“Daddy’s cock feel good in you, boy?”
Dude was huge, ripped. 6′ 4” at least, massive pecs, abs I watched repeatedly flex as he thrust himself into me. Sweat glistened on his hairless torso, the veins on his neck and biceps looked like thick cables running beneath his skin, and I could feel the heat of his shoulders on my ankles as he fucked me harder.
He was hot in that sort of ‘model’ way. Gym-forged body, blonde surfer-hair spilling out from the backwards baseball cap he wore. Not the sort of guy I normally thought I could get, later not at all the sort of guy I realised I wanted, but at the moment I made a mental note that I was the sort of person that could get fucked by a guy like that, like that was something to be proud of.
He wasn’t wearing anything else except construction-worker boots, which I couldn’t see
“Yeah,” I growled, trying to lift my head a little to get a better view of his tool. I couldn’t see much, couldn’t really move all that well, but I did manage to see his massive legs and the work-boots he was still wearing over boot socks.
I rested my head back onto the bed, trying to let my body feel him inside of me. He felt fucking amazing, but I was a little panicked, couldn’t quite enjoy it. My thoughts were jumbled, fuzzy, difficult to string together, and I couldn’t focus on much besides what my body told me. “Enjoy,” it kept telling me, but I wasn’t ready to yet.
“You close?” I asked, half-moaning.
“Yeah, boy” he said. “I’m close but I’m not done fucking you, boy.”
“Cum on my face when you do,” I begged him, and not just because I liked that sort of thing.
He replied with something that he probably learned from a porn script, than started punching his cock into my ass, pulling all the way out and then thrusting all the way back in. When you’re sober, that sort of thing can hurt like hell, but I was drunk and also glad he was doing it because I could see his cock that way. I lifted my head up again, propping myself with my elbow, and stared at what is still one of the biggest things I’ve ever had inside me.
But then I saw what I was actually looking for, afraid I wouldn’t find, and let the enjoyment of getting fucked finally take over.
I don’t actually remember him exploding on my face. I passed back out into the drunken oblivion from which I’d woken long enough to see who was fucking me. In the morning one of my eyelids was stuck shut, so I know he had.
I also didn’t remember meeting him in the first place, or when I’d I told him he could fuck me, or what his name was, or really anything else about that night. I just remember what he looked like, how I felt, and that though he’d fucked me while I was completely blacked-out, at least he’d been wearing a condom.
What I just described was hardly unusual for me when I was younger. A few months after I turned 23, I filled a backpack full of everything I owned, bought a $50 cross-country Greyhound ticked, and moved to Seattle to live with friends from high school. I loved those friends, but something had happened in just the six years after graduation to turn them heavily religious, and eventually I moved out and lived on the streets for several months.
I was homeless, but I’m not sure I ever actually felt homeless. Sure, I slept in alleyways often enough, sometimes on discarded couches, sometimes in doorways, and sometimes in bushes on a university campus. Occasionally, the manager of the store where I worked would let me sleep in her car during the day before my shifts, occasionally I’d find a couch to crash on, but the majority of the nights I actually slept in beds were the nights I was getting fucked by men.
If you’ve never been homeless, this all may sound awful or confusing, but I would be lying if I said I was scared. I didn’t feel homeless, I didn’t feel unsafe. I was 23, healthy, and almost ridiculously optimistic about the world back then. Also, luck seemed almost always to favor me—I was never stolen from, never had trouble from police or security guards, and always managed to find food and a little work.
But no doubt you are more curious about the men. This is after all a site of sex stories, and anyway I started out with sex. And perhaps particularly you’re wondering why I wrote erotically about an experience which qualifies in most reckonings as ‘rape.’
I am too wondering too, and I don’t have an easy answer for this.
The man I wrote about was one of the better-looking of the 50 or more men I’d had sex with in those months. He was not the only one of them to fuck me while I was unconscious, though I was not always so drunk. Often enough I remembered the whole thing, specifically said yes, ‘enthusiastically consented’ (to use the current parlance) to being some guy’s fuck toy for the night in return for a place to sleep.
In fact, that was the whole point. It was sex work.
I never defined it as such back then. Not until a decade later, talking with a friend who escorted as a way of supplementing her social worker income, did I understand that what I’d been doing had a name. I never received money for my ‘services,’ never actually looked at is a service at all. It was an exchange: they kept me safe off the streets for the night (and often fed me the next morning, and bought me drinks at the bar the night before), and I had sex with them.
Even after understanding it as sex work, I didn’t quite see it as an equal exchange, because I felt like I got more from the unspoken agreements we made than they did. All they got to do was have sex with me, but I also got to have sex with them and get free drinks and a warm bed. A few men did actually offer to pay me afterwards, though never directly. “You have enough money to buy lunch?” or “need some bus fare?” they’d ask. One time I did take a guy up on the $20 he offered me, because I was pretty hungry, but even still I think of it as a gift, not payment.
Not every guy was so chivalrous the next day. Sometimes I was pushed out quite early because the guy had to go to work, or his partner was returning from a business trip. Sometimes they’d let me linger until noon, sometimes we’d fuck again (with me sober this time). One time a guy made intimations of marriage; a rich doctor in a really rich condo with a beautiful view of the city.
I got out of there really quick after he said that.
I don’t, I can’t, call what happened to me ‘rape.’ Here I need to be careful in how I explain this, as I do not want or mean at all to erase, diminish, or re-narrate other people’s experiences of sexual assault and rape. This story is mine and only mine, though I know it will mean something useful, perhaps even helpful, to others.
I don’t and can’t call what happened to me rape because I was raped during that time. Not by those men, but by someone I’d actually wanted to have a relationship with. He was not the only person to rape me, but he was the only man to have done so, and what happened with him makes it impossible for me to define these other experiences as even comparable.
We went on a date, and then he drugged me. And I kept saying no, but my body, obeying not my will but the will of the poison he’d used to steal mine, responded in exactly the opposite of my no. Men who have been raped by men or women report this as well, sexual arousal, a hard cock, orgasm even though at every step of the way they want nothing to do with what is happening. And that bodily experience, that bodily enjoyment, feels later like the worst sort of betrayal. You don’t feel like you can trust yourself or your senses, or find yourself afraid it’s your certainty that you were raped that is wrong, not what happened to you. The unfortunate perpetuation of the idea that men are always aggressors in sexual assault re-inforces this, as do those (of whatever gender) around you that just can’t bring themselves to believe that a man can be raped.
It was a co-worker of mine the next day that told me I was raped. I told her what happened, and she looked at me and said, “oh my god Rhyd you were raped.” And then I started crying and couldn’t stop for hours, because when she said it I knew it was true.
These other men, though? Many have told me that what happened to me was rape, and I did not cry and did not feel it to be true. I still don’t, but I can’t really tell you why besides the fact that I have felt rape and know it to be different from experiences I look upon with some fondness.
Fondness, actually, is too soft a word.
I honestly wanted all that. I liked the feeling of danger to some degree, I liked the release and abandon of being drunk and getting fucked by attractive older men who liked the idea of using a young homeless punk’s body for a night.
Actually, I also liked the feeling of being used, being a half-conscious canvas upon which these men painted their aggression and lust and anger and spit and cum. I liked being called a bitch, boy, son, punk, faggot, pig, slut. I liked hearing it from these men, all of them with jobs and cars and checking accounts and most of all stable places to live that I didn’t have.
And back then, I liked being drunk while it was all happening. I needed that, needed the release, needed the help from alcohol to put myself in a place where I didn’t fear anything, where I could just enjoy myself rather than think about how homeless I was and how I was getting used just like I was using them, and most of all not to think about how I felt always that I had less to offer them in the exchange than they gave to me.
I would not do that all again now, but I would do that all again then. Now I am forty, have a better sense of my worth and what I want from life and what I can actually offer another man. Also, now I prefer fucking to getting fucked, and now I would never get fucked by half those men. They were too bourgeois, the lot of them. Some of them are the sort of creeps I’d warn others away from, some of them were not even half as amazing at sex as I helped them think they were.
I would not do that now, but I would do that again then, because of what it taught me about what sort of person I wanted to be and could be, not what sort of person I thought I was.
Because there was this moment a few years after this that I woke from a drunken sleep to find my cock down a guy’s throat, and I hadn’t meant it to be there. I hadn’t put it there, hadn’t asked the guy to blow me, and though it felt really good I pushed him off it immediately.
I remember his name but I won’t tell it to you. He was homeless like I had been, but worse. I only ever drank and occasionally smoked pot and once in a while did acid. He did meth, and didn’t want to.
We met at a party I’d thrown, one of about 150 people who were at my house that night. Samhain, it was, punks and artists and witches and anarchists all drinking at the home I finally found after being on the streets, and him one of them.
“Can I crash here?” he’d asked, sometime before sunrise when most of the people were gone. “I’ve been homeless and I was staying with this guy and there’s a lot of meth there and I don’t want to do meth anymore.” And then he told me he’d run away from home at 15, had been staying with that guy for a few years, having sex with him and doing meth and wanted to get out.
I of course said yes. Told him he could stay as long as he needed. And it was his mouth throating my cock as I slept, and when I woke I pushed him off, gently, not angry.
“You don’t need to do that to stay here,” I told him.
“I was trying to thank you,” he said, suddenly scared and ashamed.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and cuddled him until he fell asleep.
He stayed for a month, then found a job and his own place. I lost touch with him for years until I saw him leading a protest march in Seattle against the Iraq invasion. We talked a little bit, he told me he hadn’t done meth since he and I first met, now had a boyfriend and was going to university.
“Thank you again,” he said that day too, and I knew then that my life—and all that sex—will never be something to regret.