In Praise of Lying Back and Taking It

Blogging’s a bit like singing. You don’t always feel like breaking out into song. It’s hard to blog when you don’t feel like singing, and I haven’t had much cause to sing lately. I say “much” because there has been some. Some things shift, and when some things shift, everything shifts and you have to start rethinking stuff. I met a man off Grindr. I’ve never met a man in this way, so he was the first. The bottom line is that it’s been four years since I’ve been fucked (Ciao, Franco!), and that four-year-long stretch is now officially over. I’ve been fucked twice in just as many weeks. That might not sound like a lot to some people, but for me it’s a whole new way of being. And for that I feel like singing. And by singing I mean blogging. It’s a bit like coming home. To be fucked by someone who likes to fuck is a great joy. Cheng likes to fuck and he fucks beautifully. Slowly and deeply and gently. He likes to kiss while he fucks. He likes to suck on my nipples while he fucks. My friend M says I’m flipping the stereotype around: Short Asian guy fucks big white guy. It doesn’t feel like that when we’re together. We play with stuff. I’m the daddy and the baby and he’s the baby and the top and he’s the boy and I’m the boy and he likes to fuck and I like to have him inside me, and really it’s been so fucking long since I’ve let go like this and allowed myself to have someone inside me that it is, it is pure joy. What a fucking relief!

Cheng comes over every few days. We’ve seen each other about four times. He keeps saying he wants me to fuck him next time, but that hasn’t happened. I like that he likes to be inside me. I like that he wants it, that he’s persistent, that even when I say no he keeps prodding, keeps trying, keeps letting me know what he wants. There is something about being wanted like that that turns me on, that makes me feel safe. I see myself in that persistence, that feeling of being with someone and you want to fuck them, nothing else will do, you want to be inside them and nowhere else at that moment will do.

You see, in the background of all this there is a man I’ve been fucking for the past two months. His hunger for cock is great, but he is not that interesting in bed. Some men like to be fucked and sometimes that desire is enough to turn you on, that insatiable hunger is the aphrodisiac. This man is also completely silent in bed. Don’t ask me questions, he says. Which is hard for someone like me, who likes to know what the other guy likes, if he likes the way I fuck him, if he likes the way my cock feels inside him, if he likes sucking my dick, if he wants more kisses.

“Don’t ask so many questions,” he says.

He is a man who is silent in bed, tight-lipped, even. I should have read the signs. Tight-lipped is tight-lipped. Just because your arsehole is easy to fuck, doesn’t mean you’re going to be generous when it comes to emotional openness. The thing is that outside the bedroom, we have a lot to talk about and our conversations flow. I am not the kind of guy who encounters many people with whom he can have flowing conversations – sometimes it feels like years, and hardly ever in the years I’ve lived in this city, this cold, cold city, the coldness of hell. And yet with Cheng there is hardly anything to say. What do we talk about? Don’t make me bore you. But with the skinny taciturn guy I talk. We talk about stuff, about hiking, about going away to somewhere sunny, about a cabin by the sea. We talk about family and lovers. It’s not what we talk about that excites me – although I do like what we talk about – but it’s how we talk, and the ease I feel with him. Though when it comes to talking about feelings, he clams up, refuses to talk, as if it’s a foreign language, as if he has never made the leap from feelings into language. Isn’t that the challenge of being a human being, or at least being a human being who writes, a human being who relates.

There’s something so profoundly simple about being fucked. About lying there for your own pleasure and for the pleasure of another. To just give you hole to another man and for him to be happy. It’s a strange feeling. I like to move around a lot when I fuck – this position, that position, on the table, on the floor, over the edge of the bed. In my twenties I moved around even more, behaved like a fucking acrobat. But my god, what a relief to lie back and take it, and for Cheng to be happy, for me to be happy. I can see how someone can think that that’s enough, that giving up your hole is enough, that that’s all the relating one needs to do to feel connected to someone.

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