I was 17 when the first door cracked open.

Eighteen in a rural North Carolina town where everyone knew everyone’s people, where gossip traveled faster than pickup trucks, and where any hint of queerness stuck like humidity. You learned early how to hide a stare, how to make interest look accidental.

Myspace, Adam4Adam, and BlackGayChat were the only ways to find men—half lifeline, half danger. My profile looked harmless, but my searches weren’t. Most nights I talked to men two counties away, too far to risk being seen.

Then I found him.

Twenty-one. Close enough to drive. A blurry mirror selfie in a trailer bathroom with a shower curtain printed in palm trees. Everything about him hinted a little rougher, a little older, a little more dangerous than any boy I’d grown up around. We talked online for weeks…coded messages, careful words, both of us acting like we weren’t circling something we already knew we wanted.

He asked if I was “clean”. If I could host. I couldn’t. Mama was home. Her boyfriend stayed on the recliner until he fell asleep with the TV too loud. Half my cousins lived within a mile radius. Hosting wasn’t an option for anyone in that town, not unless you were reckless or stupid.

So he offered to come pick me up.

I remember slipping downstairs that night. The house was dark except for the TV glow on Mama’s boyfriend’s face. I held my shoes in one hand, easing the side door shut behind me. The August air was thick enough to drink, frogs screaming so loud they almost covered the sound of my heartbeat.

His car sat at the end of the driveway, engine off, lights dimmed. When I opened the passenger door, the warm air smelled like cologne and weed. He didn’t say hi. Just looked me over—slow, steady, like he was taking inventory.

“You nervous?” he asked.

“No,” I said, even though it felt like my pulse was going to crack my ribs.

He laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that said he knew better.

We drove toward the county line, where the roads stretched long between soybean fields and half-lit churches. The windows were cracked, the night air rushing in, and for the first time in my life I felt the pull of something that wasn’t shame…something closer to hunger.

He parked behind an abandoned farm supply store, out of sight from the highway. The building was nothing but rusted siding and peeling paint, but in that moment it felt like the safest place in the world. No neighbors. No headlights. No way for rumors to grow legs.

He leaned back in his seat, legs spread, watching me like he was waiting to see if I’d hesitate.

“Come here,” he said.

My body moved before my mind caught up. I climbed across the console, straddling his thigh. His hands settled on my waist—big, warm, confident—holding me in place while his eyes traveled over my face like he was deciding what to do with me.

“You ever done this before?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Good,” he said, his voice dropping low. “I like being the first.”

Then he kissed me—hard, hungry, messy in the way you only kiss someone when you’ve been thinking about it for weeks. His tongue pushed into my mouth, claiming space I didn’t even know I had. I gasped, and he grabbed the back of my neck, deepening it until I melted into him completely.

His hands moved under my shirt. Rough and calloused palms. He touched like someone older, someone who knew exactly what they wanted and exactly how to take it. When he slid his hand down my waistband, my whole body jerked, breath catching in my throat.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Let me.”

I let him.

He shifted me gently, guiding me down between his legs, the console digging into my ribs as I slid lower. He didn’t force anything, just held my jaw, steady, patient, letting me take him into my mouth at my own pace. He tasted warm, faintly sweet, the kind of taste that stays with you long after. I was clumsy, unsure, but he kept one hand in my hair and the other on my shoulder, grounding me. Each time I tried again, he breathed out slow, showing me I was doing it right. The windows fogged harder, the air thick with heat and nerves, and for the first time in my life I felt wanted, chosen, guided instead of guessing in the dark.

Every step was new, electric, terrifying. The windows fogged. The car rocked. The night swallowed every sound we made except the ones too sharp to hide.

He didn’t fuck me that first night. He wanted to—but I wasn’t ready, and he didn’t push. Instead, he touched me slow and deep, kissed me until my lips hurt, guided my hand over him, whispered things I’d never heard from another man.

“You feel good.”

“I knew you’d be sweet.”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

When he came, he caught his breath against my neck, hand squeezing my hip like he was claiming it.

Afterward, we sat there in the dark, windows open, my head on his shoulder, the night alive around us. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to go back home, back to the silence of pretending.

He brushed his thumb along my jaw.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured. “But the good kind.”

I smiled, because no one had ever said that to me before.

When he dropped me off, he told me to wait until he drove away before going inside. “Town’s too small,” he said. “Someone’ll talk.”

He wasn’t wrong.

As the taillights disappeared down the road, I stood in the quiet Carolina dark, heart still pounding, body still buzzing from everything he’d done to me and everything he’d awakened. The crickets were screaming, the air thick with summer, and for the first time I felt the shape of a secret I wouldn’t be able to unlearn.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even romance. It was possibility…raw, unsteady, thrilling. A door cracked open in a town where most doors stayed locked tight.

I didn’t know where it would lead. I just knew I wanted more.

It was a hot August day in the summer of 1986 – and as I boarded the New York City subway that morning, I never dreamed I would be having sex with a porn star by day’s end.

I was a naïve 24-year-old, recently out and not that experienced sexually, heading home on a Brooklyn-bound train at the height of rush hour. Typical for a steamy summer day, the train was hot and loud and smelly -- and of course, crowded. It seemed dozens of people boarded with every stop, and just when you thought not another passenger would fit, several more managed to squeeze on.

And then I saw him. A young man so perfect, I thought, he was living proof that God must indeed exist: a 20-something twink with beautiful blond curly hair, piercing blue eyes, perfect skin, and a hunky compact body that fit perfectly underneath a snugly fitting t-shirt. I quickly thought: “What I wouldn’t give to stand close to him,” and before I knew it, my prayers were answered. The train quickly became so crowded that he was finally pressed up against me -- his shoulder pinned against my chest, the back of his hand pressed against my crotch. My dick quickly got hard inside my jeans – and I suddenly felt “exposed,” wondering what my fantasy-boy would do if he suddenly realized that he was the cause of the raging hard-on bulging inside my pants.

I remember thinking how happy I’d be if this moment lasted all the way to Brooklyn (hell – I wanted it to last the rest of my life). I longed to touch him, but I didn’t dare -- besides, the train was so packed that I could barely move my arm. I remember how incredible he smelled (was it cologne? Shampoo? Or maybe just the smell of sex?) All I knew is, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Yet he played it very cool, and just stared straight ahead, not looking at me for even a moment.

Finally, as we reached Times Square, something amazing happened. As the train emptied out, neither one of us moved, and his hand still lay firmly pressed against my crotch. He took this as permission to amp things up a notch. Slowly, discreetly, he began moving his index finger up and down the length of my dick, which was still bulging inside my jeans. He began to glance at me through the corner of his eye, and a mischievous smirk grew across his face. As the train raced downtown, we were suddenly playing this private, naughty little game, to which every other passenger on the train was completely oblivious.

“Talk to him, get his number,” I remember thinking to myself, but I was too overwhelmed to say a word. Suddenly, it was his stop. He exited and glanced over his shoulder, waiting for me to follow. I didn’t need too much prompting; there was no way I was letting my fantasy-boy get away. A minute later, we stood on the subway platform, engaging in small talk (“What’s going on? What are you up to? Do you live around here?”) and before I knew it, I was following him up to his place.

As we entered, I quickly realized this was no normal New York City apartment. The room was a wide-open space, with almost no furniture, except for a few large pieces of equipment – which I soon realized were film-editing machines.

As we stripped naked, and I embraced him from behind - my hard dick pressing against his butt - I noticed the room’s walls were covered with movie posters of hunky shirtless men. The editing machines all sported large screens, all parked on a movie’s still image. One was a close-up of a young man, who looked exactly like the boy I had just picked up. Then it dawned on me: it WAS him. This was no “normal” edit room. All these movies being edited were PORN films -- and my fantasy-boy was the star of at least one of them.

You’d think I would have stopped and asked him “What’s the hell’s going on here? Are you a freaking porn star?” But the sight of this gorgeous boy, now naked in my arms, was just so much, I could barely speak. “Fuck me,” he moaned. “I want that big fucking dick inside me.” As we fell to the floor, our naked bodies intertwined, he quickly spread his legs, and I remember suddenly feeling inadequate; this guy was clearly much more sexually experienced than I was, and it wouldn’t be long before he figured that out.

As I thrust myself into him, he moaned loudly – so much so that I nearly covered his mouth with my hand. I remember thinking: “Am I really that good? Do I really know how to fuck that well?” And then it hit me: were all these moans of his simply performative? Were they the same moans he had done for the camera just the day before? Was this really happening to me? It was all like an out of body experience -- like I was starring in my private little porn film -- an ultimate fantasy with a plot so far-fetched, nobody would ever believe it. Yet it was happening – and there I was: naked with a porn-star, and the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.

Minutes after we were done, he was on the phone, arranging his next appointment, and I was back on the subway, headed home – my head still spinning after my crazy afternoon tryst. I could still smell the scent of his cum on me – at first a lovely reminder of my insane encounter – until I suddenly felt “exposed” once again. People on the train seemed to be staring at me. Could they tell? (“I recognize that smell, you goddamn slut. It’s porn-star cum! You ain’t foolin’ nobody. Couldn’t you at least shower before you headed home…???”)

For years to come, whenever I rode a crowded train and a sexy man boarded, I fantasized about being pressed up against him, with him stroking my hard cock through my pants as no one else noticed. Maybe he’d invite up to his place for sex. It was a fantasy that played over and over inside my head for years -- like my own private little slutty movie -- hotter than any porn film I’ve ever seen, or probably ever will see -- even if I ride crowded subway cars every day for the rest of my life.

(Submitted by a subscriber of The Sapio Files.)

We’d been at this for over a decade. Not steady, not anything you could map on a calendar, but long enough that each time felt like both a reunion and a continuation. By then, the dorms were years behind us. The firehouse too. He had married twice, divorced twice, gained kids along the way. I had moved into work trips, new cities, new men. Yet no matter how life shifted, he found his way back to me.

Sometimes it was me flying in for a conference, finding a spare night. Sometimes it was him detouring during one of his side gigs, picking me up outside a hotel with that smirk that meant he was already hard. We didn’t need much planning. Just the pull. Just the knowledge that even after years apart, our bodies would fall back into the same rhythm like no time had passed.

Those meetings often happened in places that didn’t belong to either of us: a roadside spot he knew, an anonymous hotel, the quiet stretch of my room after a work dinner. And no matter where, he always started the same—on his back, legs spread, dick heavy across his stomach. “Get me hard,” he’d mutter, voice low, and I’d drop to my knees like it was the first time all over again. His balls still swung big and full, always the same weight in my mouth, always the same groan when I sucked them just right.

But when the sex slowed, when the room quieted, he’d let pieces slip.

“Wish we’d been roommates,” he said once, sprawled across a cheap hotel bed, still buried inside me, cum leaking warm between us. His voice was almost casual, like it was just a thought, but I knew better.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If we’d lived together back then…would’ve been different. Could’ve had you every night instead of sneaking around like kids.” His chest rose and fell, his hand dragging absently across my hip. “Wouldn’t have wasted all that time pretending.”

I didn’t answer right away. Because we both knew that wasn’t who he was then. Back in the dorms, he was still holding the line, still hiding behind girlfriends, still lacing up Timberlands like armor. Once I left town, he leaned harder into that straight life—marriages, kids, the version of himself that the world expected. He built it because he thought he had to. And maybe he still does.

But even through that, he kept coming back. To me. To what we had.

The sex never softened, even when the years piled up. He’d still feed me poppers, press the bottle to my nose while he slid himself deep inside, whispering things that only made sense in the dark. “Beg me for it.” “You want my babies.” “You’ll always be my boy.” And I’d take it all, stretched wide, moaning, hole sloppy from hours of being used. The mess was part of it—cum dripping out of me, sheets stained with lube, the raw proof that we had happened again.

But after, he lingered longer. Not just to fuck, but to remember. To remind me, maybe even himself, that this wasn’t just sex. That I wasn’t just another stop. His hand would rest on my thigh. His voice would drop. And every once in a while, he’d say it outright: “You’re my first boy. That don’t change.”

That mattered. More than the lace, the hotels, the years of sneaking. It mattered because I knew he meant it. I wasn’t just his first. I was the one he carried through all the other versions of his life. The one he kept circling back to, even when everything else looked different.

Now, looking back, I know we’ll never be what he imagined in those quiet confessions. I’ve always known that. We’ll never be roommates. We’ll never have the kind of life he hints at when the lights are low and the room smells like sweat and sex. He’ll keep moving through the world the way he always has—straight on the outside, complicated on the inside. And I’ll keep carrying these nights like proof.

What we had was never about permanence. It was about the charge, the claiming, the way he made me his even when he couldn’t say it out loud. It was about the first boy, and the only one he kept returning to.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because no matter how many times he walked out the door, no matter how many lives he built and tore down, he always came back. And when he did, he fucked me like he’d never left.

That’s what could’ve been. And that’s what was.

The first time he recorded us, it wasn’t announced. No “can I film this?”, just his thumb tapping the screen while his other hand pushed me flat into the mattress. The flash stayed off, but the soft click of the camera app let me know it was rolling while he slid himself inside, hips rolling slow at first, then harder until his balls smacked against me. You could hear everything…the wet slap, the breathy moans, his low growl in my ear:

“Look at me while I use you.”

I twisted to look back, and he kept the camera trained on my hole as he pushed deeper. When he finally came, he stayed buried and kept filming, grinding slow as his release leaked out around him. Later, the clip arrived on my phone with one word: mine.

After that, it wasn’t a question anymore. He’d prop his phone against a pillow or wedge it between a lamp and the headboard, the angle locked on my hole as he opened me up. Sometimes he’d hold the camera to provide his POV, move the phone closer mid-thrust, making sure every inch of him disappeared inside me. I’d be stretched to the limit, swallowing him down, the string of my thong or the torn edge of fishnets framing what he wanted to show. He’d whisper in my ear as he filmed: “Look at you. Perfect hole. Say it—say who you’re taking this for.”

“You Daddy…” I’d pant, trying to catch my breath, poppers buzzing in my head, body covered in goose bumps as he filled me.

Sometimes we pulled ski masks over our heads before we started—black fabric hiding our faces while everything else was exposed. It was practical at first, about keeping our identities safe, but soon it became part of the ritual. He’d tug the mask down over my eyes, muffling my breath, making me feel faceless, reduced to just a body for him to use on camera.

“Eyes up. Look at the camera. Show them what you are.”

It didn’t stop with his recordings. I started sending him mine, pictures and clips of other men inside me—outside, beds, bathrooms—different hands, different bodies. He never got jealous. If anything, it lit him up.

“That one’s good,” he’d Snap back.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Think he’d want to tag-team?”

We never did a threesome, but the question stayed in the air, heavy, like a door we both knew could open.

He used my clips like fuel. The next time we were together, he’d pull them up while I was on my knees, his dick still soft but heavy in my mouth.

“This guy,” he’d mutter, scrolling. “Bet he didn’t make you beg like I do.”

Then he’d grab my hair, tilt my head back, and feed me a hit of poppers while his other hand guided himself into my throat. I’d worship his balls first—suck them, lick them wet, kiss every inch until he groaned, voice rough. Only when he was rock hard would he shove me onto my stomach, pull my legs apart, and slide inside, the camera still rolling from the nightstand.

Sometimes he made me reenact the videos for him—same position, same angle, but with him giving orders.

“Arch your back. Hands behind you.

Spread wider. Let them see what a good slut looks like.

Tell me you’re ready for my nut.”

And I would, voice shaking, hole open for him, his balls smacking against me with every stroke. He’d press the poppers to my nose again, take a deep breath himself, then drive harder, his voice getting lower:

“Beg for it.

Beg me to breed you.

You want my babies? Say it.”

“Yes—yes, Daddy—breed me—make me your slut.”

He’d lean close so his voice was right in my ear but loud enough for the mic to catch:

“That’s right. Take every inch of my big dick. Show them you’re mine.”

Every photo, every video, whether it was his or mine, circled back to the same truth…he owned the story. Even when another man was inside me, I was still his first boy. He shaped the way I opened, the way I moved, even the way I documented myself. The clips weren’t trophies; they were a language only we spoke.

He’d text me sometimes at night with screenshots from old clips: me bent over, thong string pulled aside, hole slick and gaping; me blindfolded and on my knees; me on my back, his balls slapping against me as his hips ground slow. “Remember this?” he’d write. “This is who you are.”

And every time, it worked. It pulled me right back into the headspace he’d built for me. Even if I was in another city, another bed, another man’s hands on me, I was still his when he wanted me.

That’s what the videos show. Not just sex, but power. Not just a body, but a body trained to remember. Frame by frame, a decade’s worth of control, desire, and surrender.

The first time he visited me in my new city, I knew exactly how I wanted it to go. By then, years had passed since Craigslist ads and dorm beds. We’d already crossed into hotels, lace, fishnets, and piss. He’d told me he loved me once, and even though we never said it again, the weight of it lingered in everything we did after.

When his text came—I’m close—I was already in position. Face down, ass up, thong string pulled to the side so my hole was framed and waiting. The room smelled sharp with poppers I’d cracked open minutes before, head swimming, body buzzing with that dizzy anticipation only they bring. My chest pressed into the sheets, legs spread wide, every part of me begging before he even walked through the door.

He knocked once and came in without waiting. No more Timberlands. Age had shifted his style…now Jordans, sometimes gym shoes…but the presence was the same. He paused at the door, and I heard that low chuckle that always meant I’d given him exactly what he wanted.

“Good slut,” he said, closing the door behind him. His voice was low, satisfied. “Knew you’d be ready.”

He didn’t mount me right away. Instead, he stretched out on the bed, legs spread wide, dick hanging heavy between his thighs. He nodded toward me. “Get over here. Make it hard.”

I slid between his legs, my mouth watering just looking at him. I wrapped my lips around the head first, then sank lower, stroking with spit while my other hand cupped his balls. I kissed them, sucked them, licked them wet until he groaned. His balls were always big, full, hanging low like they carried more than any one man should. I worshipped them while my mouth worked his shaft, slurping until spit dripped down his length and onto his thighs.

“Take this,” he ordered, holding the small bottle of poppers under my nose. I inhaled deep, head spinning instantly. He brought it to his own face too, sniffing, eyes closing for a beat before he shoved me back onto the bed.

The blunt press of his dick pushed against me. No pause, no warning. Just that familiar stretch as he forced his way inside, my hole clutching around him, open and dripping in seconds. I always loved balls slapping against me with every thrust, echoing in the room.

“Beg me,” he growled, one hand pressing down on the back of my neck, the other gripping my hip so tight I knew it’d bruise.

“Please—fuck me—fill me up,” I gasped, face buried in the pillow, ass taking every stroke.

“You want my nut?” he pressed, hips pounding harder.

“Yes—give it to me—please,” I moaned, voice breaking.

He didn’t just want me to ask—he wanted me to plead. “Beg for my babies,” he growled, and I did, voice shaking, desperate to feel him shoot deep enough to keep me leaking till morning.

He leaned down, lips at my ear. “You want me to get you pregnant? Put a baby in that pussy? Give us pretty babies?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I cried, body clenching around him, dizzy from poppers and the stretch of him pounding me deep. “Breed me, please…make me your slut.”

He fucked me harder at that, each thrust driving me deeper into the mattress. My moans turned desperate, every sound bouncing off the walls. His dick stroked me, grinding against every inch of my insides like he was determined to carve himself into me forever.

“You love it,” he growled. “Love being nothing but a hole for me.”

“Yes—yes, Daddy—I’m your good slut,” I begged, spit leaking from my mouth onto the sheets.

Hours blurred. We fucked on the bed, against the wall, on the floor when he yanked me down mid-thrust. He’d feed me another hit of poppers, take one himself, then pound me harder, my hole wide open, dripping, taking him again and again. He’d tilt my head back, spit into my mouth, then shove himself deeper inside like the spit was permission.

When he finally slowed, it wasn’t because he was finished. It was because he wanted to remind me. He held himself deep, grinding slow, balls pressed flush against me.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“I’m your boy,” I panted.

“No,” he growled. “Say it right.”

“I’m your cumslut,” I moaned. “You own me. This hole is yours.”

“That’s right,” he said, before finally letting go—shooting deep, filling me up with hot, thick nut until it spilled out around his dick. He stayed buried inside, grinding, making sure every drop was in me.

When we collapsed, he didn’t rush to leave like before. He stayed the night. His arm wrapped around my waist, chest pressed against my back, his breath slow and steady. His dick softened but never left me, his nut leaking out in lazy drips.

I lay awake long after, sore and stretched, his weight pinning me, the city humming outside the window while inside I was nothing but his used-up slut. And for the first time, I didn’t just feel fucked…I felt claimed.

That night wasn’t just another reunion. It was a seal, a promise, a reminder that no matter where I moved, no matter how far, he’d always come back to open me up and leave me dripping with his babies that never would be.

I was his first boy. And I was still his.

It started with a question. Not a demand, not even in person, just a late-night message after one of our usual hookups:

“Would you ever wear something for me?”

The words hung on the screen. I stared at them for a while, thumb hovering, but I knew exactly what he meant by ‘something’. I’d never worn anything like that for a man. Never thought of myself that way. But the way he asked—casual, confident, like he already knew I’d say yes—left no room for hesitation. I typed back: “Yeah. Tell me what?”

The first thing he asked for was a thong. Just a simple, black thong. “Get one that barely covers you,” he wrote. “Show me you can take an order.”

I remember the first night I wore it. I’d bought it that afternoon at the local gay book/sex store, hiding it at the bottom of my bag like it was contraband. In my dorm room, I slipped it on before he arrived, heart hammering, palms slick. The thin fabric cut across my hips, the string running tight between my cheeks, just enough to cover my hole. I felt ridiculous and powerful at the same time.

When he walked in, his eyes dropped immediately. He didn’t say a word. He just sat down on my bed and spread his knees. “Come here,” he said. “Let me see.”

I knelt in front of him, waiting for his reaction. The string of the thong cut perfectly across my hole, teasing and hiding all at once. He didn’t bother to take it off. He just hooked a finger around the strap and pulled it aside, tongue diving in, eating me out while the thin band snapped back against my skin.

Every time he buried his face deeper, the string dragged across my ass. He gripped my thighs, spread me wider, and whispered against me, “good girl… just like that…” His breath was hot, words low and rough. My body trembled, but I stayed still. I wanted him to see I could follow orders. That I was proud of it.

When he finally slid inside me, he left the thong where it was. His thrusts pushed the fabric tighter, while his balls slapped wet and heavy against my ass. The sound was obscene, flesh and fabric and breath all blending together. Every stroke blurred the lines between pain and pleasure, possession and pride.

That was before I moved.

After I left town, things got sharper, heavier. The distance gave him time to think more about his fantasies. When I came back to visit him, he didn’t just ask for thongs anymore. He started picking things out for me. Screenshots and links were sent in the middle of the night: fishnet bodysuits, lace panties, and micro-skirts that barely qualified as clothing. Sometimes he’d call it “sissy” gear. It wasn’t mocking. It was him saying, this is what I want you in when I use you.

He handed me a bag when I walked into the hotel during a trip back. Inside: black lace, soft and sheer, and a pair of fishnets so tight they looked like a spiderweb.

“Put it on,” he said.

I stripped, hands shaking a little, and pulled the lace over my body. It stretched across my chest, down my stomach, hugging me like a second skin. The fishnets clung to my legs, cutting little diamond shapes into my thighs. When I stepped out, his eyes burned. He didn’t look disgusted. He looked proud.

“Spin around,” he said. “Let me see you.”

I turned slowly, the hem of the lace brushing my thighs, the fishnets clinging tighter. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice gone low and thick. “Now bend over.”

I bent at the waist, palms flat on the bed, the edge of the mattress biting into my thighs. He came up behind me and buried his face in my hole through the diamond gap in the fishnet that lined up perfectly, tongue pushing past the fabric until I moaned. His fingers clamped down on my thighs, the nets digging into my skin where he gripped me. Then I heard it: a sharp tear.

He hooked his fingers into the fabric and ripped it open, shredding a hole right where he wanted me. The sound alone made my stomach flip. In seconds, the fishnets were gaping, my hole framed by jagged strands. He didn’t hesitate, his tongue pressed in deeper, not being inhibited by the fishnets, slow and deep. After he had satisfied his taste, he stood up, lining himself against me. He rubbed the head of his dick on my hole to let me feel all the precum that was dripping out, and then started to slide in.

He liked to stretch it out. Make me hold the position. Make me feel every inch. His voice would go low and rough in my ear, “Take it. That’s it. Such a good girl.” The words sank as deep as the dick did.

Each visit after that, the requests escalated. A skirt so short it rode up when I breathed. A bodysuit that left my back bare and my hole framed like a target. “Get this,” he’d text, attaching a link. “Wear it next time.”

And I would. Because I wanted to. Because wearing what he picked made him proud, and his pride was its own kind of reward. When I slipped into lace, I felt it too…sexy in a way I never had before. Not just dressed up, but desired, chosen, his. His eyes would darken when he saw me in what he’d ordered, and that look alone was worth it.

By then, I understood the clothes weren’t just about a look. They were about control. Proof that I’d take whatever role he gave me, wear whatever he wanted, bend however he said. The lace, the fishnets, the skirts…they weren’t costumes. They were declarations.

And every time I put them on, he made sure I understood what it meant:

I was his to dress.

His to use.

His to claim.

October 2008

[Song playing from cars on the streets of Chicago]

Dear Diary,

I can hardly believe it. I left DC to volunteer at Obama HQ in Chicago for 10 weeks to elect the first Black president of the United States! Eek! I’m so blessed to be here and, let me just say: Chicago has really blessed me with all these fine ass men walking around!

I’ve got a funny little tale to tell about one such fine ass Chitown boo named Shawn. Tall, mocha brown, funny man I met through my friend who lives on the Southside. She invited me to her work happy hour, and when I ended up talking to her boss, he made me laugh so hard that at the same time I took a sip of my drink, I snorted it through my nose. Not a sexy move, but an authentic one. He asked me out on a date, and I obliged. He introduced me to old-fashioneds, explained why sophisticated people order steak medium-rare, and told me he was going through a divorce, even though he was still wearing his wedding ring. Suspect, for sure. But whatever, I’m in Chicago for a good time, not a long time.

Fast forward a few weeks, and the man has been coming on strong. Calls every day, texts every night, and makes me feel like I’m starring in my own grown and sexy rom-com. When we’re out together, he opens doors, orders for me, says all the right things at all the right moments. For once, I thought this one might actually be different. Chicago men might be built better than those dusty D.C. dudes.

Then came the night that changed all that.

Shawn said he wanted to take me somewhere special. “Somewhere just for us,” he said. His tone was smooth, low, promising.

The anticipation inspired an outfit costing more than my rent: a silky low-cut Black dress, suede high heels with an ankle bow by a designer whose name I can’t pronounce, perfume that naughtily whispers “fuck me”, and a lace underwear set for the gods.

He picked me up in his luxury vehicle, looking as fine as ever. Confident, cologne drawing me closer in, smile doing overtime. We drove away from downtown, the lights thinning out, the streets getting quieter. I asked where we were going. He just grinned and said, “You’ll see.”

And oh, I saw.

We pulled into a motel. Not a boutique hotel. Not a charming little inn. A motel. One of those places with a flickering neon sign where the “Vacancy” light hums louder than your intuition.

My heart dropped to my knees. I thought he was stopping for directions or to make a call, but then he parked. And turned off the car.

I wanted to say something. I should’ve said something. But then he reached over, took my hand, and smiled that same smooth smile from when I first met him, the one that had me thinking maybe I’d finally found a grown man who got it.

Inside, the room was a time capsule from the 1980s. Red velvet curtains. Cigarette burns on the carpet. A mirror on the ceiling that has probably seen too much. And then, the pièce de résistance, a heart-shaped bed with satin sheets and a coin slot on the nightstand.

He opened a twist-top bottle of cheap champagne and put some money in the slot to make the bed start humming like a clothes dryer.

I sat on the edge, trying to keep a straight face while thinking about what had led me to this vibrating monument of bad judgment.

Shawn, unbothered, started unbuttoning his shirt, grinning like a man in a music video no one asked for. I’ll admit, it was working. For a hot minute. Until he unzipped his pants.

Red.

Thong.

Underwear.

I blinked. Blinked again. Because surely, this was a joke. Surely, he was doing performance art. But no. He was standing there, like this was the big romantic gesture he’d been hyping up all week.

“Do you like it?” he asked, flexing his dick in the thong just a little bit.

All I could do was take another long sip of that bad champagne.

I was too stunned, too deep into curiosity, and too entertained to exit stage left.

We ended up making all sorts of kinky decisions on that ridiculous red bed.

A beautiful Chitown Black man with charm, intellect, and Obama-era swag with a proclivity for thongs and pay-by-the-hour motels. Isn’t life grand?

[Song that played at the speakeasy]

Dear Diary,

He looked up from staring straight at my breasts and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

That’s when it hit me. I was sitting there in my brand-new $168 dress, $100 hair-do, $50 in fresh MAC makeup, $40 mani-pedi, $15 cab ride, and hours of prep for this date that turned out to be an expensive lesson.

Back in 2006, when I first met him, he gave off that whole “renaissance man” vibe. Confident but not too cocky, well-traveled, sharp, funny. The type of man who could make you feel like you’d leveled up just by being near him. I was intrigued.

Fast forward to this year. I get this random GChat message out of nowhere. “You? Online dating? No way you need that.” I laughed. He was referencing my GChat status that read: “Dating apps are the absolute worst.” Same old smooth talker. We started chatting again, casual, harmless, slightly flirty. I mentioned I was working on my grad school statement, and he offered to help. Given his whole Yale-Rhodes Scholarship-world-traveler-author résumé, I figured, why not? He actually made the statement better, so when he said he’d be in town for business, it felt like a nice full-circle moment. I said yes to drinks.

We met at this new speakeasy uptown that needed a password to get in. Cozy place, dim lights, real moody. I looked amazing. He looked… okay. Maybe a 7 on a generous day. Gaps across multiple teeth, hairline fighting for its life, and this smug grin that told me his ego had been eating protein and working out since the last time I saw him.

Ten minutes in, I wanted to leave. Every conversation turned sexual. I asked him about his career. He told me about his “wild time” in Brazil. I wanted to talk about going to grad school. He brought up our “chemistry.” I said I was struggling to make new friends. He asked if I’d at least been getting laid. He bragged about flying his exes out for “casual fun.” I just kept sipping my drink and counting down to the moment I could leave without it being awkward.

Then he switched gears. “So,” he said, “You went to Chicago to work for the Obama campaign. Did you ever get to meet him?” I said no, already bracing myself for the flex I knew was coming. Sure enough, he smirked. “I mean, my father hosted a fundraiser for him. So, yeah, I’ve met him a few times.”

I nearly rolled my eyes right out of my head. He was dripping in arrogance, thinking that would make my pussy drip. I realized right then that this man didn’t want a date. He wanted to collect another pussy stamp on his little global conquest card.

But he didn’t know who he was dealing with.

Years in this city will teach you plenty about men who look good on paper, but ain’t shit in real life. I’ve dated them all: the broke dreamers, the fake hipsters, the self-proclaimed rebels, the wannabe intellectuals. I thought this one would finally be someone on my level. Turns out, the only thing he had more of than passport stamps was ego.

Somewhere between his bragging about sleeping with women all over Latin America during his gap year and explaining “levels of prestige” in the legal world, I realized something. He wasn’t testing me. I was testing myself, seeing if I’d still fall for the same type of man who mistakes arrogance for depth.

The old me probably would’ve. But not tonight.

I leaned back, looked at him in those self-satisfied blue eyes, and said, “Thanks for the drink. I’m gonna head home.”

It wasn’t just self-control. It was growth. I know what I’m worth. No degree, no passport, no Yale pedigree can compete with that.

[Song on her childhood boombox radio as she journals]

December 2005

Dear Diary,

Good ol’ home for the holidays. This is the first Christmas holiday as a fully fledged adult working woman, and it’s been fun commiserating with all my high school friends who are back home too, especially [redacted]. I mean, I’ve loved him since I laid my eyes on him when I joined the school newspaper as a writer in 9th grade, and he was a contributor too. I just couldn’t wait to have some one-on-one time.

After we graduated from college, we began to get a little closer (a.k.a. making out). To be honest, I was so excited at the possibility of falling in love with one of my best friends. Well, I remember calling him one day, soon after we had begun sharing more intimate moments, and I wanted to really see him again. He expressed to me he was “broke” and couldn’t take me anywhere nice. So, in an attempt to be accommodating and to find a way to see him again, I decided that a cute lunch date at his house would suffice. I could cook something cheap, like pasta, with a side salad, and we could just relax and talk at his house. Besides, I was a friend from way back that he didn’t need to impress. He liked that idea and actually offered to buy the necessary groceries for the meal, which would include the following:

1. spaghetti pasta

2. ground turkey (tryna be healthy, ha!)

3. onion

4. lettuce

5. tomato

Yep. That’s it. He already had olive oil, spaghetti sauce, salad dressing, and any spice that I would need to make the meal. So, I just knew that we would meet in two days. I couldn’t wait!

The following day, I called him to confirm what time we would be meeting, and the following conversation transpired:

“Hello,” he answered.

“Hey there! How are you?”

“I’m pretty good. How are you?”

“I’m doing alright. I just wanted to call and find out what time you wanted to meet tomorrow,” I said, trying to suppress the excitement in my voice to keep it cool as if I didn’t really give a fuck.

“Didn’t you get my text message earlier?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh. Well, we are going to have to make it for Thursday instead of tomorrow.”

“Oh, really? Um, I think I can do that, but why can’t we meet tomorrow?”

“Aw, man. Well, my Mom came home today and dropped a bomb on me, man.”

“What happened?” I asked with concern.

“Well, she said that she’s not going to the grocery store today. She’s going tomorrow instead. So, we are going to have to wait ‘til Thursday.”

I paused and tried to understand what he was saying. “Um. Wait. I don’t get it. Why can’t you go to the grocery store by yourself?”

“Because if I go with my Mom, the food will be FREE!” he said with genuine elation.

Yes. That was the conversation. I couldn’t believe that he had the gall and audacity to tell me that. No embarrassment, no shame, no hemming and hawing, as Mom would say. In my mind, I thought, are you telling me that you couldn’t even buy a few items at the grocery store that would have been the equivalent of maybe $8? Damn! You a broke ass bitch!

I still went over to his momma’s house on Thursday. Ha! But his broke ass made my pussy dry up, so that holiday make-out session stayed a fantasy.

Part of sexual exploration is examining where you fall in the BDSM and Kink Universe. With so many genres and sub-genres, that placement can be hard to pinpoint and even harder to describe to others, but being able to do so is crucial to finding the right partner(s).

A kink assessment is used to understand an individual’s sexual interests, boundaries, and practices, similar to how one might assess their personality or other aspects of their life.

The internet is littered with various BDSM and kink surveys designed to help you articulate what makes you hot and what doesn't. We took five different surveys and our initial intention was the rank all five of them here. But after we took the surveys, it was quickly obvious that we could only recommend two of them.

There are definitely pros and cons to each of the recommended assessments, but generally speaking, we found them to hold significant value — it mostly depends on how much time and investment you’re willing to put into exploring your kinks.

One caveat: With so many high-quality, free options available, we didn’t even bother to take surveys that cost money — that just left us limp.

BDSM Test

This survey bills itself as the “original BDSM and Kink Test,” and while we can’t confirm that, we can attest to the thoroughness and accuracy of the tool. This test offers two versions: a shorter one for folks who are just mildly interested, and a longer one for people who want an in-depth assessment. We liked that the survey collects enough basic information to hone the results — age, orientation, and experience matter when determining your current kink score. And we absolutely love the six different options for gender, and that the tool is available in seven different languages. Inclusion matters.

The test presents a series of statements and gives seven response options on a traditional Likert scale. The first statement is simple and straightforward: “I like to be dominated, especially in the bedroom.” Response options range from “absolutely agree” to “absolutely disagree.” And true to form for assessments like these, a variation of that statement is asked a number of additional times.

At the end of the survey, you’re given your percentage score on how firmly you identified with various BDSM/kink personas. The higher the score, the higher your affinity. As with sexual orientation, sexual kinks are a variance — not a fixed point — so the percentages are a perfect way to express this.

Here’s an example of the test results:

As you can see from the results, you are allowed to gain “more info” about what each outcome means for you. The thoroughness of the assessment is great and it’s fun throughout — no trigger or trauma warning needed. (More on that later.)

The BDSM Test remains the best free, online tool we have tested and we highly recommend it for diverse audiences (cis, trans, queer, hetero, sides).

Kink Sheet

If spreadsheets get you moist or you have a nerd fetish — Kink Sheet might be your hub. We were surprised at how much we appreciated the approach to this simple kink assessment.

Via a variety of categories (intimacy, domination, fluids, etc.) you essentially mark an affinity for certain activities through a simple red-yellow-green mechanism. In most categories, you will be asked to give a response from both the assertive and submissive perspective. By default, this assessment is a spreadsheet, but you can also take it as a quiz and you can even customize the indicators to your interests.

The Kink Sheet feels as though it is uniquely designed for couples or sexual partners who literally want to articulate their likes. The genius of the tool is in its simplicity, and the ability to tone up or tone down the indicators mean that the assessment can be adapted for wide usage. We could easily see this spreadsheet as the perfect pre-assessment for a sex party or group encounter.

Unlike most kink assessments, you can see all the fields and all the upcoming questions as you complete this survey, which is an entirely different approach and allows the respondent to feel in control of the experience. We aren’t sure if this is a downside, but this tool is less about telling you what your kink is and more about having you articulate it for yourself.

The results will yield color-coded bubbles of your interests. Here’s a sample of what results will look like:

About the Other Assessments…

We also took the Big Kink Survey; the assessment at KinkTest.org; and the Kink Orientation Scale. These three were a mixed bag, and honestly, we wouldn’t recommend that you explore these in any real way.

Though you don’t have to share personally-identifying information, the Big Kink Survey feels the most like it’s in your personal business. And yes, that’s a weird critique when we are talking about what arouses you, but still. The assessment takes longer to complete — 30 to 40 minutes, and right off the bat it asks about political and social leanings, such as income and relationship status. The assessment also asks about sexual trauma and previous (unwanted) sexual experiences. We generally approach these sort of assessments from the perspective of someone willingly wanting to explore kink in a fun, free-wheeling way — so the lack of a trigger warning about the things being asked was unfortunate.

Kink Test is really just a watered-down version of the BDSM Test, but not nearly as good.

And the Kink Orientation Scale felt a bit unnecessarily high-brow; one of the first statements respondents are asked to weigh is “I am part of a sexual subculture.” That is an interesting opening to a kink assessment because everyone is clearly a part of one — even if they don’t realize it. To be fair, the assessment does allow a neutral response to the statement, but the rest of the survey doesn’t get much better. It’s just overly theoretical for its own sake, and crucially, it wasn’t fun to complete. The topic is sex, so boredom is the one emotion we can’t overlook.

What are your experiences with kink assessments? Let us know in the comments.

[Song playing at stroke of midnight]

January 2007

Dear Diary,

New Year’s Eve was a night of many firsts. First time going to a club on New Year’s Eve. First time going to a club alone. First time to have sex on New Year’s Eve.

Let me introduce you to Big Willy Style.

I met Big Willy Style much earlier last year at a bar in Bethesda, Maryland. He was my bartender, and I thoroughly enjoyed flirting with him. He was decent-looking, but that was not what made him attractive. He made me realize that in D.C., it doesn’t take much to impress a woman because the overwhelming majority of men put little effort into anything they do for women. The bare minimum is the order of the day. Well, he stepped it up a notch. We began to date, and he took me to nice restaurants and always let me (and my girls!) into the club FOR FREE! We were delighted with this arrangement. Again, a little goes a long way in this town.

We never went past kissing all year, and he never pressured me to do so. I appreciated that, of course. When New Year’s Eve rolled around, I knew I wanted to go somewhere fun with friends, but found myself alone once again since all my close friends went home for the holidays. Boo-hoo. So, I called Big Willy Style and decided to go to his club all by my lonesome. And I ended up having a lot more fun than I bargained for.

The night was great! People were out to have a good time. I talked to a lot of people, and Big Willy Style took care of me. Drinks were taken off the check, and food was taken care of. I couldn’t have asked for more except for my friends to be with me. At the stroke of midnight, we kissed the New Year in, and I remembered why he made me feel so great. Then he looked at me and said, “Come to my office.”

I followed him upstairs to his office, and as he closed the door behind him, he began almost violently to kiss me like my mouth was his favorite home-cooked meal. It was good. Really good. He held me so tightly like he wanted to swallow me whole. Then, he said, “I want to show you something.” He unzipped his pants and showed me his gigantic, thick, long, throbbing, out-of-this-world dick. I mean, my jaw dropped to the floor and I did not blink for at least 20 seconds. I couldn’t believe it. It was so…pretty. I never knew a dick could be such a thing. I was in love. If I were an animation, I’d have hearts for eyes and stars above my head. He saw the look of amazement on my face and smiled. I could’ve devoured him then, but he had to go back to work. Then I said, “When you get off tonight, call me.” And the rest is history. I literally brought in the New Year with a “bang.”

The first night, we met on Craigslist. Back then, it was the easiest way to find closeted men. A few vague posts, coded words, and suddenly I had him standing outside my dorm. Hoodie pulled low, Timberlands unlaced, eyes darting like every step across campus might expose him. He slipped inside fast, like just being seen in the hallway was a risk too big to take.

He wore sweats, maybe gym shorts layered underneath, no underwear. Freeballing. Swinging heavy—HEAVY—with nothing holding him back. The bulge sat bold and thick, pulling the fabric tight in a way that left no room for doubt. By the time the door clicked shut behind him, I knew exactly why he’d answered that ad.

We didn’t kiss. Trade like him didn’t kiss. That was too intimate, too close to naming it. But I didn’t need his mouth to know what he wanted. The outline in his sweats told me enough. When I pulled his dick free, the weight dropped in my hand. Thick, long, veined, already hard. My breath caught, but I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees and swallowed as much as I could, lips stretched, spit spilling down my chin.

His balls swung low underneath, big and full, brushing my chin every time I took him deeper. I loved them, sucking them into my mouth, licking around every curve, kissing slowly like I was worshipping the weight he carried there. He groaned low, the sound breaking out of him like he’d been holding it back for years.

His hand found the back of my head. At first, it hovered, hesitant, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to take control. But instinct won. He pressed me deeper, stuffing my throat full until I gagged around his size. My jaw ached, spit slicking his shaft and coating my lips, and I kept going. This wasn’t awkward. This wasn’t rushed. It was precisely what he needed—sloppy head, balls drained, a release no one else in his world could give him.

It wasn’t long before he wanted more. The first time he fucked me was still on campus, in my dorm bed. I’ll never forget how my body fought to take him. He was thick, unrelenting, stretching me wide while I bit the sheets to stay quiet. This was long before I ever touched poppers, before I knew how to loosen myself up for a dick that size. He didn’t slow down or care much. He couldn’t. He pounded me, his grip tight on my hips like I was nothing more than a hole for him to use. And the truth was, I loved it.

That became the routine. He almost always came to me…my dorm room, later my off-campus apartment. He never invited me into his world. That wasn’t an option. It was me who opened the door, turned the music up low, played host while he slipped in and out like a ghost. If I had roommates, we moved quiet, careful, making sure the walls didn’t talk. But once the door shut, any restraint disappeared. He’d bend me over whatever surface was closest—the bed, the desk, the floor—and fuck me until I was dripping with his cum.

Patience got me further than pressure ever could. Each time, he loosened a little more. Silent thrusts turned into grunts. Hesitant touches became routine. He stayed trade through and through—masculine, guarded, speaking only when necessary—but his body confessed everything. His dick was fluent, and I was the only one allowed to translate.

I learned the choreography quick: how to set the room right, how to keep the music low, how to make sure the bedframe didn’t squeak where roommates or neighbors could hear. I folded my life into tiny, practical routines when it was time—fresh towels on the chair, a lamp angled just so, a playlist that could mask the worst of us. It became stupidly satisfying, the way the little things made him stay a minute longer, how the click of the door behind him felt like permission. When he would bust, he came hard and fast; when he left, he left quieter than any of us deserved. Those gaps, between his arrival and his disappearance, are where I learned how to make myself indispensable.

And there were language lessons, too, but not the kind you’d expect. The trade taught me how to read silence: the tightened jaw that meant he wanted rougher; the hand at the back of my head that meant keep going; the single word dropped like a hammer—mine—that reshaped every small motion after. I kept little trophies of those nights: a white tank top he’d tossed aside after stripping down, the faint smell of him on a pillow. They were stupid, small things that held whole encounters in their seams. Years later, when the firehouse came, the rituals followed…only the setting changed. The lessons from those first, sweaty nights in my room turned out to be the rules I’d obey long after the dorm lights dimmed.

Leaving town should’ve been a clean break. New city, new friends, new men. But boys like me don’t forget men like him. And men like him don’t walk away from the one who gave them their first taste. He told me once, whispered like it slipped out against his will, that I was his first boy. After that, he repeated it again and again, years later, each time he came back.

And it wasn’t just a throwaway line. Being his first meant I’d marked him the same way he marked me. I was the door he walked through when he finally let himself taste what he’d been craving. Every time he reminded me, it felt less like confession and more like a vow—that no matter how many bodies he took after mine, I’d always be the one he measured them against.

He could try to bury it under girlfriends, partners, drinking, and work, but the truth was simple: I was the first boy he ever split open, the first he ever nutted in without fear, the first he kept returning to long after it should’ve ended. That kind of first doesn’t fade. It stains. And deep down, he knew it. That’s why he always came back.

The title was mine forever. And in a way, so was he.

June 2006

[Music coming from the speakers as she journals about how Google saved her life]

Dear Diary,

I met this nice white boy on the Metro who seemed interesting enough. We both rolled our eyes at the same time, frustrated by the wait for the next train…more than twenty minutes! A match formed over public transit woes in DC. After chatting a bit, we learned we lived in the same neighborhood. He asked if I’d be down to catch a cab together instead. Hell yeah! A man who takes initiative and can have an engaging conversation. Let’s go! After the cabbie drove us through three different cab zones, he paid the fare and asked for my number. I obliged. He was cute, could put sentences together, and lived in my hood. Why not?! He called me the next day to ask me out on a date, and I replied, “Sure.” I may have been a little too anxious about it, as I was excited about the chance to go out on a “real” date.

He took me out to Maggiano’s, an Italian restaurant not too far from the Friendship Heights Metro. Our conversation again was very engaging. He had good table manners and was dressed nicely, so the date was going well. But then, the check came. Now, this is an interesting part of any date as the woman either expects that the man who asked her out will pay for it or she hesitates in saying “We can split it, if you like.” Well, my date reached into his pocket and pulled out, not a wallet, but a WAD OF CASH! It had to be at least $1,000—a STACK, jack! It was an insane amount of money that was wrapped with a rubber band. I had an expression on my face that said, “What the hell?!”

He then said, “I mean, you know. I’m a gold digger. I like money. If you were to come to my house, you would see stacks of bills in my room. Whenever you go out with me, you know I got you. Money is never an issue for me. I always make sure I have enough cash flow, aight?” His ghetto fabulous talk had definitely shown brightly at this point. So, I just shrugged my shoulders and was happy I didn’t have to pay.

A few days later, on a Sunday, he called me and left a message on my cell phone saying, “You will never believe what I’ve been doing all weekend. I googled you and found out all types of interesting information. I saw you all over your college’s website. It must be nice being you.”

Okay. I was freaked out. Googling people isn’t that strange, but you don’t TELL someone about it! Well, nonetheless, I decided to meet up with him to get dinner. While at dinner he said, “Yeah, if you google me, you won’t find anything.”

So, his sorry attempt to deter me from googling him was not going to work because of course I would google him. I typed in his first name and then his last and, alas, I didn’t find anything. Then, I had a small voice, or maybe an ancestor, in my head tell me, “Type in his name and then the words ‘Washington, DC’ afterwards.” I did that and I found the most astounding, jaw dropping, unbelievable information.

It was a website that was from a county in Virginia and they had a service called Crime Solvers. It had a mug shot of the guy I had been dating and said the following:

“Warrant for his arrest for failure to appear in court for a suspended license, domestic assault, and carnal knowledge. If you have any information about this individual, you can receive up to $1,000.”

I freaked out once again. I knew it was him because his freaking mug shot was next to the information about him. So, I called my Aunt, a prominent lawyer in Cleveland, to ask what “carnal knowledge” meant. I mean, I could have googled that too, but I needed to bring in my favorite auntie on this news. In a nutshell, it is sex with a minor!

So, this explains the wad of cash thing, because he probably had to get paid under the table for whatever “job” he did, since he couldn’t apply for a real job with a warrant out. Wow.

Now, of course, communication with him had to cease; this was not in question, but I did contemplate turning him in, reaping the benefits, and getting my own stack!

But this story was never about the basketball player. He was a lesson, a warm-up. The real story was the man who started in my dorm and became the firefighter I could never shake.

After graduation, I packed up and left. New city, new men, new routines. But he never disappeared. He lingered in the margins: Yahoo emails, short Kik messages, late-night Snaps that always read like codes only we understood. Never long conversations. Just enough to remind me he was still there, still hungry for what we had.

The last time we hooked up before I moved, it felt like we were both trying to burn the memory into ourselves. He pressed into me hard, heavy with need, like if he just held me down long enough it could stretch into forever. His raw dick pounded me deeper than usual, every thrust sharp with urgency, his grip bruising around my hips. I didn’t know then how long it would be before we saw each other again. He probably didn’t either. But the truth was simple: distance wouldn’t erase what we had built.

The first time we met again after I moved, it wasn’t some carefully planned reunion. I was back visiting friends, circling old streets, and I slipped right back into his orbit like gravity had been waiting. Seeing him again, I realized he’d grown into himself even more—broader chest, thicker arms, body built on years of lifting and grinding through firehouse shifts. He was poured into a bigger mold now, a true fine specimen of a man.

We didn’t waste time. He booked a hotel. Said he wanted privacy—four walls that weren’t shared with roommates, no teammates down the hall, no chance of interruption. The room was nothing: beige walls, heavy curtains, the hum of the A/C cutting through the late-summer heat. But the second he shut the door, it felt like the whole world dropped away.

That was the first kiss. Not a soft one, not some gentle test. It was need. His lips crashed against mine, tongue forcing its way in like he’d been starving and finally got fed. I kissed him back the same way, letting the years of waiting pour out of me. His weight pressed me into the mattress, chest slick with sweat, his breath hot and uneven.

When he pushed inside me, I felt the stretch all over again—the same thick dick that had split me open the first time, now stroking me into full submission. He pinned my legs in the air, my pussy wide open for him, and every thrust came with that word whispered rough into my ear: mine… mine… mine. His hips slammed down hard, each stroke deeper, drilling me until I was wet, dripping, body clenching around him whether I wanted to or not.

The sheets twisted under me, damp with sweat, my hands clawing at the mattress while his raw dick owned me. There was no need to keep quiet this time. No roommates. No firehouse fan drowning us out. Every sound…my moans, his grunts, the slap of skin…echoed off those bland walls like proof.

Afterward, he lay beside me longer than he ever used to. His hand rested on my thigh, thumb stroking slow, silent but saying more than words ever could. For a moment, it felt like I wasn’t just a body for him. Like he wanted to hold on a little longer.

But it didn’t stop there.

The next time we met he pushed further. Beer on his breath, a reckless edge in his eyes. He pulled me into the bathroom, steam fogging the mirror, tile cold under my palms. He pressed me flat, chest against my back, voice rough and low: “Mine.” Over and over, the syllables like a drum. Then he crossed a line I hadn’t expected but had started craving—he marked me.

Hot piss hit me, warm and immediate, the sting and salt of it making me shiver and want more. He told me it was his way of sealing things—ownership in liquid, close and messy. I didn’t flinch. I arched into it like I’d been waiting. He kept saying “my pussy boy”, saying “mine,” and it pushed me deeper than any kiss ever could.

After those first two trips, condoms disappeared. Raw was the rule. He called it “real,” saying it was about trust and needing to feel me without barriers. For him it wasn’t reckless, it was connection, intimacy, claiming me in the deepest way he could. And I wanted it just as bad.

One visit, after fucking until I was wore out and dripping on those inexpensive hotel sheets, he stared at the ceiling for what felt like forever. Then he finally turned, eyes heavy, voice low, and said the words I never thought I’d hear: I love you.

Not soft, not romantic. Like a man confessing something he’d been fighting for years. The words dragged out of him, raw and reluctant, but undeniable. Then he kissed me again, deeper, sealing it.

I thought about that kiss for weeks. His size, his weight, his dick splitting me open had always made me yield—but it was his words that branded me in a way nothing else ever had. For years, we’d played the game of trade and secret hookups. But that night, I knew it wasn’t just a game anymore.

I wasn’t just an outlet.

I was his.

October 2007

[Sounds coming from the bar’s sound system as she journals]

Dear Diary,

So…I went out with this guy who apparently has a semi-criminal past, so I’ll call him Desperado. I first met him at a restaurant in D.C. He was my server. I swear, I have a thing for servers. It’s a recurring theme. Maybe the power dynamic? Anyway, I thought he was decent-looking when I first saw him, but I honestly didn’t think much of it at the time.

Then I bumped into him again on the Metro, Columbia Heights stop. I struck up a conversation, and he asked for my number. I gave it to him, thinking it really wouldn’t go anywhere. But the next week he called and asked me out. I said yes.

We went to a local bar, and the conversation was easy enough. Except… he kept talking about his wild exploits in Latin America, claiming he fought alongside Colombian guerrillas and even saved his father from being killed. I wasn’t sure how much of it was true, but I went along with it. Who am I to argue with someone’s story, especially if they’re the one buying the drinks?

Obviously, because he apparently narrowly escaped death, I had to go home with Desperado. I still don’t know what I was thinking. Honestly, I was bored, and the idea of going home alone just didn’t sound that appealing.

We immediately started kissing, touching, and fooling around when we entered his place. Then he slowly, almost ceremoniously, took off my underwear with so much reverence as if it were a ritual among the gods. I closed my eyes, anticipating his touch, expecting his hand or mouth… but instead I felt him move away and sit at the end of the bed.

When I opened my eyes, I guffawed. He was smelling my underwear. Smelling. My. Underwear.

He looked at me and said, “You just don’t know how much this turns me on.”

And I said, “You just don’t know how much I’m grossed out.”

Needless to say, I never spoke to him again.

The elevator was well lit, humming faintly as it carried us between floors. He lived just one floor below me, close enough that we often crossed paths but never long enough to notice each other until that night. I was a sophomore, he was a junior. We were not fresh meat anymore. Past the chaos of move-in, past the wide-eyed stage, we both already knew how campus worked and how to carry ourselves inside it.

It was late, the kind of late when the building was silent except for drunk kids stumbling in from the club or parties. He stepped in wearing gym shorts and a fitted tank top, the faint smell of weed clinging to him like it was stitched into the fabric. The shorts didn’t hide a thing. Freeballing as always, he carried no restriction, every step swinging heavy. His dick print sat bold against the fabric, impossible to ignore under the bright elevator lights. I tried to keep my eyes up, but the outline pulled me back down, like it was begging for attention.

He was taller than me, shoulders wide, the kind of slim frame that told you basketball wasn’t just a hobby. His calves flexed easy under the hem, muscles filling out his shorts without effort. And in the middle of it all, that weight. Even soft, he was too much for most men. Hard, it was obscene, the kind of size that stretched fabric to its limit.

And then he asked for my number. Just like that. No hesitation, no explanation. He slipped it over like he was passing contraband. I was surprised he even risked it. I was obviously gay, and he was obviously not ready to call whatever he was doing gay. But he gave it anyway, and that was the first crack in the wall.

On campus, we kept it light. Passing between classes, it was nothing more than a quick “hey,” never anything that could be mistaken for friendship. Trade always expected distance in daylight, and heat saved for the dark of the night. I learned to match it, to keep my voice even, my walk casual, even when my chest tightened just seeing him.

We built a rhythm after that. Nothing rushed. Small exchanges in the elevator. A nod in the hallway. Nights outside his car while he smoked. Southern air never cooled, just clung heavy and close, the smoke rising slowly between us. I wasn’t there for the weed, but I smoked with him anyway. That was part of the play. You did what trade wanted, stayed in their orbit, let them feel like they were still in control. Patience was the currency.

He never talked much. Silence was his default. But silence taught me everything. It was in the way he shifted when I leaned too close. The way he lingered when he should’ve gone back inside. And always, the way his shorts betrayed him.

That was the thing about gym shorts: they gave him away every time. Sitting on the hood of his car, blunt in hand, legs spread wide, the fabric stretched across his dick so tight it was practically porn. Thick, long, print screaming bold enough that I stared even when I tried not to. Grey sweatpant season was years away from being a meme, but I already knew why it mattered. Men like him couldn’t hide their size if they tried. But why would they want to.

But it wasn’t outside where it happened. It was in my dorm room.

He came up late one afternoon after classes, casual, like he was just passing through. But he wasn’t. He dropped onto my bed, legs wide in those same shorts, and it was right there—his dick hard, thick, stretching the fabric. He didn’t hide it, didn’t adjust. He just sat, daring me to notice.

I reached out slow, giving him every chance to stop me. He didn’t. Didn’t even flinch. My hand wrapped around him through the thin material, and it felt like I was gripping him bare…heavy and throbbing in my palm. His breathing shifted instantly, shallow, uneven. He leaned back, jaw tight, eyes closed like he’d been waiting years for someone to touch him like this.

I yanked his shorts down and his dick flopped out, already slick at the tip with precum. I dropped to my knees and sucked him, spit running down my chin as I tried to take as much of him as I could. He was too big for my throat, but I gagged myself on it anyway, choking loud enough I worried the roommates down the hall might hear. He didn’t care. He just grunted, hips rolling, feeding me his dick.

The first kiss came later, in the same room. Quick at first, lips pressed together, weed still on his breath. He pulled back like it burned, then leaned in again, hungrier, deeper, tongue pushing against mine like he couldn’t stop. It felt dangerous, but it also felt like the start of something he couldn’t name out loud.

After that, it escalated. I got on top of him one night, straddling his lap. His dick was already rock hard, pressing thick against me through the shorts. I ground down, the heat undeniable, the outline stiff between us. We kissed again, rougher, and my hand slid under the waistband. No underwear meant I had him bare in my grip instantly.

He was even bigger in my hand than he looked. Long, thick, pulsing hot against my palm. I stroked him wet, jerking him until precum dripped down my fist. His hips lifted into me, groaning through clenched teeth, hands gripping my waist just to hold me in place. He didn’t touch me. He never did. This was about his release. My job was to serve.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t rushed. It was exactly what he needed—his dick sucked, stroked, milked until he came hard. Hot ropes shot across my sheets, dripping down his shaft as I kept jerking him, squeezing out every last drop. He lay back, chest heaving, face tight, like even cumming was something he couldn’t fully admit to.

The next morning, he acted like nothing had happened. Passed me in the hallway with the same blank look, the same nod. But that night, he was back outside, blunt lit, waiting. That became the pattern. Silence in the day. Confirmation in the dark.

I learned more from him than he probably ever realized. Not about attraction—I already knew men like him would always be my type. Ripped, masculine, big dick swinging in gym shorts, print heavy and impossible to ignore. What he taught me was patience. The discipline of not rushing. The skill of meeting trade where they were, even if it meant nights of silence, or smoking weed I didn’t care for, or choking on his dick until he emptied across my sheets without a word. That was how you bagged the trade: patience, comfort, familiarity.

I can still see those nights like snapshots. The glow of the blunt tip in the dark. His legs spread wide. Dick straining against fabric, print screaming what he wouldn’t say. The nervous laugh that gave away more than his words ever could.

Years later, I saw him on Tinder. Just a profile picture in the endless scroll. But it made me smile. Not because I wanted him again, but because it meant he’d stepped into daylight. He’d accepted something he couldn’t back then. That was closure. Not for us, but for him.

Looking back, I realize he was the test run. The practice before the main act. When the football player showed up in Timberlands, hoodie low, nerves thick in the air, I already knew the play. I’d seen it before. I knew patience would win. I knew trade needed comfort and time more than pressure. And I knew that when the moment finally came, I’d be ready.

Patterns in the dark. That’s how it always started.

[Sounds of mid-aughts playing from her stereo as she opens her diary]

April 2006

Dear Diary,

Got a little tale about a man I’m dating. I’ll just call him, SAD.

It is springtime now, and for me, there is nothing like this season to inspire me to find love in everything. The bright blue skies, the promise of summer, the temperate winds, the marshmallow clouds, the cherry blossoms in April. D.C. is so easy to fall in love with during this time of year, and just as easy to want someone to share it with, even if only briefly. So, I’m happy SAD came into the picture.

Good-looking, intelligent, well-dressed SAD. As I’ve gotten to know him, I’ve been impressed with his maturity and his patience with my carefree attitude about life. I decided to give him a try and go out on a few dates. We’ve visited museums, watched movies, gone to nightclubs, and introduced one another to friends. Everything has been moving at a good pace.

We shared our first kiss two months into dating. I know, two months! Really, really sweet. As I said, he is a very patient man and will not pressure any woman into doing anything she does not want to do. Perfect, right? Last night, after I arrived home from playing a co-ed softball game after work, he called me:

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Just got home from playing a softball game. How are you?”

“I’m pretty good.”

“That’s good.”

He asked, “Did you all win?”

“You know it. We are getting better now.”

“Good. Good. Hey, I have a question.”

“What’s up?”

He asked, “What if I said I want to come over tonight?”

mmmmmm. I bit my lower lip at the proposition.

I said, “Um, sure, I guess. It’s Tuesday, and it’s almost 10 pm, but if you'd like to come over for a little while, that’s fine. You live in Rockville, though, right?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen you in a little while, and I just want to come over and see you.”

“OK. How soon can you get here?”

“About 30 minutes.”

My heart fluttered, and I was so excited. In those 30 minutes, I showered, curled my hair, and cleaned up my place. That’s right. An anxious and horny girl can pack a lot into a short amount of time. I was not sure what to expect, but I wanted to be prepared for anything.

And then there he was. SAD walked through my apartment door, not looking quite as sharp as his normal get-up when we went out. This time, he had on sweats and a baseball cap on backwards. Whatever. It was sweet that he decided to drive 30 minutes just to see me. We hung out, chatted, and laughed. Then he kissed me. Very nice. He took his shirt off and revealed one of the most beautiful bodies I have ever seen. All that working out he told me about was paying off. I was impressed.

We kissed and kissed and kept on kissing. I decided to turn up the heat a little bit. 2006 is all about turning up the heat, ok?! I began kissing his chest and torso, and then began to pull down his sweats. As my lips trailed down his six-pack, I decided to be a naughty girl and pull down his boxers as well…

But I could not go that far.

Why not? Because when I began to pull his boxers down, something hit my face like a steel pan. At first, I was too delirious and shocked to comprehend what was happening. Then I realized.

It was the most pervasive and revolting smell to ever emanate from a man’s balls that I had ever smelled in my life.

That’s right. Smelly. Ass. Dick. The air around me became thick and musty to the point where I was afraid to breathe. I was in fear of becoming noticeably sick. The lights in my apartment were still on, so I knew he would see my disgust and repulsion.

I pulled his boxers and sweatpants back up and told him I was actually getting tired and should go to bed. He believed that excuse. To this day, he has no idea why I never called him again.

Remember: if you visit someone’s house that you are dating, especially at night, whether you think you are going to hook up or not, you should take a shower and be presentable out of respect. Damn!

It was 3 AM when I pulled off the back road and into the gravel lot, in town visiting and borrowing my friend’s car for this late-night rendezvous. The firehouse sat quiet under the orange glow of a single floodlight, bay doors shut tight. Engines sealed away like giants at rest. To anyone else, it was just another rural station waiting for a call. To me, it was an invitation: he wanted me badly enough to bend his own rules.

I texted I’m here. Seconds later, the back door cracked open. He was already there, one hand on the frame, scanning the lot like every second I lingered was a risk. No wave, no words. Just a quick nod, and he stepped back in.

I killed the lights, shut the car door as softly as I could, and crossed the gravel. My pulse was loud enough that I thought it might give me away before I even reached him. Then I slipped past the threshold, into a hallway of dim light and silence.

His “room” sat right off the entrance, barely more than a bed and a chair, a loud fan roaring in the corner to drown out the noise. A whole firehouse of men slept just yards away. That fan was our only shield.

He shut the door behind me, shoulders tight, chest rising quick. Nervous, but hungry. I’d seen that look for years. His words stayed locked up, but his body never could.

We didn’t waste time. He pushed me down to my knees before the fan had even swallowed the sound of the door. I pulled his pants down fast, his sweatpants loose enough to yank down in one motion. His dick swung heavy and thick, smacking against my lips before I could even get my mouth open. I wrapped my lips around him, drool spilling almost instantly as I tried to take him deeper. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

He was too big to swallow all at once, my throat fighting to open while he held my head steady, guiding me down his shaft. He groaned low, hips rolling, his fat dick sliding in and out of my mouth, spit dripping down my chin onto my shirt. The fan roared, but every gag and slurp felt like it echoed. That risk made me suck him harder, wetter, choking myself on his dick until my eyes watered.

“Fuckkk,” he hissed, pulling free. He wasn’t about to cum in my mouth, not yet. He shoved me forward, my face against the thin carpet, ass in the air. His tongue was on my hole in seconds, licking, spitting, eating me out like he was starving. The sloppy, wet sound of it made me bite down on my arm to stay quiet. He didn’t care. He spread me wider, tongue drilling into me, then pulling back to spit directly on my hole before going in again.

By the time he lined up, I was dripping wet. He spat once more, rubbed the head of his dick against my ass, and pushed in raw. No warmup beyond his tongue. Just his long dick stretching me open in one brutal stroke. I gasped, my nails digging into the carpet as he gave me his all.

He started slow, grinding, making me feel every inch, then pulled back and slammed forward. The floor creaked, his balls slapping against me, his breath hot in my ear. He stroked me to the rhythm of the fan, hole clenching around his dick with every thrust. I was leaking onto the carpet, wet and messy, while he used me hard and deep.

“Mine,” he growled, teeth grazing my neck. “Fucking mine.”

I could only nod, face pressed down, ass taking everything he gave me. He didn’t stop. He shoved me flat, legs spread wide, and kept stroking until his thrusts turned ragged. Then he buried himself all the way in, dick throbbing as he emptied inside me. Hot, thick cum, his grip crushing my hips as he held me down to take it all. I felt it leaking out the moment he pulled free, dripping down my thighs, soaking into the carpet below.

We didn’t linger. He pulled his sweats back up, face shuttered closed, rebuilding himself into the firefighter the world knew. I wiped my mouth and ass with the edge of my shirt, still shaking, and slipped back out into the night.

My friend’s car sat at the edge of the lot, gravel crunching loud under the tires as I pulled away. Behind me, the firehouse looked quiet, untouched, like nothing had happened. But inside, I knew one engine had already been run hard and emptied.

As a general rule, you should never yuck another person’s yum; and you should never tell someone what labels they can affix to themselves. But fuck it — this post does both!

It’s time to talk about the term “Daddy.”

In sexual discourse, the term "Daddy" is used to signify a dominant, protective, or powerful partner, often in the context of BDSM or roleplay. This language is further heightened in gay M/M fetish play as some, but not all, submissive partners identify as “boys.” The Historical Dictionary of American Slang notes that the term “Daddy” dates back to at least the 1600s, when sex workers used the moniker to refer to customers and pimps; in that instance, it would have almost certainly been used within straight M/F encounters.

While Daddies are usually dominant, a “Dom” and a “Daddy” are two distinctly different things. And an absolute no-no would be dictating how a self-proclaimed Daddy shows up, dominant or otherwise. This is the first nuance that is almost completely lost on those who have co-opted sexual language from communities they don’t fully understand.

Similarly, a “Master” isn’t a Dom or Daddy, but rather an entirely different realm. But that’s a discussion for another post; let’s stay on task.

Daddy/boy play is a sub-genre under the more expansive Dom/sub genre. And by design, Dom/sub dynamics are fluid — based largely on the folks involved. But this only works well when the folks involved have a strong grasp of what they are conveying with the labels they adopt.

The term “Daddy” has seen a resurgence in popular culture over the last couple of decades, and the predictable result is people casually throwing around labels they don’t understand. This is most vividly apparent in the popularity of “Zaddy” as a thing. To be clear, that’s not a thing! Daddies are not, and have never been, defined by age — so there is no need to coin a phrase to refer to younger Daddies. Older, stylish men who make us wet and weak are Daddies — not Zaddies. Nobody asked for that.

Zaddies is only a thing if you, mistakenly, believe that Daddies must be older, or if you have a visceral discomfort with the word “Daddy” in a sexual context. I suspect we end up with unnecessary vocabulary because some folks are shy about the existing vocabulary. And that shyness is rooted in shame or misunderstanding — neither of which have any place in sexual fetish and fantasy.

Some rules are not to be broken. “Daddy” is always capitalized. Whenever I see folks using a lowercase, it’s the ultimate giveaway that they are novices.

This shows up in a variety of ways; the next time I hear someone say “he’s too old to be a leather boy,” I think I’m going to lean into my dominant side and slap them, because that’s nonsense. There are no boundaries between consenting adults, and language is the absolute lowest hurdle to clear in role play.

Is it possible to be a young, smooth, submissive Daddy? Sure, I suppose so, but that’s sort of like being a small-dick “Dominant Top” who is only a side — the audience of people seeking that is exceedingly small. Being a Dominant Top implies certain things. Being a Daddy implies certain things, and slapping on the “Zaddy” label and jumping on Grindr is not it.

There are so many personas in the BDSM arena, and many gay men would be better served by applying labels that actually fit them. “Top” as a standalone label is just fine and serves its purpose well; but calling yourself a “Dom Top” means something different. If you’re just going to lie on your back and have your boy ride you — that’s hot — but a Dom Top you are not!

Similarly, you can be a fantastic “bottom,” but being a “sub bottom” is a completely different headspace. Being a sub bottom means you are willingly surrendering your control. If that’s not your bag, just pick a better bag.

It takes time, introspection, and communication to find the labels that adequately reflect your evolving desire. But for the love of sex, let’s stop casually throwing around the word “Daddy.” It’s the ultimate disrespect to actual Daddies.

First things first. What exactly is the Hanky Code? The Pack blog describes it this way:

What is the Hanky Code?

The hanky code, also known as the handkerchief code or flagging, is a system of communication that uses colored handkerchiefs to signal sexual interests and preferences discreetly. Originating in the gay male subculture of the 1970s, this code allowed individuals to express their desires in an era when open discussion of sexuality, especially same-sex attraction, was often taboo or even dangerous.

Brief History & Origins:

The exact origins of the hanky code are somewhat murky, but most historians trace it back to San Francisco in the early 1970s. During this time, the city was experiencing a boom in its gay population, particularly in the Castro district. As the community grew, so did the need for subtle ways to communicate sexual interests in public spaces.

One popular theory suggests that the code evolved from the Gold Rush era practice of wearing bandanas to signal whether someone was looking for a dance partner. In the absence of women, men would wear red or blue bandanas to indicate whether they wanted to take the "female" or "male" role in a dance.

Another theory links the hanky code to the use of keys on belt loops, where the side on which keys were worn indicated whether someone was a "top" or a "bottom" in sexual encounters. The hanky code expanded on this idea, introducing a rainbow of colors to represent various preferences and practices.

Purpose & Use in LGBTQ+ Communities:

The primary purpose of the hanky code was to facilitate connections between individuals with compatible sexual interests. In an era before dating apps and widespread acceptance of LGBTQ+ identities, this system provided a discreet yet effective way for people to find potential partners who shared their specific desires.

The code also served as a form of in-group signaling, helping members of the LGBTQ+ community recognize each other in public spaces. This was particularly important during times when being openly gay could result in discrimination, violence, or legal consequences. Nowadays, the hankies aren't utilized as such anymore, and mostly serve as a look instead of a communication tool to find likeminded people.

While this file is devoted to hunter green, there are countless colors represented in the Hanky Code: