Voyager

“I’m here” 

“ok one sec”

Two quick texts and some moments of anticipatory standing later, this guy opens the door. He’s shorter than I imagined from his photos. Clearly just as beefy under the hoodie and sweatpants. I can tell he’s not wearing underwear. 

A narrow hallway leading to a small square entry room with a bench I cannot imagine anyone sitting on for long. We made small talk about our days and he asked me if I wanted any iced tea, guiding me into the cramped kitchenette. He was quite excited about the tea. He had made it himself. Part of me did not like the idea of accepting the premixed drink. His offer seemed suspiciously eager but I did not stop him from pouring a glass. 

“Do you mind if it’s sweet?” he asked. I accepted, mistakenly assuming it was already sweetened. I watched him spoon light powder into the cold drink from a plastic container hand-labeled “Splenda.” A quick stir and it is handed to me. I take the only sip I will take. It is indeed too sweet.

There was a large duffle next to his bed. Heavy, aged, and crackled black leather. He had told me before that he was a housecleaner. Like most New Yorkers, however, he had a side hustle. I deduced this when he eagerly showed me the tools of his trade inside that bag. His other job involved high-profile men who valued discretion and had the money to pay hotel staff to take breaks early. I now know some of their familiar names, and I must say that they both are, and are not, surprising.

As we removed our clothes, I thought about why I was there. To be blunt, I was horny and curious. He was a guy who would message me on one of the apps while I was at work. He lived nearby. It was convenient enough to be easy. I could swing by on my way home from work and he seemed not to mind that I wouldn’t have time to shower. 

I was curious because he was not someone I typically interacted with in real life. He had an over-built and manicured porn body. Everything was thick, puffed, muscular, and succulent—a hyperbolic Tom of Finland stud incarnate. I was intrigued by the conquest of this hegemonic masculine physique. This exquisite, enticing, and somewhat frightening sexual object.

As an unmoored sexual voyager (and kinesthetic learner) in a world that deliberately withheld any kind of practical queer sexual education, I’ve had to learn the parameters of my sexuality through hands-on experimentation. Was this man something I was into? While no one is entitled to sex with anyone, I couldn’t resist the prospect of finding out what sex with this guy was like.

He was beastly. His body exposed now, he smelled deliberately unwashed. That vague realm of masculine filth and earthen sweetness. His formerly shaven body hair was now varying lengths of prickling growth. As I indulged with him, body to body, I was beginning to wonder if he was toying with corrupting my evident naivete. While laying on my back, I let him hold my mouth open as he extended his tongue and let a line of saliva descend into my mouth. 

Left unchecked by the heteronormative world, the queer sexual frontier truly can be about perverting anything and is ultimately limited by your corporeal physical capacity. Consider the act of fisting. How striking it is to imagine how, as a receiver, you could relax to open your ass that wide. Yet it is even more remarkable to consider what it is like to feel your sexual partner’s heartbeat around your hand, which is deep, deep inside them. 

He started to growl in my ear and tell me increasingly obscene things. One I didn’t quite catch. “Did you just say you once sucked off a dog?” I asked to clarify. 

He grinned, looking directly in my eyes. “I’m a dirty pig. I want to be filthy. I want you to shit on me.” Unambiguous as his words were, I remained unconvinced. Was this guy really such a freak or did he just get off on saying outrageous things to get a rise out of me? I inquired deeper. He told me he used to be more vanilla, but somewhere along his dark sexual journey, he had sex with someone who was into shit. It disgusted him intensely, but through some sexual magic, it also made him obsessed afterwards, as if kinks were communicable. 

Was this about to happen to me? Is this when I would discover the erotic potential of feces? I was certainly feeling disgust, but when does disgust become erotic? At least he was consistent in being utterly excessive. My desire and curiosity awaited a decision from the higher-ups in my brain.

I want to say this is where I made my exit, but I stayed. I want to say that I immediately declined the request for scat play, but I actually thought it out enough to imagine it. As someone familiar with anal sex between men, shit literally comes with the territory. A receiving bottom may douche proactively to clear yourself out. This act is more psychological insurance that allows you to relax easier into getting fucked, rather than a no-shit guarantee. If things do get messy, it is a courtesy to the bottom to be casual and nice about it, although usually it is a signal to stop and clean up. Deliberately embracing the shit was new territory for me however. I considered what it would be like to defecate on someone. Could I see myself doing anything more after that? 

I imagined in this moment what that would be like. I would maybe only do it in the bathroom perhaps, not here, not on the bed. As soon as I envisioned this scenario, I imagined the resulting smell. I wouldn’t want to touch him at that point, rather I would want to wipe everything about that shituation off of me and flee the scene as soon as possible. 

At this point, I was no longer hard, but still there in bed with this man. This encounter was still unresolved. I moved my hands between his legs and pressed my pointer finger into his shorn asshole. He moaned as I pressed inside him and at that moment he began to bear down with his abdominal muscles. I felt his pelvic muscles squeezing and pushing against my finger. I could also feel small bits of fecal matter. He was trying to push something out. I was both appalled and impressed by his gall. At this point though, I knew I didn’t want any new surprise to fall on my lap. When I removed my fingers, he asked me to put it in my mouth. I made a strange calculation: Sleight of hand. I tried to fake him out by licking my middle finger instead. 

“No, no,” he laughed, “do the dirty one.”

I eyed my corrupted finger. It was wet but didn’t have any visible detritus on it. But I knew what I had felt and I didn’t want to taste it. It was time to dispel the fantasy of open sexual borders. “Dude, no, I’m not into that.” 

He looked disappointed as I wiped my hand on his sheets and mentally changed gears to leave, making up some excuse that I was late to meet up with a friend. On my way out, I went to his bathroom to wash my hands. I looked at his toilet for a second and then left. ▩