II. Flashback

My preparation for kinky sex came in the usual way: Saturday morning cartoons, comic books, and the Hardy Boys. The villain has captured the teenage heroes who had stumbled across his evil plan of world domination. He had captured them, and now had them securely bound. One of the teenage heroes, struggling in vain against his bonds, musters defiance and says, “What… what do you plan to do with us now?” The villain goes on to explain his diabolical (time consuming) plan for getting them out of the way, while he would be elsewhere.

As soon as I was having sex with men in my late teens, I was asking to be tied up. However, I was very much a proto-Top: I basically just wanted to get a blowjob without reciprocation. And when I was all of seventeen, a man I went home with made the unusual request that I stick my hand up his ass. I happily obliged.

Later, I would feel sort of shaken by all of this. What’s wrong with me that I enjoy this sick stuff? It’s bad enough that I’m a homo, but what’s with the ropes and boots and chains?

I did my best for years and years to stuff my kinky inclinations. My boyfriends—and there were a lot of them—tended to be not just vanilla, but kink-averse. In between boyfriends, I would wander out to my local leather bar, meet some kinky man, have a great time, and never want to see him again. It was what I wanted, but I found the implications more than a little frightening.

During my last vanilla relationship (enduring seven years), I discovered, via the Internet, that there were not just kinky men out there, but there was a community of kinky men, who were living happy, fulfilled, self-actualized lives. When that relationship inevitably ended, I decided that Dammit! I was gonna be kinky!

I started to say ‘yes’ to all those things I had previously said ‘no’ to. “Yes!” became my mantra. The more I said ‘yes,’ the happier I was. The more I came to trust my instincts, and my desires. “Yes!” opened many new doors, and I met some wonderful men.

By way of example, I met a hot man at Ty’s on Christopher Street. We called, and agreed to hook up that Saturday night. He showed up at my door with two gallon jugs of Poland Spring water. “Uh, what are they for?” I asked. He grinned. “They’re for you, Guy.” And then they’re for me. Oh. I see. He wants me to drink a lot of water so he can then drink my piss. I said, “Yes!” and I spent a great night feeding this hot man bladder after bladder full of my steaming piss.

I started to notice something, though. Being a bottom was less and less satisfying, whatever we were up to. However, being a Top was fraught with peril, too. Once, I brought home a guy I met at the L.U.R.E., hooded him with spandex, and proceeded to tie him down to my bed. While he was lying there having a good time, I stood back to admire my handiwork. What a mess. A nine-year-old could have done better. And, I asked myself, now what? How to bring my incompetently bound partner some pleasure? So, I gave him one of my lousy blowjobs.

What a conundrum! I felt myself to be a Top; that was how I was wired. But how did it work? How do I do that? What are the rules of engagement? This was roughly my state of mind when I walked into the Singletails workshop.