2000-10-30 - 20:02:58
Bottoming Out

Bottoming Out

You have yet to be properly introduced to an old friend of mine. This lapse is mostly due to neglect: of late, I haven't been giving him the attention he deserves.

This particular buddy taught me a lot about sex: particularly, how to be a bottom. And he's fucking huge, eh? We're talking 12 inches--I kid you not--and 5 inches around.

I refer here to my double-header dildo.

Long before owning one of my very own, I once had a run-in with a vibrator. This goes back to when Matt and I were dating; a mutual friend of ours, Darren, was presented with a vibrating dildo-esque sex toy for his birthday by a lesbian couple. Matt and I happened to be present at the gay bar for this gift-opening. And what did I do? While Darren laughed embarrassedly, I grabbed the vibrator thing-a-ma-bob out of his hands and deep-throated the sucker. Yeah, I'm a real clown, the life of the party, eh? Then I noticed the lesbians' horrified look. "Um," one of them said in a hushed tone, "We'd been using that."

And this, boys and girls, was the closest yours truly has ever come to womanly love juice.

But I digress.

I acquired my beloved dildo about ten years' back. Up to that point in my already-zany sex life, being on the receiving end had mostly been painful: my few experiences were often aborted because of discomfiting cramps. While I was curious, alive to sphincter tinglings, my body was unable to enjoy a full-fledged fuck.

I can still see the glare on the male employee's face as he wordlessly transacted my purchase at the sex shop that night.

Once home, hoo boy, did I have fun! I prodded and stretched; I fucked myself silly. Prostrated in homage to my prostate gland, I mapped magic spots within. Marvelling at the shattering intensity of anally-induced orgasms, I was--and remain--curious about the puny output of all this ecstasy, as compared to my usual prodigiousness in the spurting department.

I discovered my capacious depths. One night I got home, alone, from the bar and decided to again have my way with this new toy. It was a "How far would you go?" kind of dare; Mr. Double-Header, as always, was up for the challenge, and I myself proved most accommodating.

Jon was my roommate at the time, and he soon arrived home with his boyfriend James and James' best friend Kev--whom they were attempting to set me up with. Picture me lying in bed with 11-and-3/4 of 12 rubbery inches successfully and rather satisfyingly accommodated, when there's a knock at my bedroom door.

"Hey," Jon called out, "Are you jerking off in there, or what?"

As I quickly pulled the covers up around my neck, pelvic throbs reverberating, I hear Kev and James giggle. "No," I replied, forcing a laugh, "I'm just reading."

"Oh, well come on out then. We’ve got Kev here, eh?"

What could I do? I was somewhat interested in Kev, and certainly didn’t want to seem rude. At the time, my dance card wasn't full, but at that moment my anal cavity had a major "No Vacancy" sign flashing.

So, I gingerly hoisted myself up off the bed, donned my housecoat, and joined the boys in the living room for twenty or so minutes of after-the-bar chatting. Kev was friendly, and if he thought my grin looked constipated, he was nice enough not to mention it.

Let's just say that I had a dickens of a time dislodging my trusty prosthetic phallus, once back in the privacy of my locked bedroom.

But no introduction of my long-time friend would be complete without--ahem--the mother-of-all-dildo-stories.

In the spring of 1991, after nearly three years in this city, I moved back to a city in my home province to attend university. Packing up my belongings was a daunting task, and as usual, I didn't begin until the night before. My parents were arriving the following morning--a borrowed horse-trailer in tow--to load up and move my locks, stocks and barrels. And also my sex toys, but I wished to avoid apprising them of said cargo. As I hastily filled up boxes with this that and the other thing, I noted the array of porno magazines, condoms, lube and my large, flesh-colored dildo underneath my bed. Envisioning Mom or Dad taking the bed apart the next morning and uncovering all this, I made short work of hiding the skanky paraphernalia safely out of sight in a black back-pack.

The next morning, Mom and Dad and several friends arrived to help load-up the horse trailer. I distinctly remember that my ex, Matt, Jon and Tony were part of the crew. Everyone knew and loved Mom and Dad; the arduous task proceeded light-heartedly. Dad stationed himself downstairs in the horse trailer to arrange the furniture and all the boxes in as snug a fashion as only he could achieve. My homo friends and I carted my stuff out of the apartment, down the hall, down the elevator and out to the trailer. Mom supervised whatever needed to be done in the apartment.

At the moment of this occurrence, I happened to be downstairs with a load of stuff. But Mom was in my bedroom, taking apart my bed--the precise scenario I had so preemptively imagined. Matt and maybe Jon were standing in my room chatting with her while she set about this task. Mom unscrewed the wooden legs from the bedframe.

"Where am I going to put these so they don't get lost?" she is reported to have wondered aloud.

Spotting the black backpack leaning up against the wall, Mom said "Oh, there's a good place for them." She unzipped the backpack and--KAH-BOING!--out sprang several thick, incriminating inches of my buddy.

Matt and Jon nearly peed their pants, but they remained silent for a few seconds, waiting to see what my mother would do or say. Once she caught her breath, Mom began to laugh uproariously as she tucked her son's plastic woody back inside, fitting the bed legs cosily in next to it.

Picture me arriving on this scene, a few moments later.

All I can say is, I'm glad it was Mom and not Dad.

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