looked deeply into Jonathon’s eyes, asking if he could trust him.  Jonathon returned a look of love, direct and kind.  It was the same look Jonathon saw when he looked at himself in a mirror at those times when he’d remembered raptures with other men and wondered what it meant.

Cyrus reached up and kissed Jonathon deeply.  Jonathon pushed him back and began to twist his nipples.  Again, Cyrus replied with low moans.  Jonathon continued his pressure and moved in front of Cyrus.  He put his leg slowly between Cyrus’s thighs.  Cyrus’s leg slowly arched outward, and Jonathon moved his knee closer to his crotch.  With a quick but gentle push, he kneed Cyrus’ nuts.  He kneed him again harder, then harder still.  Each time Jonathan moved forward into the man and looked into his eyes.  Each time he saw a look of near wonder, a look of amazement, then Cyrus’s eyes rolled back and he moaned very deeply.  Jonathon collapsed on top of him.

“You can fuck my arse,” Cyrus said after catching his breath.

Jonathon was a man of some endowment, not thick but long and well formed and rigid with ecstasy.  He eagerly pulled Cyrus to his side, pulled one of his legs up toward his shoulder and pulled back his foreskin and slid his prick into an ass wet with anticipation. It was like nothing he knew.  Jonathon could not imagine his being anywhere except inside this man.  He felt he was touching him as completely and lovingly as he might touch an angel.  He was conveyed into Cyrus as though they were brothers and lovers or the same person.   They lay together front to back and rocked.  Even when they lay still their energy resonated.  It built as a locomotive builds speed, slowly, urgently, forcefully until the two men had reached a point of ecstasy that neither could contain.  As one they floated into a space of pure energy and soared above the landscape.  Volumes of pre-cum oozed from Cyrus’ cock, but he did not touch it.  The clear liquid was copious and flowed in dribbles. Cyrus lay breathing heavily, each exhale full of completion and each inhale full of anticipation.

Jonathon felt the climax rising.  His dick huge and celestial the hard shaft pulsed and pumped.  The sensation was so strong and unfamiliar that Jonathon reached down to keep from ejaculating.  His hand gripped Cyrus’ buttocks as he reached for his own dick, to stop the sensation.  Confused he inserted fingers in pursuit into Cyrus’s smooth slick muscle as he tried to get his prick.  Now he had to keep this man on his arms.   He wanted to hold this man for the rest of his life.   Jonathon released Cyrus who turned; they wrapped their arms around each other, smothering each other with kisses.  As they explored the other’s mouth both began to cum, in unison, their dicks pulsing   No thoughts, no words, no ideas, just essential release, enormous outpourings of love from one to the other and a deep and abiding gathering of one into the other.

This time when it was over and the men lay together they knew it was not over.  The sun hovered at the horizon, fat and orange as they dressed before walking to Jonathon’s cottage.  They slept that night tangled in each other’s arms. They woke with energy and a love that equaled the afternoons.

Jonathon and Cyrus spent many nights together in Jonathon’s cottage. Then Cyrus announced to his family that he would be leaving the estate to study in America, and they were to send him money each month.  He bought passages for both of them on a steamship bound from Glasgow to New York.  Jonathon and Cyrus eventually came to live in San Francisco.

the only one in town

Outpost, Montana,   1899  by Chuck Forester

Billy ran the livery stable taking care of  horses prospectors and cowboys brought into town.  He provided a fresh set of horses for stages when they got as far as what they called Outpost, maybe every month or so.  The town should have a proper name, everyone said, but it was just a collection of wooden buildings put up by a railroad that failed about the time the tracks got that far.  When the train never came, a few folks stayed and a few stranglers just sort of moved in, and nobody bothered to give it another name because there wasn’t anything except the wilderness beyond.  When there was talk of silver in mountains to the west, a few more folks, mostly men, showed up in Outpost.  Some moved on in search of fortunes, and others got drunk and never left.  Not much happened in Outpost.

Billy was big and lanky, a thirty-two year old who stood maybe 6’2” with dirty blond hair that fell to his shoulders.  He hauled firewood to town when he wasn’t working at the stables where he lived in the loft.  His body was strong with long hard muscles, and he liked it that way, and he liked working hard.  Without many folks in Outpost, his body was his best buddy.

On hot days Billy liked to stand naked under the water tower where he’d rigged a shower.  He watched himself in the back window of the stable, and he liked to look at himself and his muscles, especially at midday when the sun was directly overhead.  He liked his cock that hung long between his legs, sometimes pulling back the foreskin to see its pink head glow in the sunlight.  He liked to look at his crotch with its thick bush of dark blonde hair and low hanging balls; the hair extended down long bowed legs.

Sometimes Billy grabbed his balls and pulled. The dull pain made him feel good somehow.  It was like touching some set of electric muscles just beneath his skin.  He’d pull on his balls, and until they ached.  He found that when they started to throb he could slap ‘em, and that, too, felt good but in a different way; like the sting of a whip.  And once he slapped them, he wanted to slap them again.  With his powerful arms and long fingers he could make ‘em sting real good if he propped one leg up on a nail keg.

Billy would stand beneath the shower after he’d turned off the water and pull on his balls and watch in the window’s reflection.  He’d wait a second and watch, and then he’d slap ‘em again, checking the window’s reflection each time.  SLAP!  He’d do it again.  He’d watch as they sparkled in the sun from being wet, and they swung behind him and then settled low between his legs.  The more he slapped ‘em the more they’d sting and that got his dick hard; it bent in a smooth long arc down from his body as though wanting to enter the earth.  He tried to look at his face but his eyes always shut when he slapped hard.

Billy had a good-sized dick, he thought, and he liked watching it get stone hard, sticking out and throbbing.  The more he slapped his balls, the harder it got.  Then he would grab it.  If he’d been drinking he imaged it was being grabbed by a stranger who had just wandered into town and caught him showing off.  The stranger always grabbed his dick like he wanted to keep it warm and hard. He wondered what it would feel like it that stranger might lick it with his tongue.

When he looked at the the reflection he knew it was just him and his secret out back of the livery stable. He was he only one in town.  He looked at his body and ran his hand from his shoulder down across his nipples and grabbed his dick again.  Slowly, he pulled on it, for a minute pulling back the foreskin and tapping the head of his dick, then pinching it and sticking his little finger in his piss hole that tingled all the way up his dick.  His dick stayed nice and hard like it wanted more.  He grabbed his shaft hard and pulled it up against its natural direction, then he pulled it to one side, then to the other.  Again, it hurt at the base of his dick, but it hurt in a good way and kept his dick very, very hard.

Billy watched his wavy reflection in the window.  When he stood at one angle his torso looked longer, and at another angle his chest seemed even wider than it was.  When he stood sideways at the right spot, his arms bulged and glowed in the sunlight as they gripped his swollen dick.  He could make his dick look really big if he stood right.

Billy watched himself as he slowly massaged his dick, his forearms tensing as he twisted his little finger in his piss hole and slowly pumping his meat.  He pulled and stroked, massaging the head of his dick and finally when he couldn’t stand it any longer he threw his head back and pumped like the piston of a locomotive.  Billy’s head twisted from side to side and his body bucked as he slide his foreskin back and forth and pulled it slowly up to his finger in the head.  He kneaded his dick it as though pulling ecstasy from his body and down the tube in his dick to its head.  He kneaded it slowly, relishing every moment of its pleasure.  His body coiled as all sensation focused his crotch and then, like an arrow released from a tightly drawn bow, his crotch sprang forward and his cum flew in spurts across the muddy ground beneath him.  His were long spurts, each a big glob of cum, and three or four times he released long and sure spurts that blessed the earth.  They shot out of him with enough energy to travel to some place in his mind where men like him showed off their bodies and touched each other.

Billy turned to see himself panting in the window glass. A leering and gleeful smile emerged through the stubble on his face, and he shook his head as though he didn’t know why he liked doing it so much.

Billy wished he could watch himself when his body bucked and heaved and shot white stuff everywhere, but he could never stop those moments long enough to open his eyes.  He was too darn excited by the buzz that raced from the muscles of his ass to the tip of his dick that he never turned to look in the glass.  His eyes were always looking somewhere else: a place he called Paradise.  He figured what happened at that moment was only seen by God.


Billy watched himself as he caught his breath.  Then he rinsed off, and looking in the glass saw he was covered with a thousands tiny rainbows.  He stepped back and jumped up and down, watching the rainbows dissolve in the hot sun.




He walked back and forth in front of the glass looking at his body and still tumescent dick, sure he didn’t want to groom the horses or haul firewood for the Claybournes.  Sure he just wanted to stand there without any clothes and look at the mountains on the western horizon.  Someday he was going to cross them; and ride all the way to a place folks called San Francisco.  They said there was ships from all over the world, and lots of men who stayed up late.

The Problem with Gay Porno

I start with my prejudices.  I have three things I look for when I read erotica.  Does it get me hard?  Is it new? Do I want to finish it?  Sex is my sport, and I’ve read and written a lot of porno, but when there’s a hot throbbing tool on three of the first pages of a story, I know the ending and put it down.  The elements of a great erotica for me are facial hair, sweat, uncut and sincerity. I like boys as long as they’re having sex with a man for the first time in piss stained BVDs. I like men who sweat and fuck clumsily.

While most of us live pretty ordinary (and sometimes fabulous) lives that doesn’t mean our imaginations have to be stunted.  Our erotic literature should be infused with what excites us.

My first experience with pornography was seeing an advertisement for bikini underwear by Paar of Arizona in the back pages of Esquire magazine.  Wausau, Wisconsin in 1956 didn’t have much else.  Then a friend whose family moved to Utica gave me a copy o f Physique Pictoral the myriad posing straps and cartoon gladiators had me grabbing my jar of Vaseline.  Tom of Finland didn’t turn me on the first time because his members seemed too big. (remember I was in Wisconsin, a land lacking in fantasy).  After coming out I quickly became addicted to the Manhattan Review of Unnatural Acts aka Straight to Hell with stories of first sex, truckers at waysides, and the occasional sailor on leave. I’m sure Boyd McDonald added his touches to the stories, but some were original with all the terror and excitement of illegal sex. I got off reading about real men having real sex and knew I was real.

I served on a panel to judge gay male erotica for the Lambda Literary annual Lammy Awards. The submission that got my attention was a cartoon of men and sci-fi characters with enormous dicks, slippery holes and insatiable appetites.  Anyone who can draw the lips of an asshole gripping a fat dick gets my attention. It was something I’d never seen, and the artist knew his subjects from the inside. That combination surprised me, and I read all the stories intrigued, aroused and entertained.

Gay men know more about sex than most people and certainly know more about male sex than anyone because we do it well and often. We’re the experts.  Our erotica should evidence that.  And let pornography titillate with the boring stuff.

Great erotica must have flesh and sweat and sometimes the humor that comes from stupid things we do.  Made up stories are just made up stories.  A story where a man fumbles around trying pick up poppers with greasy hands is real, and I’m having sex with that character when I read it.  If he’s a perfectly crafted specimen dipping his furious rod in a humpy hole it’s something I’ve seen a million times in magazines.

Men have been fucking men since the first cave man spit on his dick and slid it into another caveman’s dirty ass.  I want to see stories of ancient Egyptians fisting with olive oil or Norsemen fucking with bear fat? I want to know not only the size of a man’s dick but a description of the favela where the hustler in Rio grew up or the country house in Sussex where the groomsman fucks the lord or vice versa.   As outsiders we have to work a little harder to create a body of great gay literature that acknowledges our sexual intelligence.   Our model should be the Henry Millers and D.H. Lawrences and Allen Ginsbergs who wrote stories with emotional meat as well as sex.  Gay erotica is more than just entertainment; it’s our chance to tell our stories honestly as the quintessential sexual beings we truly are, or am I just a pig?


fisting in san franisco

San Francisco’s fisting community has always had to rely on the kindness of friends as our venues came and went. The Catacombs was the first private space I knew; it was open every Saturday night in the basement of a beautiful Victorian on Twenty-First Street owned by two men who made us their family including birthday cakes at Two AM.  When one of the partners died the family of the other sold the house, and the party moved with limited participation twice before finally closing with a party where dildos, slings, floggers, beds, you name it were available at fire sale prices.  The first baths for fisters that I remember was the Barracks, and it burned to the ground after my second visit. The Hot House, my favorite, replaced it with a facility specifically designed for fisting with one sling in the round bay of the building with all of the curved windows covered in strips of mirror. Your butt never looked so good from so many different angles. There was a room where you might find a St. Andrews or stocks with plenty of eye hooks to tie someone up and enough space for flogging.  That was closed early in the epidemic by the owners who were concerned for the health of their patrons unlike other bathhouse owners who persisted even when they knew men were dying.  I know, because I staffed a meeting Mayor Feinstein called to speak with bath house owners.   With one exception they were the most venal men I had ever encountered.  For them the nightly receipts were paramount. and they could care less about patrons who were dying.

Another popular sex club for fisters was the South of the Slot built on shifting soil on Folsom Street, and I feared with all the Crisco in the carpets it might slip into the earth one night leaving only the small shed on the roof where we smoked dope and looked out at the night city.  Like the Handball Express it closed when bathhouses were prohibited, and we had no place to find other fisters and relied on TRUST magazine.  Then the Sling got started and later a red hanky night at the Jackhammer bar gave us places we could hang out and make dates and often close friends.  They were popular with fisters from out of town, so we locals had a continuing smorgasbord of men to play with.  The Sling continued as a work of love that barely broke even to make sure men had a safe place to perform, make love and fist each other silly.  Unfortunatetely places like that attracted men on Tina and while it may have brightened a few wide eyes it put an uncomfortable shadow on our pleasure and men stopped enjoying the space.

We are a tribe of generous brothers who take care of each other, in the sling and out with Thanksgiving dinners, New Years parties and the occasional party at someone’s place in the country.  Here, as elsewhere, we have relied on a few individuals like Carl and Jeff who did yeoman labors bringing us together for fisting parties and dinners.  Other men are putting together Hell Hole parties that may provide the community with a comfortable venue to grease up and slop around in each other’s buttholes.   I have not attended a Hell Hole party yet and reports have been mixed, but this is the kind of pulling together by the fisting community that had always been there providing us with communal space to be the well behaved perverts we are.  Like grasses, we keep showing up and making space for our play, and it’s never been about making money; it’s always been about having fun.  With the Internet we also have websites designed for fisters so sex these days making dates is like takeout which means we’re making dates at our desks, not standing around in smoky bars buying beer, and I did of years in Toad Hall and the Ambush.  You won’t see us in the press because we are not as visible as other fetish communities.  We have no contests, no sashes, and no coronations, and our photo ops would be unprintable. But we do have title holders, and they are the men who go home with a smile on their butt and those whose hands know they made another man happy.