Party Bottom

Last week I was getting off the subway car at my work stop and there you were. Dressed up all nice in khaki slacks, a dress shirt and conservative tie that matched your outfit just right.

Our eyes locked a moment. Recognition. Then you turned your eyes down to the ground and hurried on.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I thought. “Dude can’t even say hello.”

I had to smile. “Party Bottom” was shy in public but at the sex parties where I first encountered him months ago he reminded me of a hungry kitten, mewling insistently for some dick.

“Ooh, Daddy, give me some of that big dick,” he would beg, following me around the hotel suite where the party was held. “When are you going to give me more?”

Party Bottom would hug me and get up on his tippy toes to kiss me on my chest, like a coquettish girl. But by then I had had enough. So he would move on to the next victim. Within minutes he was underneath some other top, getting slammed by a big dick and moaning so loud the whole room would gather to watch the show, guys pulling out their dicks to masturbate in appreciation of the scene.

Last month I was bored one evening and went to another sex party and there he was again. This time Party Bottom had latched on to a dark skinned, muscular top dude. I rounded a corner into the living room and there they were —  the dark skinned guy was fucking Party Bottom on the futon.

“Ahhh, ahhh, ahhhhh,” Party Bottom moaned loudly as the top slammed his thick dick into his brown bubble ass like a piston. The top was fucking Party Bottom from behind, bent over the armrest of the futon.

I sat on the other end of the futon and watched appreciately. My dick rose — it was hot to see Party Bottom get manhandled by a masculine dude.

Party Bottom is about 25 years old, small and slender. He has the hairless face of a middle schooler but is a freak. I’ve seen him take a lot of dick.

“Do you mind if I have some of your boy,” I asked the top.


So I slid on a condom, lubed up, and sliced into Party Bottom doggy style while he took the dark skinned dude’s dick in his mouth. He started moaning louder and his tone got higher and keener, sounding just like one of those blonde bimbos in porno films.

After awhile we stopped and the top invited me to continue fucking Party Bottom in the darkened, main bedroom, where the bulk of the party was going on. So I followed him in and we took turns banging Party Bottom as the other partygoers watched.

Later, I saw Party Bottom curled up on top’s lap, kissing him affectionately.

“Oh, I didn’t know y’all were a couple,” I said.

“No, we’re not. We just met tonight,” the top said, looking somewhat embarassed and bemused.

Party Bottom just smiled, looked up at me, and grabbed his “man” tighter. At the next party, he would find a new lover for the night.

So You Think This Shit is Easy…


So you think this shit is fun? You think this shit is easy? All the excitement of sex, the menagerie of asses and dicks, and threesomes and more. The lovers who cum and go and cum again.

Well, hell yeah. It has been. Why do you think I blog about it.

But sometimes I get so lonesome my heart feels as desolate and sterile as the deserts of Mars. I see my kids often but I still miss them. I second-guess myself. Did I do the right thing leaving the comfortable cover of the down-low world?

And somtimes I slide into a ravine of guilt. I tore my wife’s reality apart. Will I be forgiven? Would it have been better to stay and suppress myself for her.

“Immanuel, you are really doing well, I am proud of you,” a friend said to me today. “You are moving on.”

But sometimes, deep down inside, I don’t feel so confident and sure.

Part of the reason for that is this blog, which is a blessing and a curse. It lets get things off my chest, analyze myself and lick my writing chops. But it gives my lovers, including ones I want to get closer to, too much information on me. Even the Latino dude I date found out about it through a mutal friend and reads up on me.

I’m surprised he still wants to see me. But he urges me to continue to write to express my feelings and said he appreciates my honesty. However, a blog cannot express everything about the writer’s character.

Because strange as this may seem I’m ready for more. A lover that I could spend a day with, doing nothing. Someone I can build something with. Intimacy. I rarely if ever had this with my wife. Is it really real?

Now I feel like I tore my life apart to live my truth but now the scraps of my old existence are all around me, mixed with material I must use to build a new life.

My grandmother used to take scraps — old pieces of fabric, worn dresses and blankets — and fashioned them into beautiful, colorful quilts that expressed her love and creativity.

I am still tired from Los Angeles and I’m not sleeping well. I’m going to wake up tomorrow, take a  shower, and start figuring out how to make a quilt.