Arrythmia

Even before I started charging whatever I could get away with, I dated a man who liked to hurt me during sex.  I met my ex-boyfriend, Brett, on a gay sex app.  I had no stats or photos on my profile but he messaged me, nonetheless.  He was calling himself “masc,” “discreet,” and “bi.”  He’s gay but thought it was hot to say that.  Just like he sent me a photograph of his dick while sitting on a toilet thinking that’s hot, too.  In addition to his toilet-seat dick pic, Brett initially sent a picture of his torso in a mirror, cropped at the chin, hiding his face.   

“No face,” he told me.

“Send me a pic of you holding up a peace sign, so I know you’re not fake,” I wrote.  Again, he sent me a photograph of his chest, with no face, this time flicking me off with his middle finger.

“How’s that?” he said.  Although he wouldn’t show his face on the app, when we met up, I recognized him from law school.  That first time at his apartment, the first warning sign was when he forced himself down my throat until I couldn’t breathe.  I remember I made a clucking sound that made him laugh.  He said, “Feel that?” but I didn’t feel him finish.  

The second time we hooked up, it wasn’t my mouth.  The app showed we were both inside the courthouse.  By then, we were out of law school.  At the time, I was representing a criminal defendant for an appeal.  As an attorney two years out of law school, my hourly rate was 275 dollars.  Brett was a law clerk for one of the appellate judges hearing the appeal.  The three-judge court ruled against my client.  After the hearing, I messaged Brett on the app.  

Brett said, “Oh, hey.  We hooked up in law school.”  When I didn’t immediately answer, he asked, “You don’t remember?”

“I’m not an idiot,” I said.

“Want to go again?”

“Sure,” I responded.   

“You give great head.”

“Thanks.”

“The back of your throat felt like a second set of lips,” he told me.

“Um, thanks,” I said.

“You want to get face-fucked again?”

“Why not real fuck?” I asked.

“I had unprotected sex with someone else a week ago,” Brett said, but it made me so jealous I wanted him more.

“You into puking rough,” then he corrected himself and wrote, “*Fucking.”

“Yes.  When you looking to do this?”

“Now.”

“Ok,” I said.

I went over to Brett’s place again.  He had an apple pie Yankee Candle on the bedside table like a shrine.

“That’s sweet of you,” I remember I told him.

“What?”

“The candle.  It’s sweet.”

“Whenever I fuck ass it stinks like shit,” he said.  

He took off all his clothes, including his underwear, and told me to get completely naked, too.  He held my legs together over my head.  I wasn’t ready for it.

“You like that, bitch?” although he wasn’t really asking.  

“It hurts,” I answered.  That made Brett go harder.  I clung onto him tighter.  Once Brett was done, he said, “Thanks for helping me get undressed after work.”  A lot of times you don’t know what type of guy he really is until you let him fuck your ass.  I saw blood afterward sitting on the toilet emptying myself of his material.  It still stung a week later.  That should have been the second sign, but being gay means being down for guys to use you like that.

Actually, we started dating.  Once while we were going out, I sat in the passenger seat of his car – not while I was being fucked – and he hit me so hard with the ball of his fist, in the middle of my chest, that I felt heart arrythmia.  I didn’t even break up with him.  He’s the one who eventually broke up with me.  After we were dating for several weeks, he told me he wanted to fuck someone really hard, harder even than he did me.  He said he wanted to fuck someone until they were begging him for their life.  I suggested introducing other things.  I was more into role-play.  He wanted to try daddy stuff, but I’m a bad gay.  I’m self-conscious about family shit.  We tried to act out prostitution.  That was the one I liked the most.  Invariably, he always ended up wanting to rob or kill the prostitute.  

“Whore, want to get fucked or what?” he growled.

“First, can I have the fifty bucks?” I asked.

I always enjoyed pretending to be someone else, whoever that was.  Once, he said he wanted to “Republican hate fuck me.”  On another occasion, he wore a U.S. Army shirt and hat, said he was in the military, that he knew all the torture techniques they didn’t let you use.  He strangled me during sex, and another time we even tried gun play.  He surprised me with a gun, he said unloaded.  When he pointed the gun at my face, I clenched myself tight on his dick.  

Don’t get me wrong, I liked how he took charge every time.  I just thought he took it too far.  I think my boyfriend was into rape fantasy.  I looked it up.  Or maybe he was just a sadist.  At least he was good-looking.  Eventually, he told me he loved me, and said that doing it harder than he was already, positively brutal, would change the way he thought about me, so it had to be with someone else.  He said he wanted to have an open relationship.  I didn’t.  I was worried about the “someone else.”  I don’t mean in terms of their safety.  Brett was probably right, most guys wanted it rough.  I was just nervous that if he found it elsewhere, getting from someone else what he couldn’t get from me, that he would break up with me.  When I didn’t agree to open the relationship, he cheated on me anyway.

I still didn’t break up with him.  He broke up with me because I didn’t like rough sex and I didn’t like being gagged.  He was driving me home when I finally confronted him about always being online looking for sex without me.  It felt like I sent a missile to him across the car console.

“I only go online once or twice a month now,” he responded.

“Ok, then, why is it that I see you online every time I’m on?”

“Because you’re obsessed,” Brett responded.  “It also means you’re always on.”

“I barely go on anymore,” I said.  “When I do, it’s like a landmine when I see you looking for someone else.”  I didn’t tell him I sometimes sent a fake face pic to test him.

The other guy, the guy Brett wanted, was fine with the relationship being open from the start.  “You just don’t want to be with me,” I realized, and said to him.

Brett responded, “You don’t like rough sex.  You don’t even like gagging.”

“Being gagged,” I said.  “I’ve tried practicing, but it isn’t my thing.”  He told me the other guy did like it.  I told him he was “betraying” me.  “You’re dumping your best friend.  Because?  Because of a penis going inside an anus.  I thought we had more than that.  What about everything else, not just the sex?”

“Maybe it would be better to stop doing that,” he replied.  

“You can stop the car,” I said.  He stopped the car on the side of the road.  “I’m leaving,” I told him, but I didn’t move at first like I was playing chicken or hoping he would change his mind.

“Ok, get out,” he told me.  

“I already said I am.”

 “Then, get out,” he said.  “Be safe,” he told me when I got out, then he pulled the door shut.

I really should have my gay card taken away; I want such vanilla sex all the time.  Lesson learned, I did lose my boyfriend.  I made a report to the police.  “I don’t think this is a criminal investigation,” they told me.  I told myself: now you say it’s rape because the top rejects you?  I started to miss him, so much that I once inserted a strawberry creamsicle into my ass, all the way up to the stick.  While squatting, dripping, I pretended it was him, and that he beat and tore me up.  I decided I would try to look for Brett in other guys.  I did find more doms, it wasn’t hard.  There’s plenty of guys into humiliating other guys.

Gay male lawyers were the worst and I hated being one.  Imagine after all those loans, hating being a lawyer.  The easiest thing I ever did was get myself fired from my job.  I’d rather suck helium until I died than be in court for one more day.  What I learned was this: don’t date within your profession.  I’ll swallow turds now, too, before I think of gay relationships as romance.  You think among all these men there’s one dreaming of actually being another man’s husband?  I was embarrassed now every time I imagined being another man’s boyfriend.  Some people say, “You’re bitter.”  But, I like to think broken, and can’t be fixed.  It turned out I was overqualified to get a job in retail.  I probably should’ve realized this before I stopped showing up for court and got myself fired.  

To make money, and also because it’s what I deserved, I started charging now whenever I hooked up.  Guys would treat me like I was the one being an asshole.  “Not generous,” they would say.  I came across two men on the app who said they were.  They were using a single profile.  They wrote in the text of the profile, “Only play on weekends.”  The weekend was here.

“Hey man,” I wrote.

“Sup.”

“You around?” I asked.

“Yeah, but can’t host.  Can you?”

“I can,” I replied.  “Are you gen?” I asked.

They said yes.  I hesitated.  They said, “Are you gonna make me an offer?” so, yes, I did.  Then, they wrote, “Both anon tops here.”  They wanted to keep it anonymous.  “Wear a blindfold?  Lights off?”

“Sure.”  I was totally fine with it.

They wrote, “Will you be waiting face down, ass up?”

“Yes.” 

“Not a lot of talking, ok?”

“Ok,” I replied.  When they arrived at my apartment building after 1 am, by that time, the desk agent who needed to let them in had left.

“Can you buzz me in?” they asked.  I couldn’t do it myself.  I waited, but nobody else was going in or out at that time of the morning.

“I can just come down,” I messaged them.

“That’s OK,” they said.  “We’re going back home,” and they started to leave.

“I can drop my fob to you,” I said.

“How?”

“Out the window.”  I placed my fob at the bottom of a brown paper grocery bag, rolled it up tight, then dropped it twelve stories to the two men in the otherwise empty parking lot below.  I saw their movements on the app: 113 feet, 89 feet, 60 feet, 10 feet.  It was exhilarating, but I was also a little scared.

“In elevator,” they wrote.  “Face down, ass up?”

“Yes,” I wrote back.

I kept the door unlocked so they could simply walk in, where I was waiting face down, ass up just like they’d said.  One of them fingered me from behind, while the other took a turn on my mouth, so when I glanced at him I nearly saw his face.  He put his hand on the crown of my head and held it down so I couldn’t look up.  He told me it was time to put on the blindfold, so I put on my sleep mask.  I heard the one behind me say, “I want to use you hard.”  He told me, “We’ve never double-penetrated someone before.”  When they were doing it, I felt as if they were wearing me like a glove or a balloon.  The way they were doing it made a noise like chewing gum.  I was profusely sweating, head pounding, pulse throbbing, I think I said Brett’s name?

“Who’s he talking to?” one of the guys, the one fucking me standing up, asked.

“Who cares?” the other one, the one fucking me sitting down, said.  “Maybe he’s praying.”

I charged extra when guys didn’t want to wear protection.  I let them both come inside me back-to-back.  It was 300 dollars total.  They were boyfriends, so one of them paid for both, and they left together.